rting came, I was as merry and full of fun as ever,
though I own there was a strange sensation about the heart which
bothered me; however, I was not going to show what I felt--not I.

I slyly pinched my sisters when we were exchanging parting kisses, till
they were compelled to shriek out and box my ears--an operation to which
I was well accustomed--and I made my brothers roar with the sturdy grip
I gave their fingers when we shook hands; and so, instead of tears,
there were shouts of laughter and screeches and screams, creating a
regular hullaballoo which put all sentimental grief to flight. "No, no,
Jack, I will have none of your tricks," cried Aunt Martha, when I
approached with a demure look to bid her farewell, so I took her hand
and pressed it to my lips with all the mock courtesy of a Sir Charles
Grandison. My mother! I had no heart to do otherwise than to throw my
arms round her neck and receive the fond embrace she bestowed upon me,
and if a tear did come into my eye, it was then. But there was another
person to whom I had to say good-bye, and that was dear little Grace
Goldie, my father's ward, a fair, blue-eyed girl, three or four years
younger than myself. I did not play her any trick, but kissed her
smooth young brow, and promised that I would bring her back no end of
pearls and ivory, and treasures of all sorts, from across the seas. She
smiled sweetly through her tears. "Thank you, Jack, thank you! I shall
so long to see you back," she whispered; and I had to bolt, or I believe
that I should have begun to pipe my eye in a way I had no fancy for. My
father's voice summoned me.

"Now, Jack," he said, "as you have chosen your bed, you must lie on it.
But remember--after a year's trial--if you change your mind, let me
know."

"No fear of that, sir," I answered.

"We shall see, Jack," he replied. He wrung my hand, and gave me his
blessing. "I have directed Mr Junk to provide your outfit, and you
will find it all right." Who Mr Junk was I had no conception; but as
my father said it was all right, I troubled my head no more about the
matter.

My father's old clerk, Simon Munch, was waiting for me at the door, and
hurried me off to catch the Newcastle coach. On our arrival there he
took me to the office of Junk, Tarbox and Company, shipbrokers.

"Here is the young gentleman, Mr Junk," he said, addressing a one-eyed,
burly, broad-shouldered personage, with a rubicund countenance, in a
semi-naut