It was Saturday and holiday, and Dolly went home to her aunt’s.  There her aunt and uncle, as was natural, expected a long story of the morning’s experience.  And Dolly one would think might have given it; matter for the detail was not wanting; yet she seemed to have little to tell.  On the other hand, she had a great deal to ask.  She wanted to know why people could not do all their fighting on land; why ships of war were necessary; Mr. Eberstein tried to explain that there might be great and needful advantages attendant upon the use of them.  Then Dolly begged for instances.  Had we, Americans, ever fought at sea?  Mr. Eberstein answered that, and gave her details of facts, while Mrs. Eberstein sat by silent and watched Dolly’s serious, meditative face.

“I should think,” said Dolly, “that when there is a fight, a ship of war would be a very dreadful place.”

“There is no doubt of that, my little girl,” said Mr. Eberstein.  “Take the noise, and the smoke, the packed condition of one of those gun decks, and the every now and then coming in of a round shot, crashing through planks and timbers, splintering what comes in its way, and stretching half a dozen men at once, more or less, on the floor in dead and wounded, ­I think it must be as good a likeness of the infernal regions as earth can give ­in one way at least.”

“In what way?” Dolly asked immediately.

“Confusion of pain and horror.  Not wickedness.”

“Uncle Ned, do you think God can like it?”

“No.”

“Then isn’t it wicked?”

“No, little one; not necessarily.  No sort of pain or suffering can be pleasing to God; we know it is not; yet sin has made it necessary, and He often sends it.”

“Don’t He always send it?”

“Why no.  Some sorts people bring on themselves by their own folly and perverseness; and some sorts people work on others by their own wicked self-will.  God does not cause that, though He will overrule it to do what He wants done.”

“Uncle Ned, do you think we shall ever have to use our ships of war again?”

“We are using them all the time.  We send them to this place and that place to protect our own people, and their merchant vessels and their commerce, from interference and injury.”

“No, but I mean, in fighting.  Do you think we shall ever have to send them to fight again?”

“Probably.”

“To fight whom?”

“That I don’t know.”

“Then why do you say ’probably’?”

“Because human nature remains what it was, and will no doubt do the same work in the future that it has done from the beginning.”

“Why is fighting part of that work, Uncle Ned?”

“Ah, why!  Greed, which wants what is the right of others; pride, which resents even a fancied interference with its own; anger, which cries for revenge; these are the reasons.”

Dolly looked very deeply serious.

“Why do you care so much about it, Dolly?” her aunt asked at length, after a meditative pause of several minutes.

“I would be sorry to have the ‘Achilles’ go into battle,” said Dolly; and a perceptible slight shudder passed over her shoulders.

“Is the ‘Achilles’ so much to you, just because you have seen her?”

“No ­” said Dolly thoughtfully; “it isn’t the ship; it’s the people.”

“Oh! ­But what do you know of the people?”

“I saw a good many of them, Aunt Harry.”

Politic Dolly!  She had really seen only one.  Yet she had no idea of being politic; and why she did not say whom she had seen, and what reason she had for being interested in him, I cannot tell you.

From that time Dolly’s reading took a new turn.  She sought out in the bookcases everything that related to sailors and ships, and especially naval warfare, and simply devoured it.  The little Life of Lord Nelson, by Southey, in two small calf-bound volumes, became her darling book.  Better than any novel, for it was true, and equal to any novel for its varied, picturesque, passionate, stirring life story.  Dolly read it, till she could have given you at any time an accurate and detailed account of any one of Nelson’s great battles; and more than that, she studied the geography of the lands and waters thereby concerned, and where possible the topography also.  I suppose the “Achilles” stood for a model of all the ships in which successively the great commander hoisted his flag; and if the hero himself did not take the form and features of a certain American midshipman, it was probably because there was a likeness of the subject of the Memoir opposite to the title-page; and the rather plain, rather melancholy, rather feeble traits of the English naval captain, could by no effort of imagination be confounded with the quiet strength and gentle manliness which Dolly had found in the straight brows and keen blue eyes and kindly smile of her midshipman friend.  That would not do.  Nelson was not like him, nor he like Nelson; but Dolly had little doubt but he would do as much, if he had occasion.  In that faith she read on; and made every action lively with the vision of those keen-sighted blue eyes and firm sweet mouth in the midst of the smoke of battle and the confusion of orders given and received.  How often the Life of Nelson was read, I dare not say; nor with what renewed eagerness the Marine Dictionary and its plates of ships and cannon were studied and searched.  From that, Dolly’s attention was extended to other books which told of the sea and of life upon it, even though the life were not war-like.  Captain Cook’s voyages came in for a large amount of favour; and Cooper’s “Afloat and Ashore,” which happened about this time to fall into Dolly’s hands, was devoured with a hunger which grew on what it fed.  Nobody knew; she had ceased to talk on naval subjects; and it was so common a thing for Dolly to be swallowed up in some book or other whenever she was at home, that Mrs. Eberstein’s curiosity was not excited.

Meanwhile school days and school work went on, and week succeeded week, and everybody but Dolly had forgotten all about the “Achilles;” when one day a small package was brought to the door and handed in “For Miss Dolly Copley.”  It was a Saturday afternoon.  Dolly and her aunt were sitting comfortably together in Mrs. Eberstein’s workroom upstairs, and Mr. Eberstein was there too at his secretary.

“For me?” said Dolly, when the servant brought the package in.  “It’s a box!  Aunt Harry, what can it be?”

“Open and see, Dolly.”

Which Dolly did with an odd mixture of haste and deliberation which amused Mrs. Eberstein.  She tore off nothing, and she cut nothing; patiently knots were untied and papers unfolded, though Dolly’s fingers trembled with excitement.  Papers taken off showed a rather small pasteboard box; and the box being opened revealed coil upon coil, nicely wound up, of a beautifully wrought chain.  It might be a watch chain; but Dolly possessed no watch.

