“Presently Lida came up and touched me, saying in her little awestruck whisper (which has never been conquered), ‘Brother, I am sure I saw one of mother’s cigarettes.’ I said ‘Bosh!’ thinking it an utter delusion; but she was so decided and so frightened, that I told her to go into the saloon, and went forward. A woman was going about the deck, offering the passengers a basket of candies, lights, cigarettes, and cigars. Saving for Lida’s words, I never should have recognized her; she was thin to the last degree, haggard, yellow, excessively shabby and forlorn-looking, and with a hollow cough; but as her eyes met mine (those eyes that you say are our water-mark) both of us made a sort of leap as if to go overboard, and I went up to her at once, and would have spoken, but she cried out, ‘What have you done with Lida?’ I answered that she was safe, and demanded in my turn where were O’Leary and Jellicoe. ‘Drowned, drowned,’ she said, ‘in the wreck of the Sirius. They’ll never trouble you more. But Lida!’ I thought that it was safe to take her into the saloon to see Lida, when they fell into each other’s arms, and afforded the spectators a romantic spectacle. Don’t think I am making a joke of it, for it was tragic enough in the result of the agitation. Blood was choking the poor woman. We could only lay her down on the couch, and happily there were lemons on board. There was a good-natured Irishman who gave me all the help he could, even to the carrying her to his house, where his wife was equally kind. He fetched the priest, a French Canadian, and the doctor, and Lida has been watching over her most tenderly; poor things--they seem really to have cared for one another, and Lida will be the happier for having done these last duties.