When I saw him stretched out there, every unkind feeling left me. My old love for him came back. All I could think of was what he said in our first talk,--"Then I wanted my mother." None of us could say whether he would live or die. We feared for his head, because he took no notice, but seemed inclined to sleep. I wanted to do everything for him myself. I had borne him ill-will, but now my strong feelings all set towards him. It was in the middle of the night that he first came to himself. 'Twas a blowy night, and most of the crew were on deck. A couple of men were sleeping in their berths. The cabin of a fishing-schooner is a dark, stifled place, with everything crowded into it. The berths were like a double row of shelves along the sides. In one of these, with his face not far from the beams overhead, was stretched my poor, ill-treated Jamie. I was so afraid he would die! I had no pride then. On this night I stood holding by the side of his berth, to steady myself. I turned away a moment to snuff the candle, and when I stepped back he looked up in my face and smiled. I couldn't help throwing my arms around his neck and kissing him. I never kissed a man before,--nor since. "Joseph has come back," said he, with a smile. I thought he was wandering, and made no answer. After that he frequently roused from his stupor and seemed inclined to talk. One stormy night, when all hands were upon deck, he seemed like himself, only very sad, and began of his own accord to talk of what was always in my mind. He spoke low, being weak. "Joseph," said he, "there is one question I want to ask you." "Hush!" said I,--"you mustn't talk, you must be quiet." For I dreaded his coming to the point. "I can't be quiet," said he, "and I must talk. You've something against me. What is it?" I made no answer. "But I know," he continued. "I have known all along. You've heard something about my old life. You think Mary is too good for me. And she is. But she is willing to take me just as I am. I'm not what I was. She has changed me. She will keep me from harm." "Jamie," said I, "I don't know what you mean. I've heard nothing. I'm willing you should have Mary,--want you to." He looked perplexed. "Then what is it?" he asked. I turned my head away, hardly knowing how to begin. At last I said,-- "I wasn't sure, Jamie, that you wanted Mary. You know there was some one else you were often with." He lay for some time without speaking. At last he said, slowly,--"I see,--I see,--I see,"--three times. Then, turning his eyes away from me, he kept on,--"What should you think, Joseph, if I were to tell you that I had seen Margaret before she came to your place?" "Seen Margaret?" I repeated.