“No.” After more looking about, “Have you discovered where the bell is?” The woman lifted sleepless eyes and gave her an odd look. “I don’t expect bells on this ship.” “Oh, I didn’t know.” Hildegarde put on her dressing-gown, took the tin ewer and sallied forth. After a variety of adventures she came back. The woman lifted her face out of the pillow when she heard the sound of water splashing into the tin basin. “Oh, they got it for _you_.” “No, I got it for myself. Come and hold your arm over, won’t you? I’ll bathe it.” A little surprised—a little doubtful, the woman got up, saying, “Thank you.” What a nice voice said it! But this fine-skinned, delicate-faced traveler was disposed to be reserved. Hildegarde could feel that for some reason she was suspicious of such ready friendliness. “It’s most dreadfully bruised. How did you do it?” “I didn’t do it.” “Who?” “Oh, a man.” “How in the world—?” “Against the barrier. He was trying to get in front of me. I told him he was breaking my arm, but he—” She left the sentence unfinished. Hildegarde’s eyes followed the last trickle of cool water over the vivid purple and yellow and green of the swollen bruise. No doubt the hurt showed the ghastlier for the natural whiteness of the skin. “Well, whoever did it would be sorry, I think, if he saw your arm this morning.” “Sorry?” She moistened the end of a towel and Hildegarde helped her to arrange a loose compress. “Yes; sorry and ashamed.” “You don’t know them as I do.” “Know who?” “Men.” Then, as Hildegarde made no instant rejoinder, “_I_ was alone,” the woman added, so pointedly that Hildegarde hastened to say, “I’m alone, too.” But the other seemed not to believe this, or, at least, to take no account of it. “Last night wasn’t my first battle,” she said; “I’ve been in the wars all my life,” and with a weary superiority she went back to her berth. Ah, she was one of those women with a standing grievance! Hildegarde felt for her the cheerful forbearance of the person who unconsciously takes his own immunity from rancor as a tribute to his nice disposition or his balanced judgment. Up on deck a flood of sunshine, a dazzling sea, a green shore not yet very far away, a distant background of snowcapped mountains. On board the _Los Angeles_ few people yet afoot. There was Curlyhead dashing about, responding to Hildegarde’s good-morning with a cheerful oath. She took hold of him. “Listen to me,” she said, “you are not to say such horrible things.”