Mrs Blythe was on the look-out for her son’s return. He was her only child, and she loved him as only a mother can love the one treasure of her heart. His father, who was an officer in the Royal Navy, had been drowned at sea whilst Vernon was a baby, and it had been the one wish of her widowed life that her boy should not be a sailor. But as he grew up, the inherited instinct developed itself, and she had been forced to part with her darling; since which her life had been divided into two parts only--the days when Vernon was at home, and the days when he was not. Mrs Blythe always called her son ‘Vernon.’ It had been her own maiden name, and she would recognise him by no other. She thought the nickname of ‘Jack’ both low and vulgar, and was disgusted whenever she heard him addressed by it. She was a round, rosy little woman, very unlike her son, who inherited his beauty from his father, but she was a good mother to him, and he loved her devotedly. Although she had such good reason to hate and dread the sea, yet she felt she could not live away from it, and had been settled in Southsea ever since her husband’s death. Her cottage, which faced the common, was surrounded by a pretty garden, enclosed by a wooden paling and a little rustic gate. The room where she awaited her son was neatly furnished, the walls being covered with the curiosities which Vernon, and his father before him, had brought her home from different parts of the world. Talipots and fans from Rangoon, and bangles and hookahs from Calcutta hung by the side of skins and palm-leaf trophies from the West Coast, and green stone and carved wooden weapons from Maori land. Daintily-painted boxes, and wonderfully-carved pagodas were piled up with ornamented whales’ teeth, and the inexhaustible fern leaves from St Helena, and necklaces and poisoned spears from the Sandwich Islands. Here, in fact, were to be seen specimens of art from every quarter of the globe, and with a story attached to each, marking the milestones along the widow’s path of life, and hallowed by her smiles and tears. The room had more the appearance of a museum than a private dining-room, but these innumerable curiosities were Mrs Blythe’s greatest treasures, over which she brooded whilst her son was absent on his long sea voyages. She had had him all to herself for twelve months now, but the holiday was drawing to a close, and each day she dreaded to hear him say that he must leave her. ‘Well, Vernon, my darling!’ she exclaimed anxiously, as he entered the room where his tea was ready laid for him; ‘what news have you to-day?’ ‘None in particular, mother,’ he replied, throwing himself into a chair. ‘I have been to dozens of firms, but it is the old story with all of them.’ ‘Something will spring up by-and-by,’ said Mrs Blythe, soothingly, ‘and for my part I don’t care how long it may be first. But have your tea now, dear. I am sure you must be tired.’