‘Oh, a long time! I never really had a husband. I was widowed from the commencement.’ ‘Poor child! I couldn’t have turned out a worse “spec.” myself. And where have you been living since?’ ‘In London!’ ‘Why did you leave it?’ ‘Oh, Mr Blythe, don’t ask me so many questions! It is the fear of your doing so that has made me avoid you hitherto. If we are to be friends, learn to spare me. I _cannot_ speak of the past.’ ‘Will you speak of the future, then?’ ‘Yes! when the time comes, perhaps. But it is no use discussing it in the present. It may never come to pass. We may not reach land. I wish to God I were not to do so! I would like to throw myself overboard at once, and make an end to all things.’ Vernon Blythe looked very grave. This expression of despair on the part of the woman he would have died to save, cut him to the quick. There sat his ideal,--the creature who had spoiled the best part of his life,--whom he had dreamed of, longed for, and yearned after for five long years out of five-and-twenty. There she sat, side by side with him again--free--friendless--almost, as it were, at his mercy--and yet he felt as far from her as ever. As those last passionate words burst from Iris’s lips, he rose to his feet. ‘I am worrying you,’ he said gently; ‘I won’t stay here any longer. But whatever may be your trouble, Iris, whether it arises from loss, or poverty, or--or--anything else--don’t be afraid to ask my assistance or advice. Remember, I am your friend: and I have the best right of all men to be so, because I--’ But here he stopped short, fearful of offending her, and the conscious blood dyed his fair face crimson. ‘What were you going to say?’ demanded Iris presently. ‘What perhaps I had better leave unsaid. But you are a woman, and do not need words to make you understand. You have but to think of the Bridge of Allan, to know _why_ I have good right to be your friend.’ ‘You will not speak of me to--to any one else on board?’ she said anxiously, as she laid her hand upon his arm. Vernon looked down at the fair white hand lying so lightly on the blue sleeve of his uniform, and trembled with pleasurable excitement. How he longed to raise it to his lips. But he resisted the temptation. ‘Of course not. Do you think I go about making my most sacred feelings public property? Your name has never passed my lips to a soul since the day we parted. ‘Did you care for me like _that_?’ said Iris, opening her lovely hazel eyes. ‘I cared for you--_like my soul_!’ he answered, in a low voice. There was silence between them for a few minutes after that, and then he resumed, in a lighter tone,-- ‘Why do you seclude yourself so much in this dark cabin? No wonder you look pale and drooping,--like a broken flower. You should come more on deck. I have looked for you again and again there in vain. I thought you were determined not to speak to me during the whole voyage.’ ‘I am afraid--’ commenced Iris nervously. ‘Afraid of what?’