Sam Oakum was indeed very much excited at the close of his interview with Commodore Trysail; the bright prospect before him of soon realizing what his heart had been so long aspiring after, gave a sudden spring to all his feelings, and the spirit of his station seemed already to have taken possession of his mind.

The trifle of news, too, which Peter had communicated, might also have had something to do with the bouyancy of his feelings. Sam longed to see again the little fairy-like creature, with golden locks and dark blue eyes, that once in his early days he occasionally met.

This little fairy, however, is a fairy no longer, for she has grown up to be a fine, good-natured young lady; her golden locks have turned to a rich auburn; her dark blue eyes illuminate, with their bright and pleasant sparkles, her full oval face, on which the rose and the lily have beautifully blended.

Sam has not seen her, however, for four long years, and he thinks of her as she looked then. And if the Commodore had known how much more Sam was thinking about Peter's news, than about the schooner or the ship, it might have injured his confidence, a very little.

As to what this little fairy ever thought of Sam, it would be equally hard to divine. All we know is that when a little girl she used to be very glad to see a little black-eyed boy in blue jacket and trousers, and would frequently smile when she saw him, and perhaps on one or two occasions exchanged a word with him—nothing more.

She is now, I have said, a young lady; and whether she ever thinks of the little black-eyed boy is yet to be known.

Sam had thought all day of the visit which he felt he ought to make to his friends the Morris's. He called there in the edge of evening, and no doubt spent a very pleasant hour, for his friends were rejoiced to see him, and gave him to understand that the Commodore had let them into the secret; and from the kindness with which he was treated, it was very evident that he had not fallen in their estimation.

I said, that he no doubt spent a pleasant hour; but that idea intruded itself rather because there was everything conspiring to make it pleasant, than from its apparent effect upon our hero; for his countenance, as he walked on his way towards home, was sad, and it was some time before the lively, happy circle there could so impart their cheerfulness as to enable him to join heartily with them.

Major Morris and his lovely daughter had reached home, as Peter had said, accompanied by a young lady, who had been a companion of Susan at school, and her brother, a fashionable young man, the parents of whom were wealthy and truly respectable in their standing. And it may as well be told at once, that although not engaged to this youth—for Susan's parents were too careful of her happiness to allow such a step at the age she then was—still there was decided feeling on the part of the young man, and Susan had been perhaps as well pleased with him as with any of those who constantly sought her company. He was not, however, visiting as a suitor, but had been invited with his sister to spend a few weeks at the Major's delightful residence.

Susan Morris was by no means an imaginative girl. She had, it is true, very ardent feelings, but they had always been expended upon real objects; and, in consequence, she was the beloved of every circle where she moved.

Two weeks from the day on which Commodore Trysail gave the appointment, Sam and his beautiful schooner were ready for the ocean.

Partings with near friends are not pleasant scenes, so I shall pass them over. It was a lovely afternoon, one of summer's brightest days; a lively breeze played over the water, and scarcely bending to its power, a small trim vessel, rigged in pilot-boat fashion, was gliding gracefully along, not far from the shore. Every sail was set, and filled just enough to display their graceful cut, the little black hull beneath making them look more white and showy by the contrast. A row-boat, well manned, was by the shore, around which were gathered groups of lookers-on, or friends saying some last words to the youths who held the oars, and whose half serious smiles told plainly that their hearts were not so light as they would seem.

Just beyond the shore, upon the sloping green, a little party stands, eyeing with apparent interest the motions of the schooner and the preparations for departure, which are plainly visible in the gathering crowd that was surrounding the little boat at the water's edge.

'Oh, Susan, what a fine sight that vessel makes; but who would think of venturing to sea in such a craft?'

'Why not, Julia?'

'Oh, she is so small, I should think the waves would ingulf her—but here comes her Captain, I suppose. Your father keeps close to him; and the old Commodore, how proud he seems.'

'Yes, he does, I assure you,' said Mrs. Morris; 'he is proud of his vessel and her Captain too.'

The three gentlemen now approached the ladies, raising their hats, and again replacing them, with the exception of the younger one, who, having removed his light chapeau, kept it in his hand.

There was a seriousness in his air as he immediately stepped up to Mrs. Morris, and received her offered hand.

'May God bless you, my dear fellow! Come, a mother's kiss.'

Sam's heart was brave, but it was very tender. He took the liberty allowed him, but uttered not a word, while Mrs. Morris took no pains to restrain the flowing tears. He bowed to Miss Walton, and then the hand of Susan is within his own. He bowed respectfully, raised her hand, and touched it to his lips. He saw a tear start as he cast one parting glance upon her sweet face, and, without a word on either side, they separated.

The Commodore and Major Morris, each taking an arm, walked with him to the little boat.

'God bless you!' and the Major clasped his hand in both of his.

'God bless you, Captain Oakum—a fine voyage to you!' and the Commodore gave him a sailor's squeeze.

A great many hands were stretched out, and Sam was busy enough for a little while. He was a great favorite, and all were sad at parting with him. Just as he was about to step into the boat, two men were seen hastening along shore.

'There are the two men, Captain, that have shipped to-day.'

'Have you your papers with you?' said Captain Oakum, addressing the men who had just reached them.

'Yes, sir—here they are;' handing them at the same time to the Captain.

'Aboard with you, then.'

They sprang in and tumbled themselves away as they best could. Sam raised his hand; every oar was dropped, and the little boat shot away like an arrow from the strand. As she left the shore, he turned towards the land, and removing his chapeau, waved it towards those who stood on shore, and then raising his eye to the different groups which he saw on the elevated bank, bowed, and at once there was a great waving of handkerchiefs, and some among them had other work to do with theirs, for tears were flowing freely. A fond mother and sisters were there, and there were friends of his early days, hearts knit to him in tenderest friendship. Gracefully the little schooner rounds to, and for a few moments lies flapping in the wind. Her Captain springs upon her deck, again she falls off to take the breeze, the sails swell gently out, and on she goes ploughing her way towards the mighty ocean.