'It was cruelly cold, Archie,' said Marie. 'Weeks would pass without my going on deck. Oh, how I loathed the sight of those cliffs of ice! And then the ceaseless boiling of the surf.' 'I caulked the cabin into a middling warm living room,' said Selby, 'yet the cold would creep through. Water that had been boiled and left to stand on the table within the sphere of the heat of the stove, as I could have sworn, would take a mask of ice. I cleared the cabin to give Miss Otway walking room. The exercise helped her. It gave her a little spirit as well as warmth. I didn't care to see her sit drooping hour after hour beside that little stove.' 'At such times you sang?' said I. 'Well, coming below after taking a look round, and seeing her like that, I'd tune up my pipes, certainly,' he answered. 'It was unpleasant to have to keep on answering her question with a "No, there's nothing in sight."' Thus ran our talk, and again and again whilst we conversed, I'd see Marie stealing looks around her of delight and amazement, and often when our gaze met, an expression of solemn joy would light up her face. For months she had lived in the cabin of a motionless ship; now the life of the ocean was in the fabric, whose deck her foot rested on. She was as one who had been called from the grave to renew life, and love, and health. It was a miracle, and I saw the marvelling of her spirit in her eyes whenever she looked at me. 'I'll go and take a look round,' said Selby. 'I hope Captain Cliffe will make me useful.' He rose, respectfully bowed to us, and went on deck. I drew Marie to the stove and sat beside her. From time to time as we talked, we heard the sharp warning cries of the look-out men on deck re-echoed by Cliffe and the mate aft, accompanied sometimes by a hurried tread of feet when the braces were handled. But we were together, too happy, too much engrossed, to heed what passed above. Through the hum of our talk--our continuous talk--for how much had we to tell each other?--ran the shrill sound of salt water seething; the boy came below to take some dinner on deck to Captain Cliffe. He then cleared the table, and Marie and I were alone again. The sunshine blazed red upon the skylight, faded slowly, the glass grew grey, then blackened, and a star flashed in a cabin window as a reel of the brier brought the bright spark with a leap into the orifice. 'I remember,' Marie said, 'when I found Mrs. Burke lying dead on the deck of the hull, that I fell upon my knees in the agony of my distress and terror, and cried out that I was alone, asking what I should do--what I should do? And now I am with you,' she cried, throwing her arms round my neck and sobbing slightly. 'But what a time has lain between!' * * * * * At this point Mr. Moore ends his narrative; he doubtless considered that the interest of _his_ strand of the story ceased at the rescue of his sweetheart.