ys; and besides bein' rather uglier than common all
day, I don't see no difference in him."

John sighed, but not very heavily.

"I suppose if I had been nicer he might have missed me," he said; "but
then, on the other hand, if he missed me, he wouldn't be so comfortable
at my going away; so, you see!"

Mr. Bill Hen did not see, but he said it was of no consequence. Then,
coming to the edge of the wharf, he shook hands all round, never
noticing, in the preoccupation of his mind, the knife that Franci
flashed and brandished in his eyes as a parting dramatic effect. He held
John's hand long, and seemed to labour for words, but found none; and so
they slipped away and left him standing alone on the wharf, a forlorn
figure.

Down the river! Sailing, sailing over the magical waters, past the fairy
shores, already darkening into twilight shades of purple and gray. The
white schooner glided along, passing, as she had come, like a dream. In
the bow stood the Skipper, his eyes bent forward, his hand clasping fast
the hand of the child.

"We go, Colorado!" he said. "We go, my son, to new worlds, to a new
life. May a blessing be upon them, as my heart feels there will be.
Behold, my friend, the ways of God, very wonderful to men of the sea. I
come up this river, with what thoughts in my heart? Partly of curiosity,
that I see the place where my mother, long dead, was born, came to her
womanhood; partly of tenderness for her memory, regard for her wish;
partly, also, for anger at the villain brother, my uncle, and desire for
revenge, for my rights. I come, and I find--a child! A brother for my
present life, a son for my age, a friend for my heart! Living upon the
sea, Colorado, a man has much time for thought; the sea speaks to him,
the sky, the wind and wave. What is the word they say, each and every
one, in the ear of the sailor? 'Glory to God!' That is it, my son. Let
us give thanks, and begin with joy our new life together!"

Down the river! The banks fade into shadow, the breeze sinks away, but
still the tide flows free, and the schooner slips along like a spirit.
Now comes up the white fog, the fog out of which she came gliding that
first morning; and it receives her as a bride, and folds her in its
arms, and she melts into the whiteness and is gone. Was it all a dream?
Or does there still come back to us, faintly borne, sweetly ringing, the
song of the sailors?

[Music]

For-ev-er and for-ev-er I--o,
For-ev-er