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as it had brought him, after deducting lawyers’ fees, stamps, duties, lost time in courtship, wedding-tour expenses, doctor’s fees, deathbed expenses, etcetera, a clear profit of sixty thousand pounds. To be sure there were also the additional expenses of four years of married life, and the permanent board, lodging, and education of a little daughter; but, all things considered, these were scarcely worth speaking of; and in regard to the daughter—Annie by name—she would in time become a marketable commodity, which might, if judiciously disposed of, turn in a considerable profit, besides being, before she was sold, a useful machine for sewing on buttons, making tea, reading the papers aloud, fetching hats and sticks and slippers, etcetera. There had, however, been a slight drawback—a sort of temporary loss—on this concern at first, for the piece of goods became damaged, owing to her mother’s death having weighed heavily on a sensitive and loving spirit, which found no comfort or sympathy at home, save in the devoted affection of an old nurse named Niven. When Annie reached the age of six years, the doctors ordered change of air, and recommended a voyage to the West Indies. Their advice was followed. Nothing was easier. Mr Webster had many ships on the sea. These were of two classes. The first class consisted of good, new, well found and manned ships, with valuable cargoes on board which were anxiously watched and longed for; the second class comprised those which were old, worn-out, and unseaworthy, and which, being insured beyond their value, might go to the bottom when they pleased.

      One of the best of the first class was selected—the Water Lily, A1 on Lloyd’s—and in it Annie, with her nurse, was sent to sea for the benefit of her health. The parting was a somewhat important event in Mr Webster’s life, for it convinced him, to his own surprise, that his power to love a human being was not yet utterly gone! Annie’s arms clasped convulsively round his neck at the moment of parting—her sobbing “Good-bye, darling papa,” had stirred depths which had lain unmoved almost from the days of early manhood. But the memory of this passed away as soon as he turned again to gaze upon the loved countenance of his yellow mistress.

      The voyage did Annie much good. The short residence in Demerara, while the vessel was discharging cargo and reloading, wrought wonders, and a letter, forwarded by a ship that sailed a short time after their arrival in “foreign parts,” told Mr Webster that he might expect to see his daughter home again, sound and well, in a month or two at the farthest.

      But, to return from this digression to the abode of Mr Webster’s soul:—

      Having looked at the portrait of his late wife’s father for a moment and smiled, he glanced at the letter in his hand and frowned. Not because he was displeased, but because the writing was cramped and difficult to read. However, the merchant was accustomed to receive such letters from seafaring men on many subjects of interest; he therefore broke the seal and set himself patiently to decipher it. Immediately his countenance became ghastly pale, then it flushed up and became pale again, while he coughed and gasped once or twice, and started up and sat down abruptly. In fact Mr Webster exhibited all the signs of having received a severe shock, and an eye-witness might have safely concluded that he had just read the news of some great mercantile loss. So it was in one sense—but that was not the ordinary sense.

      The letter in question was in the handwriting of a fussy officious “bumble” friend of the wealthy man, who dwelt in the town of Covelly. It ran as follows:

      “My dear Sir,—I write in great haste, and in much perturbation, having just heard from my servant of the wreck of your ship, the Water Lily, in Covelly Bay. She does not seem to be quite sure, however, of the name, and says that the only man who has been rescued is scarcely able to speak, so that I do sincerely hope my domestic, who is a stupid old woman, may turn out to be mistaken. I am on the point of hasting down to the shore to ascertain the truth for myself, but am obliged to write to you this brief and unsatisfactory account of what I have heard, in order to save the post, which is just being closed. You shall hear from me again, of course, by the next mail.—I remain, my dear sir, in much anxiety, your most obedient humble servant,

      “Joseph Dowler.”

      It chanced that at the moment the above letter was handed to the postmaster, and while the wax was being melted before the final sealing of the post-bag, a sailor lad, drenched to the skin and panting vehemently, dashed into the office.

      “Stop! stop!” he cried, “a letter—about the wreck—the Water Lily—to the owners—not too late, I hope?”

      “No, no, just in time. Here, in with it. There, all right. Now, Jim, off with ’ee.”

      The postman jumped on his vehicle, the whip cracked, and in another minute the Royal Mail was gone. Thus it came to pass that two epistles reached Mr Webster that morning from Covelly. But in the extreme agitation of his spirit, he did not observe the other letter which lay among the usual morning mass that still awaited examination. After reading the letter twice, and turning it over with trembling hands, as if he wished there were more in it, he pronounced a deep malediction on his “humble” friend, and rang the bell for his confidential clerk, who was an unusually meek, mild, and middle-aged little man, with a bald head, a deprecatory expression of countenance, and a pen behind his ear.

      “Mr Grinder,” said Mr Webster, putting strong constraint on himself, and pretending to be quite composed, “a letter from Covelly informs me that it is feared the Water Lily has been wrecked in—”

      “The Water Lily, sir!” exclaimed Grinder, starting as if he had received an electric shock.

      “I spoke audibly, did I not?” said Mr Webster, turning with a sharp look on his confidential clerk.

      “Ye–es, sir, but, I—Miss An—” The poor man could get no further, being of a timid, nervous temperament, and Mr Webster, paying no attention to his remark, was going on to say that he intended to go by the mail to Covelly without delay to ascertain the truth for himself, when he was interrupted by the confidential clerk who exclaimed in a burst of agitation—

      “There were two letters, sir, from Covelly this morning—did you read—”

      He stopped, for already his employer had sought for, found, and torn open the second epistle, which was written in a fair, legible hand. It ran thus:—

      “Sir,—My father, Captain Boyns, directs me to inform you that your daughter, Miss Annie, has been saved from the wreck of your brig, the Water Lily, which ran aground here this afternoon, and has become a total wreck. Your daughter’s nurse and the crew have also been rescued by our new lifeboat, which is a noble craft, and, with God’s blessing, will yet do good service on this coast. I have pleasure in adding, from myself, that it was my father who rescued your child. She fell into the sea when being passed from the wreck into the boat, and sank, but my father dived and brought her up in safety.

      “Much of the brig’s cargo has been lost, I regret to say, but a good deal of it has been washed ashore and saved in a damaged state. The captain says that defective compasses were the cause of the disaster. There is not time to give you a more particular account, as it is close upon post-time. Miss Annie sends you her kindest love, and bids me say she is none the worse of what she has passed through.—I am, sir, your obedient servant,

      “Harry Boyns.”

      “Thank God!” exclaimed Mr Webster fervently. “Why, what are you staring at, Mr Grinder?” he added, on observing that his confidential servant was gazing at him with an expression of considerable surprise.

      “Excuse me, sir,” stammered the unfortunate man, “I—I—in fact—you have so often told me that you did not believe in God that I fancied—I—wondered—”

      “Really, Mr Grinder, I must beg of you to confine your remarks in future entirely to matters of business. The so-called religious observations which you sometimes venture to make in my presence are extremely distasteful, I assure you. In explanation of what I said, however, I may tell you that this letter informs me of my daughter’s safety, and I merely used the expression of satisfaction that is usual on such occasions. The phrase, as it is generally understood (except by weak men), commits me to nothing more. But enough of this. I find that the Water Lily has indeed been lost. It

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