of the table smoking leisurely. Mylrea Balladhoo told Christian of the errand on which he had wished to send him.
"The light? Ah, yes," said Christian, turning his head between the rests in his song, "curious, that, wasn't it? Do you know that coming round by the pier I noticed that the light had gone out; so"—(a run up the piano)—"so, after ineffectual attempts to rouse that sad dog of a harbor-master of yours, dad, I went up into the box and lit it myself. You see it's burning now."
"Humph! so it is," grunted Kerruish Kinvig, who had got up in the hope of discrediting the statement.
"Only the wick run down, that was all," said Christian, who had turned to the piano again, and was rattling off a lively French catch.
Christian Mylrea was a handsome young fellow of five or six and twenty, with a refined expression and easy manner, educated, genial, somewhat irresolute one might say, with a weak corner to his mouth; naturally of a sportive disposition, but having an occasional cast of thoughtfulness; loving a laugh, but finding it rather apt of late to die away abruptly on his lips.
Getting up to go, Kinvig said, "Christian, my man, you've not seen my new net-looms since you came home. Wonderful inventions! Wonderful! Extraordinary! Talk of your locomotive—pshaw! Come down, man, and see them at work in the morning."
Christian reflected for a moment. "I will," he said, in a more serious tone than the occasion seemed to require. "Yes, I'll do that," he said.
"In the morning!" said Mylrea Balladhoo. "to-
