With a petition in his heart for the rough sailor he had just quitted, Blair went to a quiet part of the ship to write a few lines to his mother.

It seemed to him it would be a comfort to fancy himself in communication with her, though the letter might never fall under her dear eyes.

Yet that was not impossible.

There were letters waiting already on board, until they could be sent by some homeward-bound craft.

The little mail-bag might find a timely and trusty bearer.
Blair had nearly filled the sheet before him, unconscious of any observers.