"Don't suppose I've been listening, Tom, because I heard your last words," said a voice behind them--that of Mr. Wither. "I haven't been watching you, but I have been watching for an opportunity of telling you that Stopper is keeping far too sharp a lookout on you to mean you any good by it. I beg your pardon, Miss Boxall," he resumed, taking off his hat. "I fear I have been rude; but, as I say, I was anxious to tell Mr. Worboise to be cautious. I don't see why a fellow should get into a scrape for want of a hint." The manner with which Wither spoke to her made poor Lucy feel that there was not merely something unfitting, but something even disreputable, in the way her relation to Thomas was kept up. She grew as pale as death, rose, and turned to the side of the vessel, and drew her veil nervously over her face. "It's no business of mine, of course, Tom. But what I tell you is true. Though if you take my advice," said Wither, and here he dropped his voice to a whisper, "this connection is quite as fit a one to cut as the last; and the sooner you do it the better, for it'll make a devil of a row with old Boxall. You ought to think of the girl, you know. Your own governor's your own lookout. There's none of it any business of mine, you know." He turned with a nod and went aft; for the steamer was just drawing in to the Hungerford pier, where he had to go ashore. For a few minutes not a word passed between Thomas and Lucy. A sudden cloud had fallen upon them. They must not go on this way, but what other way were they to take? They stood side by side, looking into the water, Thomas humiliated and Lucy disgraced. There was no comfort to be got out of that rushing blackness, and the mud banks grew wider and wider. Lucy was the first to speak, for she was far more capable than Tom. "We must go ashore at the next pier," she said. "Very well," said Tom, as if he had been stunned into sullenness. "If you want to get rid of me because of what that fellow said--" "Oh, Tom!" said Lucy, and burst out crying. "Well, what _do_ you want, Lucy?" "We _must_ part, Tom," sobbed Lucy. "Nonsense!" said Tom, nearly crying himself, for a great, painful lump had risen in his throat. "We can love each other all the same," said Lucy, still sobbing; "only you must not come to see me any more--that is--I do not mean--never any more at all--but till you have told them--all about it. I don't mean now, but some time, you know. When will you be of age, Tom?" "Oh, that makes no difference. As long's I'm dependent, it's all the same. I wish I was my own master. I should soon let them see I didn't care what they said." Silence again followed, during which Lucy tried in vain to stop her tears by wiping them away. A wretched feeling awoke in her that Thomas was not manly, could not resolve--or rather, could not help her when she would do the right thing. She would have borne anything rather than that. It put her heart in a vise.