counter. I shall describe her more
particularly by and by.

The day after I had become one of the crew, while I was below, I was
informed that a person was alongside inquiring for me. I looked over
the side, and there I saw, as I expected, Captain Dean and Mary. They
came on deck, and Mary was very nearly throwing her arms about my neck
and kissing me, while her father took both my hands and held them in
his.

"I owe everything to you, Peter," he said, and the tears stood in his
eyes--"my life and property, and more, the safety of this dear child;
and I do feel most cruelly not being able to make you any return. In
England the sovereign would have given you a free pardon to a certainty;
here, in such a case as yours, we have no one to appeal to. I have
introduced myself to your captain, and, as he seems a kind man, I trust
he will interest himself in you. I beg to offer you an outfit, which I
have brought on board; and I fear that there is little else I can do for
you. When you come back I shall be on the look-out for you, and then
you must fulfil your promise of sailing with me. Make yourself a
thorough seaman in the meantime, and I think I can promise you very soon
the command of a ship."

Mary joined in, and entreated me first to take care of myself, and then
to come back to Charleston to rejoin them.

"You know, Peter, I shall be nearly grown up by that time," she said, in
her sweet, innocent, and lively manner, though she was half crying at
the time. "Then, you know, if you become first mate, I shall be able to
act as father's second mate; so we shall have quite a family party on
board the dear old ship."

Thus we talked on, joking often through our sorrows, till it was time
for my friends to go on shore. With heavy hearts we parted. Had we
been able to see the future, haw much heavier would they have been! I
found in the chest which they had brought me numberless little things,
which all told of sweet Mary's care and forethought. I had just time to
write a few hasty lines to my family, but the letter never reached home.
While I was in prison, and my fate uncertain, I dared not write.

The next morning, at break of day, the boatswain's whistle roused me
from my slumbers, and his gruff voice was heard bawling out, "All hands
up anchor," followed with another pipe of "Man the capstan."

To a person accustomed to the merchant service, where, from the few
hands which can be employed, the duty must