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The silence that followed was eloquent with recognition of the poor old gentleman's trouble. Lucy left her chair, and going close to the Admiral said, yet not so low but that Captain Acton overheard her: "It will not be as you say, Sir William. Indeed it must not be. So fine a character besmirched by acts into which a very bitter necessity has forced him, ought not to be found in the common garb[Pg 384] of a humble working merchant sailor, nor buried in some distant parts where he can never shine as a man of fine and heroic spirit fit to fill the highest position in the service he has left; and above all, and which is best, sir, capable of bitter regret, of deep feeling, of exerting the power by which the humbled man is alone able to struggle—I mean the power of self-regeneration." "It's jest a bad cold he's caught," Billy reassured her. "He's so hoarse he can't speak." "Suppose," said Miss Acton, "that a French man-o'-war should capture you, and make you prisoners, what is to become of Lucy?.
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Anson considered. "An' you promise to get Bill to let me off?" "Good morning, Miss Acton! I am going over to my father's. Are you returning to Old Harbour House? If so, I hope you will allow me to do myself the pleasure of accompanying you as far." "Dead?" "Look ye," he cried, holding it aloft. "The fairies' magic arrer, ut is, an' ut niver fails t' fall on the spot where the treasure lies hidden. Foind Scroggie's buried money ut would have long ago if ut wasn't fer the ould man's spirrut that roams the grove. As I told ye afore, ut's no charm ag'in the spirruts av the departed, as yon grave-yard rabbit's fut is.".
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