you praise so much, and taste them
reed-birds of which you give so good an account. I'm Jarsey-born and
bred, and know what the little things be."

Mark was dying to hear Bob's story, more especially since he understood
a ship was connected with it, but he could not refuse his friend's
demand for sweet water and a dinner. The entrance of the cove was quite
near and the boats entered that harbour and were secured; after which
the three men commenced the ascent, Mark picking up by the way the
spy-glass, fowling-piece, and other articles that he had dropped in the
haste of his descent. While going up this sharp acclivity, but little
was said; but, when they reached the summit, or the plain rather,
exclamations of delight burst from the mouths of both of Mark's
companions. To the young man's great surprise, those which came from
Bob's dark-skinned associate were in English, as well as those which
came from Bob himself. This induced him to take a good look at the man,
when he discovered a face that he knew!

"How is this, Bob?" cried Mark, almost gasping for breath--"whom have
you here? Is not this Socrates?"

"Ay, ay, sir; that's Soc; and Dido, his wife, is within a hundred miles
of you."

This answer, simple as it was, nearly overcame our young man again.
Socrates and Dido had been the slaves of Bridget, when he left home; a
part of the estate she had received from her grandmother. They dwelt in
the house with her, and uniformly called her mistress. Mark knew them
both very well, as a matter of course; and Dido, with the archness of a
favourite domestic, was often in the habit of calling him her 'young
master.' A flood of expectations, conjectures and apprehensions came
over our hero, and he refrained from putting any questions immediately,
out of pure astonishment. He was almost afraid indeed to ask any.

Nearly unconscious of what he was about, he led the way to the grove
where he had dined two or three hours before, and where the remainder of
the reed-birds were suspended from the branch of a tree. The embers of
the fire were ready, and in a few minutes Socrates handed Betts his
dinner.

Bob ate and drank heartily. He loved a tin-pot of rum and-water, or
grog, as it used to be called--though even the word is getting to be
obsolete in these temperance times--and he liked good eating. It was not
epicurism, however, or a love of the stomach, that induced him to defer
his explanations on the present occasion. He saw