"Nay, never fret over my walking a matter of thirty mile," added he,
as he saw she looked grave and sorry. "It's a fine clear night, and
I shall set off betimes, and get in afore the Manx packet sails.
Where's your father going? To Glasgow did you say? Perhaps he and
I may have a bit of a trip together then, for, if the Manx boat has
sailed when I get into Liverpool, I shall go by a Scotch packet.
What's he going to do in Glasgow?--Seek for work? Trade is as bad
there as here, folk say."

"No; he knows that," answered Mary sadly. "I sometimes think he'll
never get work again, and that trade will never mend. It's very
hard to keep up one's heart. I wish I were a boy, I'd go to sea
with you. It would be getting away from bad news at any rate; and
now, there's hardly a creature that crosses the door-step, but has
something sad and unhappy to tell one. Father is going as a
delegate from his Union, to ask help from the Glasgow folk. He's
starting this evening."

Mary sighed, for the feeling again came over her that it was very
flat to be left alone.

"You say no one crosses the threshold but has something sad to say;
you don't mean that Margaret Jennings has any trouble?" asked the
young sailor anxiously.

"No!" replied Mary, smiling a little; "she's the only one I know, I
believe, who seems free from care. Her blindness almost appears a
blessing sometimes; she was so down-hearted when she dreaded it, and
now she seems so calm and happy when it's downright come. No!