His age sat lightly enough on him; and of his ruin he was not ashamed. He had not been alone tobelieve in the stability of the Banking Corporation. Men whose judgment in matters of finance wasas expert as his seamanship had commended the prudence of his investments, and had themselveslost much money in the great failure. The only difference between him and them was that he hadlost his all. And yet not his all. There had remained to him from his lost fortune a very pretty littlebark, Fair Maid, which he had bought to occupy his leisure of a retired sailor-"to play with," as heexpressed it himself.He had formally declared himself tired of the sea the year preceding his daughter's marriage. Butafter the young couple had gone to settle in Melbourne he found out that he could not make himselfhappy on shore. He was too much of a merchant sea-captain for mere yachting to satisfy him. Hewanted the illusion of affairs; and his acquisition of the Fair Maid preserved the continuity of his life.He introduced her to his acquaintances in various ports as "my last command." When he grew tooold to be trusted with a ship, he would lay her up and go ashore to be buried, leaving directions inhis will to have the bark towed out and scuttled decently in deep water on the day of the funeral. Hisdaughter would not grudge him the satisfaction of knowing that no stranger would handle his lastcommand after him. With the fortune he was able to leave her, the value of a 500-ton bark wasneither here nor there. All this would be said with a jocular twinkle in his eye: the vigorous old manhad too much vitality for the sentimentalism of regret; and a little wistfully withal, because he was athome in life, taking a genuine pleasure in its feelings and its possessions; in the dignity of hisreputation and his wealth, in his love for his daughter, and in his satisfaction with the ship-theplaything of his lonely leisure.He had the cabin arranged in accordance with his simple ideal of comfort at sea. A big bookcase(he was a great reader) occupied one side of his stateroom; the portrait of his late wife, a flatbituminous oil-painting representing the profile and one long black ringlet of a young woman, facedhis bed-place. Three chronometers ticked him to sleep and greeted him on waking with the tinycompetition of their beats. He rose at five every day. The officer of the morning watch, drinking hisearly cup of coffee aft by the wheel, would hear through the wide orifice of the copper ventilators allthe splashings, blowings, and splutterings of his captain's toilet. These noises would be followed by asustained deep murmur of the Lord's Prayer recited in a loud earnest voice. Five minutes afterwardsthe head and shoulders of Captain Whalley emerged out of the companion-hatchway. Invariably hepaused for a while on the stairs, looking all round at the horizon; upwards at the trim of the sails;inhaling deep draughts of the fresh air. Only then he would step out on the poop, acknowledgingthe hand raised to the peak of the cap with a majestic and benign "Good morning to you." Hewalked the deck till eight scrupulously. Sometimes, not above twice a year, he had to use a thickcudgel-like stick on account of a stiffness in the hip-a slight touch of rheumatism, he supposed.Otherwise he knew nothing of the ills of the flesh. At the ringing of the breakfast bell he went belowto feed his canaries, wind up the chronometers, and take the head of the table. From there he hadbefore his eyes the big carbon photographs of his daughter, her husband, and two fat-legged babies-his grandchildren-set in black frames into the maplewood bulkheads of the cuddy.