serted his freedom, turned over to sleep, and
slept never a wink all night. What disturbed him most was the fear of
meeting Lucy Woodrow again. Perhaps she would avoid him now. There was no
comfort in the thought. He knew that what had happened must alter their
relations towards each other, but could neither admit that Lucy was
necessary to him nor summon up a comfortable indifference.

V

DONE caught a fleeting glimpse of Lucy Woodrow next day, Tuesday. She was
certainly avoiding him. The conviction made him bitter. How well
Schopenhauer knew these women! Lucy's squeamishness was further proof of
a narrow and commonplace mind. Had he suffered so much all his life at
the hands of people of this class, and learned to measure them so well
and hate them so sincerely, only to be won over by the prettiness of a
simple girl? He brooded over the matter for some hours, when it was
driven from his mind by an important happening. Early on the following
morning the first mate reported that land had been sighted. The news
stirred the ship as an intruding foot stirs an anthill. The people
swarmed upon the decks, and strained their eyes in the direction pointed
by Captain Evan's glass, which was in eager demand amongst the cabin
passengers all the forenoon.

One sailor, a canny Scot, produced a battered old telescope, and did a
very profitable business with the excited emigrants, whom he charged
'saxpence' for their first peep at the land where fortune and glory
waited them. The telescope was quite unequal to the occasion, but its
owner had carefully drawn a mark on the lens to represent the desired
object, and there were no complaints, although the Australian coast-line
sometimes sloped at acute angles, and often appeared to be quite
perpendicular.

Jim awoke to new sensations, and all his hopes and ambitions surged back
upon him with redoubled force. A childish rapture possessed him; he had
an impulse to run and jump, to act foolishly, and to yell like a boy at
play. It required some self-restraint to keep from throwing wide his arms
to the warm sun, that seemed to instil delight into his very veins.

Meanwhile Lucy Woodrow had experienced another shock, and had been
afforded some idea of the cheerful readiness with which a censorious
world misconstrues our amiable intentions, and imputes selfish motives to
the most disinterested missioner. She found herself quite unable to work
up a proper feeling of indignation against Done.