I thought he was wandering, and made no answer. After that he frequently
roused from his stupor and seemed inclined to talk.

One stormy night, when all hands were upon deck, he seemed like himself,
only very sad, and began of his own accord to talk of what was always in
my mind. He spoke low, being weak.

"Joseph," said he, "there is one question I want to ask you."

"Hush!" said I,--"you mustn't talk, you must be quiet." For I dreaded
his coming to the point.

"I can't be quiet," said he, "and I must talk. You've something against
me. What is it?"

I made no answer.

"But I know," he continued. "I have known all along. You've heard
something about my old life. You think Mary is too good for me. And she
is. But she is willing to take me just as I am. I'm not what I was. She
has changed me. She will keep me from harm."

"Jamie," said I, "I don't know what you mean. I've heard nothing. I'm
willing you should have Mary,--want you to."

He looked perplexed.

"Then what is it?" he asked.