ldn't have
known, if they had dropped him into the sea.

When I saw him stretched out there, every unkind feeling left me. My old
love for him came back. All I could think of was what he said in our
first talk,--"Then I wanted my mother." None of us could say whether he
would live or die. We feared for his head, because he took no notice,
but seemed inclined to sleep. I wanted to do everything for him myself.
I had borne him ill-will, but now my strong feelings all set towards
him.

It was in the middle of the night that he first came to himself. 'Twas a
blowy night, and most of the crew were on deck. A couple of men were
sleeping in their berths.

The cabin of a fishing-schooner is a dark, stifled place, with
everything crowded into it. The berths were like a double row of shelves
along the sides. In one of these, with his face not far from the beams
overhead, was stretched my poor, ill-treated Jamie. I was so afraid he
would die! I had no pride then.

On this night I stood holding by the side of his berth, to steady
myself. I turned away a moment to snuff the candle, and when I stepped
back he looked up in my face and smiled. I couldn't help throwing my
arms around his neck and kissing him. I never kissed a man before,--nor
since.

"Joseph has come back," said he, with a smile.

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.

I turned my head away, hardly knowing how to begin. At last I said,--

"I wasn't sure, Jamie, that you wanted Mary. You know there was som