Flower waited. “’Lizabeth’s married,” said the old man, slowly; “married that stupid young Gibson. She’ll be sorry enough now, I know.” His nephew looked down. “I’ve heard about it,” he said, with an attempt at gloom; “old George told me.” The old man, respecting his grief, smoked on for some time in silence, then he got up and patted him on the shoulder. “I’m on the look-out for you,” he said, kindly; “there’s a niece o’ your aunt’s. I ain’t seen her yet; but your aunt praises of her, so she’s all right. I’ll tell your aunt to ask ’er over. Your aunt ses—” “How many aunts have I got?” demanded Flower, with sudden irritation. The old man raised his eyebrows and stared at him in offended amazement. “You’re not yourself, Fred,” he said, slowly; “your misfortunes ’ave shook you up. You’ve got one aunt and one uncle what brought you up and did the best for you ever since you was so ’igh.” “So you did,” said Flower, heartily. “I didn’t mean to speak like that, but I’m tired and worried.” “I see you was,” said his uncle, amiably, “but your aunt’s a wonderful woman. She’s got a business ’ead, and we’re doing well. I’m buying another schooner, and you can ’ave her or have the _Foam_ back, which you like.” Flower thanked him warmly, and, Mrs. Barber returning, he noticed with some surprise the evident happiness of the couple for whose marriage he was primarily responsible. He had to go over his adventures again and again, Captain Barber causing much inconvenience and delay at supper-time by using the beer-jug to represent the _Golden Cloud_ and a dish of hot sausages the unknown craft which sank her. Flower was uncertain which to admire most: the tactful way in which Mrs. Barber rescued the sausages or the readiness with which his uncle pushed a plate over a fresh stain on the tablecloth. Supper finished, he sat silently thinking of Poppy, not quite free from the fear that she might have followed him to New Zealand by another boat. The idea made him nervous, and the suspense became unendurable. He took up his cap and strolled out into the stillness of the evening. Seabridge seemed strange to him after his long absence, and, under present conditions, melancholy. There was hardly a soul to be seen, but a murmur of voices came through the open windows of the Thorn, and a clumsy cart jolted and creaked its way up the darkening road. He stood for some time looking down on the quay, and the shadowy shapes of one or two small craft lying in the river. The _Foam_ was in her old berth, and a patch of light aft showed that the cabin was occupied. He walked down to her, and stepping noiselessly aboard, peered through the open skylight at Ben, as he sat putting a fresh patch in a pair of trousers. It struck him that the old man might know something of the events which had led up to Fraser’s surprising marriage, and, his curiosity being somewhat keen on the point, he descended to glean particulars.