“What is it, Aunt Harry?” she said in wondering pleasure as the coils of the pretty woven work fell over her hand.

“It looks like a watch chain, Dolly.  What is it made of?”

Mrs. Eberstein inspected the work closely and could not determine.

“But who could send me a watch chain?” said Dolly.

“Somebody; for here is your name very plainly on the cover and on the paper.”

“The boy is waiting for an answer, miss.”

“Answer?  To what?  I don’t know whom to answer,” said Dolly.

“There’s a note, miss.”

“A note? where? ­Oh, here is a note, Aunt Harry, in the bottom of the box.  I did not see it.”

“From whom, Dolly?”

Dolly did not answer.  She had unfolded the note, and now her whole face was wrinkling up with pleasure or fun; she did not hear or heed her aunt’s question.  Mrs. Eberstein marked how her colour rose and her smile grew sparkling; and she watched with not a little curiosity and some impatience till Dolly should speak.  The little girl looked up at last with a face all dimples.

“O Aunt Harry! it’s my piece of rope.”

“Your piece of rope, my dear?”

“Yes; I wanted a piece of rope; and this is it.”

“That is not a piece of rope.”

“Yes, it is; it is made of it.  I could not think what it was made of; and now I see.  Isn’t it beautifully made?  He has picked a piece of rope to pieces, and woven this chain of the threads; isn’t it beautiful?  And how kind!  How kind he is.”

“Who, Dolly?  Who has done it?”

“Oh, the midshipman, Aunt Harry.”

“The midshipman.  What one?  You didn’t say anything about a midshipman.”

“I saw him, though, and he said he would send me a piece of rope.  I wanted a piece, Aunt Harry, to remember the ship by; and I could not break a bit off, though I tried; then he saw me trying, and it was just time to go, and he said he would get it and send it to me.  I thought he had forgotten all about it; but here it is!  I am so glad.”

“My dear, do you call that a piece of rope?”

“Why, yes, Aunt Harry; it is woven out of a piece of rope.  He has picked the rope apart and made this chain of the threads.  I think he is very clever.”

“Who, my dear?  Who has done it, Dolly?”

“The midshipman, Aunt Harry.”

“What midshipman?”

“On the ‘Achilles.’  I saw him that day.”

“Did you see only one midshipman?”

“No; I suppose I saw a good many.  I didn’t notice any but this one.”

“And he noticed you, I suppose?”

“Yes, a little” ­said Dolly.

“Did he notice nobody beside you?”

“I don’t know, Aunt Harry.  Not that time, for I was alone.”

“Alone!  Where were all the rest, and Mrs. Delancy?”

“Eating lunch in the captain’s cabin.”

“Did you have no lunch?”

“I had a biscuit one of the officers gave me.”

“And have you got a note there from the midshipman?”

“Yes, Aunt Harry.”

“What does he say?”

Dolly unfolded the note again and looked at it with great consideration; then handed it to Mrs. Eberstein.  Mrs. Eberstein read aloud.

“Ship ‘Achilles,’

“Dec. 5, 18 ­

“Will Miss Dolly Copley please send a word to say that she has received her piece of cable safe?  I thought she would like it best perhaps in a manufactured form; and I hope she will keep it to remember the ‘Achilles’ by, and also

“A.  CROWNINSHIELD.”

“What’s all that?” demanded Mr. Eberstein now from his writing-desk.  Mrs. Eberstein bit her lips as she answered,

“Billet-doux.”

“Aunt Harry,” said Dolly now doubtfully, “must I write an answer?”

“Edward,” said Mrs. Eberstein, “shall I let this child write a note to a midshipman on board the ‘Achilles’?  What do you think?  Come and counsel me.”

Mr. Eberstein left his writing, informed himself of the circumstances, read “A.  Crowninshield’s” note, and gave his decision.

“The ‘Achilles’?  Oh yes, I know Captain Barbour very well.  It’s all right, I guess.  I think Dolly had better write an answer, certainly.”

So Dolly fetched her writing materials.  Her aunt looked for some appeals for advice now on her part; but Dolly made none.  She bent over her paper with an earnest face, a little flushed; but it seemed she was in no uncertainty what to say or how to say it.  She did not offer to show her finished note to Mrs. Eberstein; I think it did not occur to her; but in the intensity of her concentration Dolly only thought of the person she was writing to and the occasion which made her write.  Certainly she would have had no objection that anybody should see what she wrote.  The simple words ran as follows: 

“MR. CROWNINSHIELD,

“I have got the chain, and I think it is beautiful, and I am very much obliged to you.  I mean to keep it and wear it as long as I live.  You are very kind.

“DOLLY COPLEY.”

The note was closed and sent off; and with that Dolly dismissed the subject, so far at least as words were concerned; but Mrs. Eberstein watched her still for some time handling and examining the chain, passing it through her fingers, and regarding it with a serious face, and yet an expression in the eyes and on the lips that was almost equivalent to a smile.

“What are you going to do with it, Dolly?” Mrs. Eberstein asked at length, wishing to get into the child’s thoughts.

“I’ll keep it, Aunt Harry.  And when I have anything to wear it with, I will wear it.  When I am old enough, I mean.”

“What did you do to that young fellow, to make him show you such an attention?”

“Do to him?  I didn’t do anything to him, Aunt Harry!”

“It was very kind of him, wasn’t it?”

“Very kind.  I guess he is kind,” said Dolly.

“Maybe we shall see him again one of these days, and have a chance to thank him.  The midshipmen get leave to come on shore now and then.”

But no such chance offered.  The “Achilles” sailed out of those waters, and her place in the river was empty.