And in this chair she soon found herself, whilst her father fussed round and wrapped her up. The weather was certainly boisterous, the waves broke over occasionally with a long and vicious swish; but the air was strong and invigorating, and the pallid girl leant back and drank it eagerly. “There are a whole lot of people on board you know, Maddie,” said Mr. West, sinking into a seat beside her. “Are there? I am sorry to hear it,” she answered querulously. “Oh, I say; come, come! and all so anxious to see you again.” “See me again!” with a weary little laugh, “they won’t _know_ me when they do see me.” “There is Lady Stiff-Staff going out to Bombay with her daughters, and Captain Vansittart, and Miss De Ville, who was at school with you.” “Oh, I can’t _bear_ her!” was the petulant reply. He was about to add, “and Mr. Wynne,” but she could not bear him either, nor dare he mention that it was Mr. Wynne who had urged him to get Miss West on deck, at all costs, if she was not sea-sick; Mr. Wynne who had helped to find a stray corner, and brought up cushions and rugs (Mr. Wynne who had secretly tipped the stewardess a sovereign). He was a nice, warm-hearted fellow. He was glad he was on board (Wynne was a whist player), he liked him. A pity Maddie had such a prejudice against him. Mr. West talked on, asked for poor Mrs. Leach. “Josephine, I hear, is dead,” he remarked, “or _says_ she’s dead. It’s a mercy you are a good sailor. This bit of a breeze is nothing. Wait till you see how it blows off the Lewin! And I dare say, once we are round Finisterre, it will be a mill-pond. Now I’m dying to smoke, and as I know you can’t stand it, I’ll go for a bit. Shall I ask Lady De la Crême to come and sit here in my place, and amuse you--eh?” “Oh no--no. I don’t want any one, I’m going down soon.” She remained for some time in a half-dreamy state, watching the sea, the flying wrack of clouds, the somewhat faint and timid young moon, which occasionally peeped forth. Her eyes had become accustomed to the dim light, when she was rather surprised, and annoyed, to see a tall man approach and coolly seat himself in her father’s chair--which was drawn up alongside, and almost touching hers. Presently he spoke. “Madeline,” he whispered, leaning towards her. “Laurence! Not Laurence?” she exclaimed faintly. “Yes--I hope you are better?” “No.” A long pause, and then, in a dead dull tone, she added, “I hope I am going to die.” “What is the matter with you?” “They call it by some long Latin name; but you and I know what it is.” “Your father is still in the dark?” “Yes, it is scarcely worth while to tell him _now_; no need to worry him for nothing. When I am dead you will forgive me, Laurence, and--and think less hardly of me?” “You are not dead, or going to die, and I prefer to forgive you when you are alive.” “And will you--but no, you won’t--you cannot--why should you? I don’t expect it,” she said in hurried gasps. “What can I do now to atone?”