g I went to Boyd Madras's cabin. He welcomed me
gratefully, and said that he was much better; as he seemed; but he
carried a hectic flush, such as comes to a consumptive person. I said
little to him beyond what was necessary for the discussion of his case.
I cautioned him about any unusual exertion, and was about to leave, when
an impulse came to me, and I returned and said: "You will not let me
help you in any other way?"

"Yes," he answered; "I shall be very glad of your help, but not just
yet. And, Doctor, believe me, I think medicines can do very little.
Though I am thankful to you for visiting me, you need not take the
trouble, unless I am worse, and then I will send a steward to you, or go
to you myself."

What lay behind this request, unless it was sensitiveness, I could not
tell; but I determined to take my own course, and to visit him when I
thought fit.

Still, I saw him but once or twice on the after-deck in the succeeding
days. He evidently wished to keep out of sight as much as possible. I am
ashamed to say there was a kind of satisfaction in this to me; for, when
a man's wife--and I believed she was Boyd Madras's wife--hangs on your
arm, and he himself is denied that privilege, and fares poorly beside
her sumptuousness, and lives as a stranger to her, you can scarcely
regard his presence with pleasure. And from the sheer force of
circumstances, as it seemed to me then, Mrs. Falchion's hand was often
on my arm; and her voice was always in my ear at meal-times and when
I visited Justine Caron to attend to her wound, or joined in the
chattering recreations of the music saloon. It was impossible not to
feel her influence; and if I did not yield entirely to it, I was more
possessed by it than I was aware. I was inquisitive to know beyond doubt
that she was the wife of this man. I think it was in my mind at the
time that, perhaps, by being with her much, I should be able to do him
a service. But there came a time when I was sufficiently undeceived. It
was all a game of misery in which some one stood to lose all round.
Who was it: she, or I, or the refugee of misfortune, Number 116
Intermediate? She seemed safe enough. He or I would suffer in the crash
of penalties.

It was a strange situation. I, the acquaintance of a day, was welcome
within the circle of this woman's favour--though it was an unemotional
favour on her side; he, the husband, as I believed, though only half the
length of the ship away, was as