“What is it?” he muttered, wearily; “whisky nerves, or the dying flutter of a starved love. Five years, now—and a look from her eyes can stop the blood in my veins—can bring back all the heart-hunger and helplessness, that leads a man to insanity—or this.” He looked at his trembling hand, all scarred and tar-stained, passed on forward, and returned with the sandpaper.

The young woman had been equally affected by the meeting. An expression of mingled surprise and terror had come to her pretty, but rather weak face; and without acknowledging his half-salute, she had caught up a little child from the deck behind her, and turning into the saloon door, hurried to the library, where she sank into a chair beside a military-looking gentleman, who glanced up from a book and remarked: “Seen the sea-serpent, Myra, or the Flying Dutchman? What’s up?”

“Oh, George—no,” she answered in agitated tones. “John Rowland is here—Lieutenant Rowland. I’ve just seen him—he is so changed—he tried to speak to me.”

“Who—that troublesome flame of yours? I never met him, you know, and you haven’t told me much about him. What is he—first cabin?”

“No, he seems to be a common sailor; he is working, and is dressed in old clothes—all dirty. And such a dissipated face, too. He seems to have fallen—so low. And it is all since —”

“Since you soured on him? Well, it is no fault of yours, dear. If a man has it in him he’ll go to the dogs anyhow. How is his sense of injury? Has he a grievance or a grudge? You’re badly upset. What did he say?”

“I don’t know—he said nothing—I’ve always been afraid of him. I’ve met him three times since then, and he puts such a frightful look in his eyes—and he was so violent, and headstrong, and so terribly angry,—that time.