"Can't you see I haven't smoked this, fool? Here, give me a light!" Tom Porter's mahogany face did not change as he produced a piece of tinder and held it for his testy master to ignite his cigar. "Thank ye, Tom," said Sir Gordon, changing his tone. "Here, don't go away. What did that woman say?" "Thisbe, Sir Gordon?" "Yes; you know whom I mean. About Miss Hallam?" "Wished we might all be wrecked and drowned before it came off." "Before what came off?" "A wedding with Lieutenant Eaton, Sir Gordon." "Why?" "Principally because she says he's so handsome, Sir Gordon. She hates handsome men." "Humph! That's why she's so fond of you, Tom Porter." "Which she ain't, Sir Gordon," said Tom Porter dolefully. "You had been talking about weddings then?" "Well, just a little, Sir Gordon," said Tom Porter, not a muscle of whose countenance moved. "I just said how nice it was to see two young folks so fond of each other." "As whom?" "As the Lufftenant and Miss Jooly, Sir Gordon; and that it would be just as nice for two middle-aged folks who had kept it all in store." "And is she going to marry you, then, when we get to port?" "No: Sir Gordon; it's all over. She ain't the marrying sort." "Humph! Marry a black woman, then, to spite her, and then ask her to come and see your wife." "No, Sir Gordon, beggin' your pardon, sir; I've been in the wrong, when I ought to have took you for an example. It's all over, and I'm settled down thorough. I have seen but one woman as I thought I'd like to splice." "And that was Mrs Hallam's old maid?" "Yes, Sir Gordon." "Why? She isn't handsome." "Not outside, Sir Gordon; and I don't rightly know why I took to her, unless it was that she seemed so right down like--such a stick-to-you-through-fair-weather-and-foul sort of woman. But it's all over now, Sir Gordon. Things won't turn out as one likes, and it's of no use to try." "You're right, Tom Porter; you're a better philosopher than your master. There: that will do. When shall we see land?" "Morrow morning, Sir Gordon. Daybreak; not afore. Any orders 'bout the shore?" "Orders? What are we to do when we get there? Tom Porter, if you could tell me what we are to do, I'd give you a hundred pounds. There, give me a light, my cheroot's out again!" VOLUME THREE, CHAPTER SIXTEEN. A SORE PLACE. "Are you glad the voyage is nearly over?" said a soft little voice that made Bayle start. "Glad?" he said, as he turned to gaze in Julia's plaintive-looking face. "No; I am sorry." "Why?" "Why? Because you have seemed so happy." He paused a few moments, as if afraid that his voice would tremble. "Because your mother has seemed so happy." And, he added to himself: "Because I tremble for all that is to come." "Are you angry with me, Mr Bayle?" said Julia, after a pause. "Angry with you, my child?" he said, with his eyes brightening, though there was a piteous look in his face. "Oh, no; how could I be?"