The End of a Coil. Warner Susan

but in various ways, it seemed to her. She did not know how to answer. She changed the subject.

      "How do you get the shot, the balls, I mean, into these guns? I don't see how you get at them. The mouths are out of the windows. Port holes, I mean."

      For the upper gun deck had been put to a certain extent in order of action, and the guns were run out.

      "You are of an inquiring disposition," said the midshipman gravely.

      "Am I?"

      "I think you are."

      "But I should like to know" – pursued Dolly, looking at the muzzle of the gun by which they were standing.

      "The guns would be run in to be loaded."

      Dolly looked at the heavy piece of metal, and at him, but did not repeat her question.

      "Now you want to know how," he said, smiling. "If I were captain, I would have the men here and show you. The gun is run in by means of this tackle, see! – and when it is charged, it is bowsed out again."

      Seeing Dolly's wise grave eyes bent upon the subject, he went on to amuse her with a full detail of the exercise of the gun; from "casting loose," to the finishing "secure your guns;" explaining the manner of handling and loading, and the use of the principal tackle concerned. Dolly listened, intent, fascinated, enchained; and I think the young man was a little fascinated too, though his attentions were given to so very young a lady. Dolly's brown eyes were so utterly pure and grave and unconscious; the brain at work behind them was so evidently clear and busy and competent; the pleasure she showed was so unschoolgirl-like, and he thought so unchildlike, and at the same time so very far from being young lady-like. What she was like, he did not know; she was an odd little apparition there in the gun-deck of the "Achilles," leaning with her elbows upon a gun carriage, and surveyeing with her soft eyes the various paraphernalia of conflict and carnage around her. Contrast could hardly be stronger.

      "Suppose," said Dolly at last, "a shot should make a hole in the side of the ship, and let in the water?"

      "Well? Suppose it," he answered.

      "Does that ever happen?"

      "Quite often. Why not?"

      "What would you do then?"

      "Pump out the water as fast as it came in, – if we could."

      "Suppose you couldn't?"

      "Then we should go down."

      "And all in the ship?"

      "All who could not get out of it."

      "How could any get out of it?"

      "In the boats."

      "Oh! – I forgot the boats. Would they hold everybody?"

      "Probably not. The other ships' boats would come to help."

      "The officers would go first, I suppose?"

      "Last. The highest officer of all would be the last man on board."

      "Why?"

      "He must do his duty. If he cannot save his ship, at least he must save his men; – all he can. He is there to do his duty."

      "I think it would be better not to be there at all," said Dolly very gravely.

      "Who would take care of you then, if an enemy's fleet were coming to attack Philadelphia?" said the young officer.

      "I would go home," said Dolly. "I don't know what would become of Philadelphia. But I do not think God can like it."

      "Shall we go above where it is more cheerful? or have you seen it all?"

      Dolly gave him her hand again and let him help her till they got on deck. There they went roaming towards the fore part of the vessel, looking at everything by the way; Dolly asking the names and the meaning of things, and receiving explanations, especially regarding the sails and rigging and steering of the ship. She was even shown where the sailors made their home in the forecastle. As they were returning aft, Dolly stopped by a coil of rope on deck and began pulling at an end of it. Her companion inquired what she wanted?

      "I would like a little piece," said Dolly; "if I could get it."

      "A piece of rope?"

      "Yes; – just a little bit; but it is very strong; it won't break."

      She was tugging at a loose strand.

      "How large a bit do you want?"

      "Oh, just a little piece," said Dolly. "I wanted just a little piece to keep – but it's no matter. I wanted to keep it."

      "A keepsake?" said the young man. "To remember us by? They are breaking up," – he added immediately, casting his glance aft, where a stir and a gathering and a movement on deck in front of the captain's cabin could now be seen, and the sound of voices came fresh along the breeze. "They are going – there is no time now. I will send you a piece, if you will tell me where I can send it. Where do you live?"

      "Oh, will you? Oh, thank you!" said Dolly, and her face lifted confidingly to the young officer grew sunny with pleasure. "I live at Mrs. Delancy's school; – but no, I don't! I don't live there. My home is at Uncle Edward's – Mr. Edward Eberstein – in Walnut Street."

      "What number?" said the midshipman, using his pencil again on the much scribbled piece of paper; and Dolly told him.

      "And whom shall I send the – the piece of rope, to?"

      "Oh, yes! – Dolly Copley. That is my name. Good bye, I must go."

      "Dolly Copley. You shall have it," said he, giving the little hand she held out to him a right sailorly grasp. And Dolly ran away. In the bustle and anxiety of getting lowered into the little boat again she forgot him and everything else; however, so soon as she was safely seated and just as the men were ordered to "give way," she looked up at the great ship they were leaving; and there, just above her, leaning on the guards and looking over and down at her, she saw her midshipman friend. Dolly saw nothing else till his face was too small in the distance to be any longer recognised.

      CHAPTER V

      THE PIECE OF ROPE

      It was Saturday and holiday, and Dolly went home to her aunt's. There her aunt and uncle, as was natural, expected a long story of the morning's experience. And Dolly one would think might have given it; matter for the detail was not wanting; yet she seemed to have little to tell. On the other hand, she had a great deal to ask. She wanted to know why people could not do all their fighting on land; why ships of war were necessary; Mr. Eberstein tried to explain that there might be great and needful advantages attendant upon the use of them. Then Dolly begged for instances. Had we, Americans, ever fought at sea? Mr. Eberstein answered that, and gave her details of facts, while Mrs. Eberstein sat by silent and watched Dolly's serious, meditative face.

      "I should think," said Dolly, "that when there is a fight, a ship of war would be a very dreadful place."

      "There is no doubt of that, my little girl," said Mr. Eberstein. "Take the noise, and the smoke, the packed condition of one of those gun decks, and the every now and then coming in of a round shot, crashing through planks and timbers, splintering what comes in its way, and stretching half a dozen men at once, more or less, on the floor in dead and wounded, – I think it must be as good a likeness of the infernal regions as earth can give – in one way at least."

      "In what way?" Dolly asked immediately.

      "Confusion of pain and horror. Not wickedness."

      "Uncle Ned, do you think God can like it?"

      "No."

      "Then isn't it wicked?"

      "No, little one; not necessarily. No sort of pain or suffering can be pleasing to God; we know it is not; yet sin has made it necessary, and He often sends it."

      "Don't He always send it?"

      "Why no. Some sorts people bring on themselves by their own folly and perverseness; and some sorts people work on others by their own wicked self-will. God does not cause that, though He will overrule it to do what He wants done."

      "Uncle