Mr. Harwood ran down the sloping rail to assist the ladies into the boat that rose and fell with every throb of the waves against the ship's side. Mrs. Crawford followed him and was safely stowed in a place in the stern. Then came Mrs. Butler and her daughter, and while Mr. Harwood was handing them off the last step Daireen began to descend. But she had not got farther down than to where a young sailor was kneeling to shift the line of one of the fruit boats, when she stopped suddenly with a great start that almost forced a cry from her. “For God's sake go on--give no sign if you don't wish to make me wretched,” said the sailor in a whisper. “Come, Miss Gerald, we are waiting,” cried Harwood up the long rail. Daireen remained irresolute for a moment, then walked slowly down, and allowed herself to be handed into the boat. “Surely you are not timid, Miss Gerald,” said Harwood as the boat pushed off. “Timid?” said Daireen mechanically. “Yes, your hand was really trembling as I helped you down.” “No, no, I am not--not timid, only--I fear I shall not be very good company to-day; I feel----” she looked back to the steamer and did not finish her sentence. Mr. Harwood glanced at her for a moment, thinking if it really could be possible that she was regretting the absence of Mr. Glaston. Mrs. Crawford also looked at her and came to the conclusion that, at the last moment, the girl was recalling the aesthetic instructions of the young man who was doubtless sitting lonely in his cabin while she was bent on enjoying herself with a “party.” But Daireen was only thinking how it was she had refrained from crying out when she saw the face of that sailor on the rail, and when she heard his voice; and it must be confessed that it was rather singular, taking into account the fact that she had recognised in the features and voice of that sailor the features and voice of Standish Macnamara. CHAPTER XII. Your visitation shall receive such thanks As fits... remembrance. ... Thus do we of wisdom and of reach, With windlasses and with assays of bias, By indirections find directions out. More matter with less art.--_Hamlet._ |THE thin white silk thread of a moon was hanging in the blue twilight over the darkened western slope of the island, and almost within the horns of its crescent a planet was burning without the least tremulous motion. The lights of the town were glimmering over the waters, and the strange, wildly musical cries of the bullock-drivers were borne faintly out to the steamer, mingling with the sound of the bell of St. Mary's on the Mount.