I smiled, too, and passed on, feeling that I had already intruded too
much upon the privacy of hearts, and would leave the brother and sister
in peace.

A few nights after this, I came home late from the Square, and found the
household in great commotion. David went out fishing, long before
daybreak, and had not yet returned. Other boats had come in, but nothing
had they seen of him, either on the Ledge or off in the Bay. This was
the more mysterious, as the weather had been unusually mild, with but
little wind.

After talking over the matter with them, I suggested that he might have
gone farther than usual, and, on account of the light winds, had not
been able to get back. The night was calm, with plenty of moonlight.
There could be no possible danger to one so accustomed to the water as
David.

This appeared very reasonable; and, at a late hour, all retired to bed.

The next morning I looked from my window at daybreak. Miss Joey was
standing on the hill, gazing off upon the water. In a few minutes the
old folks came out. They crept up the hill, and stood looking off with
Miss Joey. I joined them. There was a fine strong breeze, and fair for
boats bound in. Not one, however, was in sight. Away off in the Bay was
a homeward-bound schooner, with colors flying. A fisherman, probably,
returning from the Banks. The morning air was chilly. We silently
descended the hill.

During the day we heard that a vessel from Boston had spoken, half-way
on her passage, a small sloop-boat, with one man in it. Boston was sixty
miles distant, and it was something very unusual for a small boat to
make the passage. Friends in the city were written to, but no
information was obtained, and day after day passed without relieving our
suspense.

But this was at last ended by a letter from David himself. It was
written to me. He had sold his boat in Boston, and had gone to New York,
where his letter was dated. He was going to sail for California the next
day.

"I have long been meaning to go," he wrote, "but never thought of
leaving in this way, until I reached the fishing-ground, last Wednesday
morning. It came into my mind all at once, and I kept straight along. If
I'd gone back, the old folks, maybe, wouldn't have let me come, because,
you know, I'm the last. Besides, I thought I could go easier while--But
you know all about it, Turner. I saw that you knew. It has been very
hard. Somehow, trouble don't slip off of me easy. Taking ev