“She’s asleep,” said he, going back, “and she looks so comfortable I don’t think I’ll wake her.”
“I shouldn’t advise you to,” said the girl; “she always wakes up cross.”
“How strange we should run up against each other like this,” said the mate sentimentally; “it looks like Providence, doesn’t it?”
“Looks like carelessness,” said the girl.
“I don’t care,” replied the mate. “I’m glad I did let that line go overboard. Best day’s work I ever did. I shouldn’t have seen you if I hadn’t.”
“And I don’t suppose you’ll ever see me again,” said the girl comfortably, “so I don’t see what good you’ve done yourself.”
“I shall run down to Limehouse every time we’re in port, anyway,” said the mate; “it’ll be odd if I don’t see you sometimes. I daresay our craft’ll pass each other sometimes. Perhaps in the night,” he added gloomily.
“I shall sit up all night watching for you,” declared Miss Jansell untruthfully.
In this cheerful fashion the conversation proceeded, the girl, who was by no means insensible to his bright eager face and well-knit figure, dividing her time in the ratio of three parts to her book and one to him. Time passed all too soon for the mate, when they were interrupted by a series of hoarse unintelligible roars proceeding from the schooner’s cabin.
“That’s father,” said Miss Jansell, rising with a celerity which spoke well for the discipline maintained on the Aquila; “he wants me to mend his waistcoat for him.”