At length, in a quiet street beyond Stratford, she not only stopped, but turned and walked slowly back. Fraser turned too, and his heart beat as he fancied that she intended to overtake him. He quickened his pace in time with the steps behind him until they slackened and faltered; then he looked round and saw her standing in the centre of the pathway with her head bent. He walked back slowly until he stood beside her, and saw that she was crying softly. He placed his hand on her arm. “Go away,” she said, in a low voice. “I shall not.” “You walked away from me just now.” “I was a brute,” said Fraser, vehemently. The arm beneath his hand trembled, and he drew it unresistingly through his own. In the faint light from the lamp opposite he saw her look at him. “I’m very tired,” she said, and leaned on him trustfully. “Were you really going to leave me just now?” “You know I was not,” said Fraser, simply. Miss Tyrell, walking very slowly, pondered. “I should never have forgiven you if you had,” she said, thoughtfully. “I’m so tired, I can hardly stand. You must take me to your ship.” They walked slowly to the end of the road, but the time seemed very short to Fraser. As far as he was concerned he would willingly have dispensed with the tram which they met at the end and the antique four-wheeler in which they completed their journey to the river. They found a waterman’s skiff at the stairs, and sat side by side in the stern, looking contentedly over the dark water, as the waterman pulled in the direction of the _Swallow_, which was moored in the tier. There was no response to their hail, and Fraser himself, clambering over the side with the painter, assisted Miss Tyrell, who, as the daughter of one sailor and the guest of another, managed to throw off her fatigue sufficiently to admire the lines of the small steamer. Fraser conducted her to the cabin, and motioning her to a seat on the locker, went forward to see about some supper. He struck a match in the forecastle and scrutinised the sleepers, and coming to the conclusion that something which was lying doubled up in a bunk, with its head buried in the pillow, was the cook, shook it vigourously. “Did you want the cook, sir?” said a voice from another bunk. “Yes,” said Fraser, sharply, as he punched the figure again and again. “Pore cookie ain’t well, sir,” said the seaman, sympathetically; “’e’s been very delikit all this evenin’; that’s the worst o’ them teetotalers.” “All right; that’ll do,” said the skipper, sharply, as he struck another match, and gave the invalid a final disgusted punch. “Where’s the boy?” A small, dirty face with matted hair protruded from the bunk above the cook and eyed him sleepily. “Get some supper,” said Fraser, “quick.” “Supper, sir?” said the boy with a surprised yawn. “And be quick about it,” said the skipper, “and wash you face first and put a comb through your hair. Come, out you get.”