And Gentleman Jan spoke, like a true sailor-- "Ah, poor dear! And she such a beauty, Mr.Brown; as any one might see by her lines, even that way off.

Ah, poor dear!" "And so many brave souls on board; and, perhaps, some of them not ready, Mr.Beer," says the serious elderly chief boatman.

"Eh, Captain Willis ?" "The Lord has had mercy on them, I don't doubt." answers the old man, in his quiet sweet voice.

"One can't but hope that he would give them time for one prayer before all was over; and having been drowned myself, Mr.Brown, three times, and taken up for dead--that is, once in Gibraltar Bay, and once when I was a total wreck in the old Seahorse, that was in the hurricane in the Indies; after that when I fell over quay-head here, fishing for bass,--why, I know well how quick the prayer will run through a man's heart, when he's a-drowning, and the light of conscience, too, all one's life in one minute, like--" "It arn't the men I care for," says Gentleman Jan; "they're gone to heaven, like all brave sailors do as dies by wreck and battle: but the poor dear ship, d'ye see, Captain Willis, she ha'n't no heaven to go to, and that's why I feel for her so." Both the old men shake their heads at Jan's doctrine, and turn the subject off.
"You'd better go home, Captain, 'fear of the rheumatics.

It's a rough night for your years; and you've no call, like me." "I would, but my maid there; and I can't get her home; and I can't leave her." And Willis points to the schoolmistress, who sits upon the flat slope of rock, a little apart from the rest, with her face resting on her hands, gazing intently out into the wild waste.
"Make her go; it's her duty--we all have our duties.