During the day on which he gave Harwood his brief autobiographical outline, Mr. Oswin Markham was frequently by the side of Miss Gerald and Mrs. Crawford. But towards night the major felt that it would be unjust to allow him to be defrauded of the due amount of narratory entertainment so necessary for his comfort; and with these excellent intentions drew him away from the others of the set, and, sitting on the secluded bridge, brought forth from the abundant resources of his memory a few well-defined anecdotes of that lively Arradambad station. But all the while the major was narrating the stories he could see that Markham's soul was otherwhere, and he began to be disappointed in Mr. Markham. “I mustn't bore you, Markham, my boy,” he said as he rose, after having whiled away about two hours of the night in this agreeable occupation. “No, I mustn't bore you, and you look, upon my soul, as if you had been suffering.” “No, no, I assure you, I never enjoyed anything more than that story of--of--the Surgeon-General and the wife of--of--the Commissary.” “The Adjutant-General, you mean,” interrupted the major. “Of course, yes, the Adjutant; a deucedly good story!” “Ah, not bad, is it? But there goes six bells; I must think about turning in. Come and join me in a glass of brandy-and-water.” “No, no; not to-night--not to-night. The fact is I feel--I feel queer.” “You're not quite set on your feet yet, my boy,” said the major critically. “Take care of yourself.” And he walked away, wondering if it was possible that he had been deceived in his estimate of the nature of Mr. Markham. But Mr. Markham continued sitting alone in the silence of the deserted deck. His thoughts were truly otherwhere. He lay back upon his seat and kept his eyes fixed upon the sky--the sky of stars towards which he had looked in agony for those four nights when nothing ever broke in upon the dread loneliness of the barren sea but those starlights. The terrible recollection of every moment he had passed returned to him. Then he thought how he had heard of men becoming, through sufferings such as his, oblivious of everything of their past life--men who were thus enabled to begin life anew without being racked by any dread memories, the agony that they had endured being acknowledged by Heaven as expiation of their past deeds. That was justice, he felt, and if this justice had been done to these men, why had it been withheld from him?