wed no vanity or egotism, nor
ever traded on the position he held in Viking and Sunburst. He seemed
to have no ambition further than to do good work; no desire to be known
beyond his own district; no fancy, indeed, for the communications of his
labours to mission papers and benevolent ladies in England--so much the
habit of his order. He was free from professional mannerisms.

One evening we were sitting in the accustomed spot--that is, the coping.
We had been silent for a long time. At last Roscoe rose, and walked up
and down the verandah nervously.

"Marmion," said he, "I am disturbed to-day, I cannot tell you how: a
sense of impending evil, an anxiety."

I looked up at him inquiringly, and, of purpose, a little sceptically.

He smiled something sadly and continued: "Oh, I know you think
it foolishness. But remember that all sailors are more or less
superstitious: it is bred in them; it is constitutional, and I am afraid
there's a good deal of the sailor in me yet."

Remembering Hungerford, I said: "I know that sailors are superstitious,
the most seasoned of them are that. But it means nothing. I may think
or feel that there is going to be a plague, but I should not enlarge the
insurance on my life because of it."

He put his hand on my shoulder and looked down at me earnestly. "But,
Marmion, these things, I assure you, are not matters of will, nor yet
morbidness. They occur at the most unexpected times. I have had such
sensations before, and they were followed by strange matters."

I nodded, but said nothing. I was still thinking of Hungerford. After a
slight pause he continued somewhat hesitatingly:

"I dreamed last night, three times, of events that occurred in my
past; events which I hoped would never disturb me in the life I am now
leading."

"A life of self-denial," ventured I. I waited a minute, and then added:
"Roscoe, I think it only fair to tell you--I don't know why I haven't
done so before--that when you were ill you were delirious, and talked of
things that may or may not have had to do with your past."

He started, and looked at me earnestly. "They were unpleasant things?"

"Trying things; though all was vague and disconnected," I replied.

"I am glad you tell me this," he remarked quietly. "And Mrs. Falchion
and Justine Caron--did they hear?" He looked off to the hills.

"To a certain extent, I am sure. Mrs. Falchion's name was generally
connected with--your fancies.... But really no one c