As the ship drew nearer the Antarctic regions, the weather became colder. The ‘boatswains’ and ‘boobies’ were left astern, and black-speckled Cape pigeons and snowy albatrosses were to be seen in their stead. The lively skipjacks, bright-coloured bonitas, and swift dolphins had all disappeared, but monster whales, that swam majestically after the vessel, denoting their presence by squirting up volumes of water through their blowholes, and boisterous porpoises, that gambolled under the boom, and indulged in clumsy antics, supplied the deficiency. The sky wore a leaden appearance. The air was exhilarating, and the wind sharp and keen. No one complained now of the oppressive heat. The ladies packed away their fans again, and came on deck in their furs. The sailors no longer ran about in white ducks and with bare feet, but put on strong Cunarders, pilot trousers, and sea-boots. And all hands hailed the change with gladness. The heat at times had made the passengers both languid and discontented. It was difficult to rest either by day or night in the hot and stuffy saloon or the close cabins. But now they felt compelled to be on the move. The stove was surrounded all day by a flock of petticoats, and at night the dead lights were firmly screwed up to prevent the chilly air from penetrating the sleeping berths. On one of these raw evenings few ventured to show their faces on deck. Some of the ladies were sitting with the card-players in the smoking-room, a small party was assembled in Vernon’s berth speculating on _rouge-et-noir_, and two women, seated in the second cabin, were engaged in earnest conversation. They were Maggie Greet and Iris Harland. The servant was seated at her mistress’s feet, with her hands firmly clasped on Iris’s knees as she looked up into her beautiful face and told her story. It had taken Maggie a long time to summon up courage to confide the news of her engagement to Will Farrell to her friend and mistress. For some unaccountable reason, the girl had felt strangely shy about disclosing her good fortune, and she might not have confessed it even now, had not something occurred connected with it, which she felt it incumbent that Iris should know. But she told the tale with such a burning face, and so many interruptions, that her hearer could only imagine she was too happy to be coherent. ‘Oh, my dear,’ Iris exclaimed, when she had at last arrived at a knowledge of the facts, ‘I _am_ so glad! And you have been engaged to Mr Farrell for a whole fortnight, and never told me of it? What a naughty girl! Didn’t you know that I should be the very first to congratulate you on your good luck? For you _are_ very lucky, you know, Maggie. Fancy, finding a husband before you even touch land! And such a good one too! For I am _sure_ Mr Farrell will be good to you, my dear! He has a true face, and you will be a happy woman! I am very, _very_ glad.’ And Iris stooped down, and kissed Maggie’s forehead.