And somehow, as I recalled all the gentle ways of my sweet little mistress, and the quaint words she had spoken, and, in fancy, saw once again her bright face, and remembered how she had always taken my part and chased away the clouds from my brow--somehow I knew not how, the memory seemed very pleasant to me; and I called to mind more yet, and wondered with myself how little I had had her in my thoughts since last we parted that cruel day in Kingston street.
As I talked, the maiden listened, her eyes stealing now and again to where Ludar lay wrestling with his mighty happiness in the prow, and then returning, half frightened, half pitying, to encourage me to tell her more.

Which I did.

And then, when all was said, she asked again: "And why does she not love you ?" "Indeed," replied I, "I never asked her.

Nor do I know if I love her myself." She smiled at that.
"May I answer for you?
No?
At least I love her, Humphrey, and for her sake and yours she shall be a sister to me and--" "And Ludar," said I, as she stopped short.
"Yes, to me and Ludar." Then we fell to talk about Ludar, and so the day wore on, till, as the sun stood over our heads, we breasted the fair Island of Raughlin.
Here Ludar, with gloomy face, came astern to tell a story.
'Twas neither brief nor merry; but, as he told it with flashing eyes and voice which rose and fell with the dashing waves, we listened with heaving bosoms.

'Twas of a boy, who once played with his comrades on that self-same Island of Raughlin.