e papers, that Kenneth, who had come
prepared to reveal all, resolved to keep his secret, believing that
there was no pity left in his father's breast.

As he lay awake and sorrowing that night he heard his father's step
pacing to and fro incessantly during the whole night, and hoped that the
loss he had in all probability sustained would break up the ice; but
next morning at breakfast he was as cold as ever. He looked very pale,
indeed, but he was sterner and even more irascible than usual in regard
to the merest trifles, so Kenneth's resolution not to confide in his
father was confirmed.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

THE BU'STER WILLS TO ACCOMPLISH MISCHIEF, AND GETS INTO TROUBLE.

"At sea."--How differently do human beings regard that phrase! To one
it arouses feelings akin to rapture; to another it is suggestive of
heavings and horror. To him whose physical condition is easily and
disagreeably affected by aquatic motion, "at sea" savours of bad smells
and misery. To him who sings of the intensity of his love for "a ride
on the fierce, foaming, bursting tide," "at sea" sounds like the sweet
ringing of a silver bell floating towards him, as if from afar, fraught
with the fragrance and melody of distant climes--such as coral isles,
icy mountains, and golden sands.

Let us regard the phrase in its pleasant aspect just now, good reader.

I have always loved the sea myself, from the hour I first set foot on
board a man-of-war and skylarked with the middies, to that sad and
memorable day when, under the strong--I might almost say irresistible--
influence of my strong-minded wife, I bade adieu to the royal navy for
ever, and retired into private life. Alas! But what is the use of
sighing? If a man _will_ get born in his wrong century, he ought to lay
his account with being obliged to suffer much from the strange, I had
almost said childish, fallacies, follies, and inconsistencies peculiar
to the more early period in which his lot has been cast by mistake.

You see, reader, I have accepted my position. There is a bare
possibility that those who have assigned it to me may be wrong, but I
have long ago ceased to dispute that point.

At sea! Haco's sloop is there now, just out of sight of land, although
not far from it, and resting on as glassy a sheet of water as is ever
presented by the ocean in a deep dead calm. Haco himself, big, hairy,
jovial, ruddy, is seated on the after skylight, the sole occupant of the
deck