They walked unconscious of the notice they attracted.  Their hearts were too full to heed the sympathies of others.  The youth kept his eye fixed upon the loosening topsails of his ship; his benefactress grasped his arm almost convulsively, and looked, or rather stared, upon the ground.  She dreaded the last, the hurried “fare well,” the last look, the last word from her William, and she tottered as she approached the side of the ship.  They stood locked hand in hand at the edge of the Quay; not a word was uttered by either; but they gazed at each other with a fondness which showed that their souls were in communion.

“Now, William, jump on board—­cast off there forward,” exclaimed the captain; “swing her head round—­heave away my boys—­come, William, come my boy.”

The youth awoke as from a startled sleep.  He imprinted a kiss, the last kiss, upon the cold cheeks of his benefactress, and dashing away with the sleeve of his jacket a tear, of which he felt ashamed, in a moment he was on the quarter deck of his commander.  He durst not look again upon the Quay; but had he looked he would have seen many a weeping maiden who had never told her love, and he would have seen his affectionate benefactress borne away in a fainting fit.  All this he saw not, for he braced his courage up before his future messmates, and he looked forward to his duties, considering the past as but a dream.

Months elapsed and tidings were frequently received of William.  He had distinguished himself by his activity and docility.  His townsmen heard with pleasure of his good conduct, and looked forward with satisfaction to welcome his return; when at length a pilot boat brought intelligence that the ship was lying at anchor at the mouth of the harbour, waiting the next tide with loss of foremast in a heavy gale the preceding night off the Bill of Portland.  His benefactress, impatient of delay, immediately hired a boat, and preceded to the ship before the tide had turned; but she no sooner reached the deck than she was informed by the captain that William was aloft when the foremast went by the board on the preceding night, and that he fell into the raging waves without the possibility of relief being afforded him.

“God’s will be done,” murmured the unhappy woman as she clasped her hands, and taking her station at the gangway, she continued gazing on the water as it rippled by, in a state of unconsciousness to every passing object.  In the meantime the vessel was under weigh, and was coming once more in sight of Brownsea, when a plunge was heard—­“she’s overboard,” exclaimed a sailor—­“cut away some spars—­lower the boats—­over with the hen coops—­down with the helm, and back the topsails”—­roared out many voices; but she had sunk to rise no more!  Her corpse was found a few days after when the tide receded, lying on a mud bank, close to the buoy which has ever since been known by every sailor and every pilot of Poole under the name of Old Betty.  But to complete the sad narrative, it appeared that William, as he excelled in swimming, succeeded in gaining the shore of Portland, and arrived in time at Poole to attend the remains of his benefactress to the grave in character of chief mourner.