"Seasons may roll,
But the true soul
Burns the same wherever it goes."
"So it does, Tom--so it does; and he's thinking this moment of his
father and mother, I do verily believe, and he loves us more than ever."
"So I believe," replied old Tom--"that is, if he hasn't anything better
to do. But there's a time for all things; and when a man is doing his
duty as a seaman, he mustn't let his thoughts wander. Never fear, old
woman: he'll be back again.
"There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft,
To take care of the life of poor Jack."
"God grant it! God grant it!" replied the old woman, wiping her eyes
with her apron, and then resuming her netting.
"He seems," continued she, "by his letters, to be over-fond of that
girl, Mary Stapleton--and I sometimes think that she cares not a little
for him; but she's never of one mind long. I didn't like to see her
flaunting and flirting so with the soldiers, and at the same time Tom
says that she writes that she cares for nobody but him."
"Women are--women! that's sartin," replied old Tom, musing for a time,
and then showing that his thoughts were running on his son, by bursting
out--
"Mary, when yonder boundless sea
Shall part us, and perchance for ever,
Think not my heart can stray from thee,
Or cease to mourn thine absence--never!
And when in distant climes I roam,
Forlorn, unfriended, broken-hearted--"
"Don't say so, Tom--don't say so," interrupted the old woman.