Then he went into the little dining-room and sat somewhat heavily down, with his two hands resting on his knees. He looked puzzled. "Truth is, my dear," he said breathlessly, "I don't seem to take to this long-shore life. I--I rather think of going back to sea. There's plenty will give me a ship. And I want you to keep this cottage nice for me, dearie, against my coming home." He paused, looking round the room with a poor simulation of interest at the quaint ornaments and curiosities which he had brought home from different parts of the world. He looked at the ceiling and the carpet--anywhere, in fact, except at Eve. Then he pushed his fingers through his thick grey hair, making it stand on end in a ludicrous manner. "I've got all my bits of things collected here--just bits of things--oh, dear!--oh, dear--Eve, my child, I wonder why the Almighty's gone and done this?" Eve was already sitting on the arm of his chair, stroking back his hair with her tender fingers. "What is it, uncle?" she asked. "Tell me." "Merton's," he answered. "Merton's, and them so safe!" "Is it only money?" cried Eve. "Is that all?" "Yes," he answered rather wearily, "that's all. But it's money that's took me fifty-five years to make." "And had you it all in Merton's Bank?" "Yes, dearie, all." "But are you sure they have failed--that there is no mistake?" "Quite sure. I've read it myself pinned on the door, and the shutters up, like a thing you read of in the newspapers. No, it's right. There's not often a mistake about bad news." Eve bent over him very tenderly and kissed him. He was holding her hand between his, patting it gently with his rough, weather-beaten fingers. He was looking straight in front of him with that painful look of helplessness which had earned him the friendship of Lord Seahampton in Barcelona. "But," said the girl at length, "you cannot go to sea again." She knew that he would never get a ship, for his seamanship, like all other things that were his, was hopelessly superannuated. He was not fit to be trusted with a ship--no owner would dream of it, no crew would sail under him. "There's men," said the captain humbly, "who learnt their seamanship from me--who sailed under me--p'raps one of them would give me a berth as first mate or even second mate under him--for a shipmate they would do it." Captain Bontnor had fallen behind the times even in his sentiments. He did not know that in these days of short voyages, of Seamen's Unions, and Firemen's Friendlies and Stokers' Guilds, a shipmate is no longer a special friend--the tie is broken, as are many other ties, by the advance of education. Then the old man pulled himself together, and smiled bravely at his niece.