Soon after the wedding recorded in the last chapter an event occurred which entirely² altered the character and current of our coxswain’s career, at least for a time. This was the sudden death of the bed-ridden old mother, who had played such an interesting part at the wedding-feast.

 

To our hero, who was a tender-hearted man, and a most affectionate son, the blow was almost overwhelming, although long expected.

 

“I don’t think I can stay here much longer,” he said one evening to his pretty wife, as they sat together outside their door and watched the village children romping³ on the sands; “everything minds me o’ the dear old woman, an’ takes the heart out me. If it wasn’t for you, Nell, I’d have been off to the other side o’ the world long before now, but I find it hard to think o’ takin’ you away from all your old friends and playmates—and your Aunt Betty.”

 

A peculiar⁴ smile lit up Nellie’s face as her husband concluded.

 

“I should be sorry to leave the old friends here,” she replied, “but don’t let that hinder you if ye want to go away. I’d leave everything to please you, Bob. And as to Aunt Betty—well, I’m not ungrateful, I hope, but—but she wouldn’t break her heart at partin’ wi’ me.”

 

“Right you are, Nell, as you always was, and always will be,” said Massey. He laughed a short, dry laugh, and was grave again.

 

It was quite evident that Aunt Betty would not be a hindrance⁵ to the departure of either of them and no wonder, for Betty had received Nellie Carr into her family with a bad grace when her widowed brother, “old Carr,” died, leaving his only child without a home. From that day Betty had brought the poor little orphan⁶ up—or, rather, had scolded and banged her up—until Bob Massey relieved her of the charge. To do Aunt Betty justice, she scolded and banged up her own children in the same way; but for these—her own young ones—she entertained and expressed a species of affection which mankind shares in common with cats, while for Nellie Carr she had no such affection, and

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