At first she was going to refuse; but she changed her mind, or her mind changed her: she was not much more of a living and acting creature yet than the Psyche herself. She said nothing, but rose, and permitted Malcolm to help her forward. It was the moon’s turn now to be level with the water, and as Florimel stood on the larboard side, leaning over and gazing down, she saw her shine through the little feather of spray the cutwater sent curling up before it, and turn it into pearls and semiopals. “She’s got a bone in her mouth, you see, my lady,” said old Travers. “Go aft till I call you, Travers,” said Malcolm. Rose was in Florimel’s cabin, and they were now quite alone. “My lady,” said Malcolm, “I can’t bear to have you angry with me.” “Then you ought not to deserve it,” returned Florimel. “My lady, if you knew all, you would not say I deserved it.” “Tell me all then, and let me judge.” “I cannot tell you all yet, but I will tell you something which may perhaps incline you to feel merciful. Did your ladyship ever think what could make me so much attached to your father?” “No indeed. I never saw anything peculiar in it. Even now-a-days there are servants to be found who love their masters. It seems to me natural enough. Besides he was very kind to you.” “It was natural indeed, my lady--more natural than you think. Kind to me he was, and that was natural too.” “Natural to him, no doubt, for he was kind to everybody.” “My grandfather told you something of my early history--did he not, my lady?” “Yes--at least I think I remember his doing so.” “Will you recall it, and see whether it suggests nothing?” But Florimel could remember nothing in particular, she said. She had in truth, for as much as she was interested at the time, forgotten almost everything of the story. “I really cannot think what you mean,” she added. “If you are going to be mysterious, I shall resume my place by the tiller. Travers is deaf, and Davy is dumb: I prefer either.” “My lady,” said Malcolm, “your father knew my mother, and persuaded her that he loved her.” Florimel drew herself up, and would have looked him to ashes if wrath could burn. Malcolm saw he must come to the point at once or the parley would cease. “My lady,” he said, “your father was my father too. I am a son of the Marquis of Lossie, and your brother--your ladyship’s half-brother, that is.” She looked a little stunned. The gleam died out of her eyes, and the glow out of her cheek. She turned and leaned over the bulwark. He said no more, but stood watching her. She raised herself suddenly, looked at him, and said, “Do I understand you?” “I am your brother,” Malcolm repeated. She made a step forward, and held out her hand. He took the little thing in his great grasp tenderly. Her lip trembled. She gazed at him for an instant, full in the face, with a womanly, believing expression. “My poor Malcolm!” she said, “I am sorry for you.”