“But suppose you don’t get one for a long time?” suggested Fraser. “I must wait till I do,” said the girl, quietly. “You see,” continued the mate, twisting his hands, “it might be a long job, and I—I was wondering—what you would do in the meantime. I was wondering whether you could hold out.” “Hold out?” repeated Miss Tyrell, very coldly. “Whether you’ve got enough money,” blurted the mate. Miss Tyrell turned upon him a face in which there was now no lack of colour. “That is my business,” she said, stiffly. “Mine, too,” said Fraser, gazing steadily at the pretty picture of indignation before him. “I was Flower’s friend as well as his mate, and you are only a girl.” The indignation became impatience. “Little more than a child,” he murmured, scrutinising her. “I am quite big enough to mind my own business,” said Poppy, reverting to chilly politeness. “I wish you would promise me you won’t leave here or do anything until I have seen you again,” said Fraser, who was anxious to consult his captain on this new phase of affairs. “Certainly not,” said Miss Tyrell, rising and standing by her chair, “and thank you for calling.” Fraser rubbed his chin helplessly. “Thank you for calling,” repeated the girl, still standing. “That is telling me to go, I suppose?” said, Fraser, looking at her frankly. “I wish I knew how to talk to you. When I think of you being here all alone, without friends and without employment, it seems wrong for me to go and leave you here.” Miss Tyrell gave a faint gasp and glanced anxiously at the door. Fraser hesitated a moment, and then rose to his feet. “If I hear anything more, may I come and tell you?” he asked. “Yes,” said Poppy, “or write; perhaps it would be better to write; I might not be at home. Goodbye.” The mate shook hands, and, blundering down the stairs, shouted good-night to a segment of the Wheeler family visible through the half-open door, and passed out into the street. He walked for some time rapidly, gradually slowing down as he collected his thoughts. “Flower’s a fool,” he said, bitterly; “and, as for me, I don’t know what I am. It’s so long since I told the truth I forget what it’s like, and I’d sooner tell lies in a church than tell them to her.” CHAPTER X. He looked expectantly on the cabin table for a letter upon his return to the ship, but was disappointed, and the only letter yielded by the post next morning came from Captain Barber. It was couched in terms of great resignation, and after bemoaning the unfortunate skipper’s untimely demise in language of great strength, wound up with a little Scripture and asked the mate to act as master and sail the schooner home. “You’ll act as mate, Ben, to take her back,” said the new skipper, thrusting the letter in his pocket. “Aye, aye, sir,” said Ben, with a side glance at Joe, “but I’ll keep for’ard, if you don’t mind.” “As you please,” said Fraser, staring. “And you’re master, I s’pose?” said Joe, turning to Fraser.