"Midshipmen never seem to have time for that sort of thing," said Robert, trying to speak lightly. "Men of different classes seldom speak unless they are particular friends. Let's go down to the sea-wall, Helen, and watch the shells; I do hope we'll win this year; we ought to, we've splendid men on the crew. What have you been doing lately? I haven't seen you for an age, and there's----" "Well, whose fault is that?" interrupted Helen with some spirit; "you bolted out of the house the other night as though you feared contagion, and I haven't seen you or heard from you since. I should think you would have something to tell me or explain." "Yes, yes, Helen, I have ever so many things I want to speak to you about," and then Robert dropped into silence as they walked along. "We've been such friends," said Helen quietly, "and had so many unforeseen things happen, that it seems as though we ought to get along without any more misunderstandings in the future; and yet we seem to be having one now. You have suddenly stopped coming to see me; surely there was a reason, Robert; what was it?" Robert felt supremely miserable and uncomfortable; he did not know what to say. There was a reason, and yet he could not tell it to this sympathetic and congenial girl whose friendship he was so anxious to keep; he could not tell this reason, nor could he pretend there was none. It would be no act of kindness to Captain Blunt to inform him of the unworthiness of his son. And so Robert did not wish Helen to know that Harry was in any way concerned with the matter Helen wished to talk about. "What's the reason, Robert?" repeated Helen with her eyes full of interest and concern. Just then, the far-away bell of the "Santee" was struck four times. "Six o'clock," exclaimed Robert; "we've a whole hour before supper; let's walk along the sea-wall to College Creek and back; we'll just have time to do it." Poor Robert then relapsed into silence; he was happy to be with his friend again and eager to tell her that he could not explain his peculiar conduct; but he could not talk. His mind was in confusion, yet seemed a blank; and the trivial things about him took a prominence that in milder moods would have remained unnoticed. He noted with the eye of a naturalist a squirrel that scampered across their path, and ran along the fence, disappearing up a maple tree; two robins were scolding and fussing in the tree top near their nest. And from the coxswain of the racing shell, out in the Severn River, came regularly, like the tick-tock of a clock, the monotonous words--"Stroke--Stroke--Stroke." Thump, thump, thump went his heart. "Stroke--Stroke--Stroke," called out the ruthless coxswain to his tired crew on the river a quarter of a mile away.