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whether it were better to die by one’s own hand or to seek new fortunes beyond the sea.

There were many vessels in the harbour and his gaze wandered over them, ships and pinks and ketches and a single galliot from the Low Countries, until his eyes came at last to one of singularly familiar aspect. He looked at her a long time, then strolled down to the quay and accosted an aged man who was warming his rheumatic limbs in the sun.

"What ship is that,” said Captain Marsham, “which lies yonder, in line with the house on the farther shore to the right of the three trees?”

The aged man squinted over the harbour to pick up the bearings his questioner had given him and cleared his throat with a husky cough.

"Why, that,” he said, ‘‘bees the frigate they call Rose of Devon.”

“The Rose of Devon — nay, she cannot be the Rose of Devon!”

“Can and beës. Why does ’ee look so queer, sir?”

“Not the Rose of Devon!”

"Art ’ee addled?” He laughed like a cackling hen.

"Aye, an’ yon’s her master.”

The master turned when the young captain accosted him, and replied, with reasonable civility, ‘‘Yea, the Rose of Devon, Captain Hosmer, at your service, sir. Passage? Yea, we can take you, but you’re a queer sort to ask passage ere you know whither she sails. Is it murder or theft?”

“Neither. The old order is changing and I would go abroad.”

“To the colonies?”

“They tell me all the colonies are of a piece with