ost liberally to the fund raised for the
children of the quartermaster and munificently to that for the crew
which had, under Hungerford, performed the rescue work. The only effect
of this was to deepen the belief that she was very wealthy, and could
spend her money without affectation; for it was noticeable that she,
of all on board, showed the least outward excitement at the time of the
disaster. It occurred to me that once or twice I had seen her eyes
fixed on Hungerford inquisitively, and not free from antipathy. It was
something behind her usual equanimity. Her intuitive observation had led
her to trace his hand in recent events. Yet I know she admired him too
for his brave conduct. The day following the tragedy we were seated
at dinner. The captain and most of the officers had risen, but Mrs.
Falchion, having come in late, was still eating, and I remained seated
also. Hungerford approached me, apologising for the interruption. He
remarked that he was going on the bridge, and wished to say something
to me before he went. It was an official matter, to which Mrs. Falchion
apparently did not listen. When he was about to turn away, he bowed
to her rather distantly; but she looked up at him and said, with an
equivocal smile:

"Mr. Hungerford, we often respect brave men whom we do not like."

Then he, understanding her, but refusing to recognise the compliment,
not altogether churlishly replied: "And I might say the same of women,
Mrs. Falchion; but there are many women we dislike who are not brave."

"I think I could recognise a brave man without seeing his bravery," she
urged.

"But I am a blundering sailor," he rejoined, "who only believes his
eyes."

"You are young yet," she replied.

"I shall be older to-morrow," was his retort.

"Well, perhaps you will see better to-morrow," she rejoined, with
indolent irony.

"If I do, I'll acknowledge it," he added. Then Hungerford smiled at me
inscrutably. We two held a strange secret.

CHAPTER VIII. A BRIDGE OF PERIL

No more delightful experience may be had than to wake up in the harbour
of Aden some fine morning--it is always fine there--and get the first
impression of that mighty fortress, with its thousand iron eyes, in
strong repose by the Arabian Sea. Overhead was the cloudless sun, and
everywhere the tremulous glare of a sandy shore and the creamy wash of
the sea, like fusing opals. A tiny Mohammedan mosque stood gracefully
where the ocean almost washe