They were to be married in another month.  It would be a double wedding, for Grace and the minister were to be married at the same time.  Then Nat and his wife were to go to New York, where a new ship, just out of the builders’ hands, was to be ready for him.  She was a fine one, this successor to the Sea Mist.  She had been building for more than a year and when Captain Hammond returned, safe and sound, and with their money in his possession, the owners decided at once that he should command the addition to their fleet.  She was to sail for Liverpool and Keziah was to be a passenger.

“I can’t hardly wait to get to sea,” went on Nat.  “Think of it!  No more lonesome meals in the cabin, thinkin’ about you and about home.  No, sir! you and home’ll be right aboard with me.  Think of the fun we’ll have in the foreign ports.  London, and you and me goin’ sightseein’ through it!  And Havre and Gibraltar and Marseilles and Genoa and—­and—­by and by, Calcutta and Hong Kong and Singapore.  I’ve seen ’em all, of course, but you haven’t.  I tell you, Keziah, that time when I first saw a real hope of gettin’ you, that time after I’d learned from John that that big trouble of yours was out of the way forever, on my way up to Boston in the cars I made myself a promise—­I swore that if you did say yes to me I’d do my best to make the rest of your life as smooth and pleasant as the past so far had been rough.  I ain’t rich enough to give you what you deserve, nowhere near; but I’ll work hard and do my best, my girl—­you see.”

Keziah was looking out over the bay, her eyes brighter than the sunset.  Now she turned to look up into his face.

“Rich!” she repeated, with a little catch in her voice.  “Rich! there never was a woman in this world so rich as I am this minute.  Or so happy, either.”