The Sabrina had been so badly injured by her disasters that it took much more time to repair her than had at first been thought.  “I’m going to stand by the old brig,” said Andrew to some one—­by accident it was in Mr. Maurice’s hearing.  “But if I’d known it was going to take so long to have her whole again, I should have made a penny in taking a run down the bay, for I had an offer to go second mate on the Tartar.”

“I’ll go one better than that,” said Mr. Maurice then.  “Here’s the Frarnie, nearly ready to clear for New Orleans and Liverpool, with your old captain.  You shall go mate of her.  That’ll show if you can handle a ship.  The Sabrina won’t be at the wharf till the round voyage is over and the Frarnie coming up the stream again.  What say you?”

Of course what Andrew said was modest thanks—­what he felt was a rhapsody of delight; and when he told Louie that night, what she said was a sob, and what she felt was a blank of fright and foreboding.  Oh what should she do? cried the selfish little thing—­what should she do in the long, long, weary days with Andrew gone?  But then in a moment she remembered that this was the first step toward going master of that craft in which her bridal voyage was to be taken.  “And what a long step it is, Andrew!” she cried.  “Was the like of it ever known before?  What a long, long step it would be but for that bitter apprenticeship when you and the captain brought the wreck home!”

“Ay,” said Andrew, proudly:  “I served my time before the mast then, if ever any did.”

“And I suppose with the next step you will be master of the Sabrina?  Oh, I should so like it!”

“I don’t know,” said Andrew, more doubtfully than he had used to speak.  “I’m afraid the owners will think this is enough.  This is a great lift.  I’ll do my best to satisfy them, though; for I’d rather sail master of the Sabrina than of the biggest man-of-war afloat.”

“We used to play round her when we were children,” said Louie, encouragingly.  “Don’t you remember leading me down once to admire the lady on her stern?—­like a water-witch just gilded in the rays of some sunrise she had come up to see, you said.”

“Yes; and we used to climb her shrouds, we boys, and get through the lubber-hole, before we could spell her name out.  She’s made of heart of oak:  she’ll float still when the Frarnie is nothing but sawdust.  We used to watch for her in the newspapers—­we used to know just as much about her goings and comings as the owner did.  Somehow—­I don’t know why—­I’ve always felt as if my fate and fortune hung upon her.  It used to be the top of my ambition to go master of her.  It is now.  I couldn’t make up my mind to leave her when the others did that cruel morning after the wreck; and when the captain said he should stay by her, my heart sprang up as if she had been a living thing, and I stayed too.  And I’d rather sail her than a European steamer to-day—­that I would, by George!”