“Jack,” said the mate, stooping for the envelope. “Why it must be meant for Mr.—for Jack Fraser.” “Careful nobody sees you,” murmured Miss Tipping, excitedly, as she took the envelope from the mate; “why, the address is printed by hand.” Mother and daughter looked at each other. It was evident that their thoughts were similar, and that one could have known them without the expenditure of the proverbial penny. “I’ll give it to him when I see him,” remarked Ben, thrusting the letter in his pocket. “It don’t seem to be important. He ain’t in London, at present, I don’t think.” “I shouldn’t think it was important at all,” said Mrs. Tipping, soothingly. “Not at all,” echoed her daughter, whose cheek was burning with excitement. “Good-night, Mr. Brown.” Ben bade them good-night, and in his capacity of host walked up the wharf with them and saw them depart. “Nice little thing, ain’t she?” said the watchman who was standing there, after Mrs. Tipping had bidden the mate good-bye; “be careful wot you’re a-doin’ of, Ben. Don’t go and spile yourself by a early marriage, just as you’re a-beginning to get on in life. Besides, a mate might do better than that, and she’d only marry you for your persition.” CHAPTER XII. In happy ignorance of the changes caused by his sudden and tragic end, Captain Flower sat at the open window of his shabby Walworth lodging, smoking an after-breakfast pipe, and gazing idly into the dismal, littered yard beneath. Time—owing to his injured foot, which, neatly bandaged at a local dispensary, rested upon a second chair—hung rather heavily upon his hands as he sat thinking of ways and means of spending the next six months profitably and pleasantly. He had looked at the oleographs on the walls until he was tired, and even the marvels of the wax fruit under a cracked glass shade began to pall upon him. “I’ll go and stay in the country a bit,” he muttered; “I shall choke here.” He took a slice of bread from the tray, and breaking it into small pieces, began to give breakfast to three hens which passed a precarious existence in the yard below. “They get quite to know you now,” said the small but shrewd daughter of the house, who had come in to clear the breakfast things away. “How’d you like your egg?” “Very good,” said Flower. “It was new laid,” said the small girl. She came up to the window and critically inspected the birds. “She laid it,” she said, indicating one of the three. “She’s not much to look at,” said Flower, regarding the weirdest-looking of the three with some interest. “She’s a wonderful layer,” said Miss Chiffers, “and as sharp as you make ’em. When she’s in the dust-bin the others ’ave to stay outside. They can go in when she’s ’ad all she wants.” “I don’t think I’ll have any more eggs,” said Flower, casually. “I’m eating too much. Bacon’ll do by itself.” “Please yourself,” said Miss Chiffers, turning from the window. “How’s your foot?” “Better,” said Flower.