There were other photographs of grown-up people. I glanced at them, and at a little row of books, and at a work-basket, and at similar trivial details. But my eyes went quickly back to the portraits of the two children and the little baby, and I was still gazing at them when the stewardess entered, bearing my breakfast. ‘Who are those children?’ I asked her. ‘My little nephew and niece,’ she answered, smiling and lighting up as she spoke, ‘and that is my only sister with her first-born on her lap. Oh, such a little cherub as it is! The sweetest baby! One, only one did I have. He was sweeter, yes, even sweeter than that child,’ she added, her gaze lingering upon the photograph whilst her voice fell and her face grew grave. ‘I lost him three months after my husband died----after he died and left me to ---- to ----. But here is your breakfast now. Make a good meal. I am sure you need it.’ How much I needed it I did not know until I began to eat. I ate in silence, and the stewardess did not interrupt me by speech. She moved here and there, but all the while I was sensible that she eyed me furtively. When I had finished she said: ‘Do you feel equal to seeing the captain? Or would you rather lie down and take some rest? You look as if you needed a long sleep.’ ‘Is the captain waiting to see me?’ I asked. She drew out her watch. ‘He wishes to see you after breakfast, and the passengers will assemble at breakfast in a few minutes. Unless you feel very exhausted it might be as well that you should see him before you lie down. He will want to know where you come from, so as to be able to send you to your friends at the first opportunity. And then again you will wish to see the doctor? You must have been badly hurt to need so many straps about your head.’ ‘I do not feel exhausted,’ I answered. ‘This meal has greatly strengthened and refreshed me. I will sit here, if you please, until the captain is ready to see me.’ ‘I shall not be able to sit with you,’ said the stewardess. ‘My hands are very full. We are not long from port, and some of my ladies have not yet overcome their sea-sickness. And then I have a sweet, poor young lady to see after. She is very ill of consumption. I fear she will not live. Her mother is taking her on a voyage round the world, but, like most people who are ill of consumption, the young lady has started too late. At least, I fear so. I have seen too many instances in my time not to fear so.’ ‘Will you tell me,’ said I, ‘where this ship is going to?’ ‘To Sydney,’ said she, pausing with her hand upon the door. She continued to watch me for a few moments, and then with a smile said, ‘You know where Sydney is?’ I held my eyes bent downwards. ‘It is in Australia,’ said she; ‘in New South Wales. It is a beautiful city, and most people think that its harbour is the loveliest in the world.’ She opened the door, gave me a friendly nod, and passed out.