ise her voice, it is true, above a whisper, but still it was
sufficient to give exercise to that little fidgety occupant of the
mouth.

"Well, this is all very nice, and very pleasant, and very agreeable; and
the gentlemen are very civil, and very respectful, and very kind; but I
wonder when we shall ever reach the shore," she said; and then she went
on singing again, and then once more began to talk as follows:--"I
suppose, as they say, we shall at last reach the shore, and everything
will be as it should be, and my mistress will be happy and contented
after all her troubles--poor dear, sweet, young lady--I'm sure she ought
to be. Well, it does puzzle me, exceedingly--that it does--I cannot
make it out, no more, I am sure, would wiser heads than mine. But there
is one thing I am very sure of, that Signor Paolo is one of the wisest
and most amiable young gentlemen I ever saw. So melancholy, too, he
seems--something very dreadful weighs on his spirits, I am sure. I
don't think he is in love--I thought so at first; but when I hinted that
he was, he gave the nearest approach to a smile of which he is capable,
which I'm sure he would not have done, if he was a victim of the tender
passion. One thing is certain, however--he saved the life of my sweet
young mistress. If it had not been for his knowing how to doctor, I'm
sure she would have died--dear, dear, how sad it would have been--what
would have become of me, too! Well, when she recovers, and I tell her
all that has happened, I am sure she'll think the same of him that I do.
When she does begin, she will be asking me so many questions--I wish
that I could answer one half of them--first, she'll want to know what
has become of the poor old gentleman, her uncle. Well, he certainly was
a passionate, grumpy, sour old man as ever lived. Yet he had his good
points--he had a kind heart, which made him do many a kind thing in his
own rough way. He was generous, too, when he thought people deserving,
and then he dotingly loved my young mistress, and intended to leave her
all his money. What shall I tell her has become of him? I can tell her
nothing; for I know no more than she does; or what has become of the
brave Captain Bowse, or his polite mates, or even of that stupid
long-legged fellow, Mitchell. I'm afraid, after the dreadful noise I
heard, they must all long ago have gone to the other world. But to
believe so would make my young lady sad, and would agitate her,