William started. "There you're wrong, ma'am, pardon me for sayin' it."

"No? You were so gentle: so gentle although so big"--she smiled
faintly. "Would you mind stepping to the cupboard there and pouring me
out a wineglassful of sherry? It's in the decanter just inside."

William poured out a glassful and set it on the table in front of her.
She put it to her lips, and having scarcely moistened them, set it down
again.

"A glass for yourself," she said. "Come now--do! I see you are shocked
at the number of bottles I keep here. But they were my husband's.
He died, you know, a week after we came into harbour."

William's face worked to express mute sympathy.

"It's a fearful responsibility," she went on, "being left alone like
this with a vessel to look after, and all his property waiting over
there, on the other side of the water; and I daresay the lawyers, there,
waiting, too, to take advantage of me. I think it's having all this
on my mind that makes my head so giddy at times. . ."

William stood opposite to her, and thought. It is not known at what
moment the brilliant idea struck him, that as a husband he might be a
tower of strength to the fragile young creature on the sofa.
His comrades after waiting some time for him began their chant again--

"There goes one.
One there is gone . . ."