During the rest of the voyage they were together for a part of every day, sometimes with the company of Mrs. William Ruggles, but more often without it, as her husband claimed much of her attention and rarely came on deck; and John, from time to time, gave his companion pretty much the whole history of his later career. But with regard to her own life, and, as he noticed, especially the two years since the death of her brother-in-law, she was distinctly reticent. She never spoke of her marriage or her husband, and after one or two faintly tentative allusions, John forebore to touch upon those subjects, and was driven to conclude that her experience had not been a happy one. Indeed, in their intercourse there were times when she appeared distrait and even moody; but on the whole she seemed to him to be just as he had known and loved her years ago; and all the feeling that he had had for her then broke forth afresh in spite of himself--in spite of the fact that, as he told himself, it was more hopeless than ever: absolutely so, indeed. It was the last night of their voyage together. The Ruggleses were to leave the ship the next morning at Algiers, where they intended to remain for some time. "Would you mind going to the after-deck?" he asked. "These people walking about fidget me," he added rather irritably. She rose, and they made their way aft. John drew a couple of chairs near to the rail. "I don't care to sit down for the present," she said, and they stood looking out at sea for a while in silence. "Do you remember," said John at last, "a night six years ago when we stood together, at the end of the voyage, leaning over the rail like this?" "Yes," she said. "Does this remind you of it?" he asked. "I was thinking of it," she said. "Do you remember the last night I was at your house?" he asked, looking straight out over the moonlit water. "Yes," she said again. "Did you know that night what was in my heart to say to you?" There was no answer. "May I tell you now?" he asked, giving a side glance at her profile, which in the moonlight showed very white. "Do you think you ought?" she answered in a low voice, "or that I ought to listen to you?" "I know," he exclaimed. "You think that as a married woman you should not listen, and that knowing you to be one I should not speak. If it were to ask anything of you I would not. It is for the first and last time. To-morrow we part again, and for all time, I suppose. I have carried the words that were on my lips that night all these years in my heart. I know I can have no response--I expect none; but it can not harm you if I tell you that I loved you then, and have----" She put up her hand in protest. "You must not go on, Mr. Lenox," she said, turning to him, "and I must leave you." "Are you very angry with me?" he asked humbly. She turned her face to the sea again and gave a sad little laugh.