Here dwelt his wife, quiet Mistress Thatch, and here his brawny daughter.

Seldom a word came to this rural home from the father, burning and robbing, sinking and slaying out upon the western seas.

But from the stores of pelf which so often slipped so easily into his great arms, and which so often slipped just as easily out of them, came now and then something to help the brawn grow upon his daughter's bones and to ease the labours of his wife.
Eliza Thatch bore no resemblance to a houri; her hair was red, her face was freckled; she had enough teeth left to do good eating with when she had a chance, and her step shook the timbers of her little home.
Her father had heard from her a little while ago by a letter she had had conveyed to Belize.

His parental feelings, notwithstanding he had told Bonnet he knew no such sentiments, were stirred.

When he had finished her letter he would have been well pleased to burn a vessel and make a dozen passengers walk the plank as a memorial to his girl.