The  voice  of  the  wind  was  in  the  rigging,  now  gently
humming  like  an  idle  expostulation,  then  growing  to  an
impatient  command.  The  ship  chafed  at  its  moorings
and  wanted  to  be  away,  and  gladly  obeyed  the  wind  as
soon  as  possible  after  the  giving  of  an  order  by  a  voice
that  had  the  resonance  of  a  northwester —

"  Cast  off  that  line  !"

A  woman  with  a  weary,  worn  face  and  gray  hair  sat


OK  AN  ENGLISH   COAST.  17

by  the  window  of  an  old  English  home  and  looked  off
upon  the  blue  waters  stretching  to  the  west.  She
watched  the  ship  receding  with  a  stately  grace  from  the
shore.  The  woman  was  Mrs.  Mary  Wharton,  the  widow
of  the  Rev.  John  Wharton,  for  many  years  the  rector
of  that  parish.  Her  only  child,  Harold  Wharton,  was
still  a  boy  in  her  thought,  but  actually  he  was  nineteen,
and  from  the  stern  of  that  receding  vessel  was  watching
his  rapidly  dwindling  home  and  wondering  at  which
window  his  mother  might  be  sitting,  anxiously  watching
Harold's  ship.
