"Aunt Lydia said you weren't cut up at all when she saw you. You deceived her very well. 'A worthless woman,' you called me; I 'wasn't any loss'! It was quite true; but I knew you couldn't feel like that--not so soon. 'Worthless'! I've heard it every day since she told me.... I meant to do my duty when I married you, George; if I could have foreseen----" She broke off, coughing. "If I could have foreseen what the end would be, I'd have killed myself rather than become your wife. I was always grateful to you; you were always good to me--and I only brought you shame." "Not 'only,'" he said; "you gave me happiness first, Mamie--the greatest happiness I've known. I loved you, and you came to me. You never understood how much I did love you--I think that was the trouble." "'There's a word that says it all: I worship you'! do you remember saying that? You said it in the train when you first proposed to me. I refused you then--why did I ever give way!... How different everything would be now! You 'worshipped' me, and I----" Her voice trailed off, and once more only the pounding of the engine broke the stillness on the deck. The ocean swelled darkly under a starless sky, and he sat beside her staring into space. In the steerage someone played "Robin Adair" on a fiddle. A drizzle began to fall, to blow in upon them. Heriot became conscious of it with a start. "You must go below," he said; "it's raining." She rose obediently, shivering a little, and drawing the white scarf more closely about her neck. "Good-night," she said, standing there with wide eyes. He put out his hand, and her clasp ran through his blood again. "Good-night," he repeated gently. "Sleep well." Was it real? Was he awake? He looked after her as she turned away--looked long after she had disappeared. The fiddle in the steerage was still scraping "Robin Adair"; the black stretch of deck was desolate. A violent impulse seized him to overtake her, to snatch her back, to hold her in his arms for once, with words and caresses of consolation. "Dying"! He wondered if Davos, Algiers, the Cape, anything and everything procurable by money, could prolong her life. Then he remembered that she did not wish to live. But that was horrible! She should consult a specialist in town, and follow his advice; he would make her promise it. With the gradual defervescence of his mood, he wondered if she was properly provided for, and he resolved to question Mrs. Baines on the point. He would elicit the information the following day, and something could be arranged, if necessary--if not with Mamie's knowledge, then without it. The morning was bright, and Mamie was in her chair when he came up from the saloon after breakfast. As he approached, she watched him expectantly, and it was impossible to pass without a greeting. It was impossible, when the greeting had been exchanged, not to remain with her for a few minutes. "How are you feeling?" he asked; "any better?"