iend, each holding a hand, waited for him
to speak, there came the sound of a heavy sob. Convict 267 was kneeling
and praying for the departing soul.

Slowly the minutes passed, the silence broken but by the creaking and
straining of the ship as she rose and fell to the sea, and now and again
the strange, mournful cry of some night-fishing penguin.

"Marion," Clinton said at last, "I would like to speak to Adair before I
die. He has been good to you and to me."

Walking softly in his stockinged feet, Adair advanced close to the bed.

"Give me your hand, Adair. God bless you," he whispered.

"And God bless you, sir, and all here," answered the young Irishman in a
husky, broken voice.

"Hush," said the surgeon warningly, and his eyes sought those of the
watching wife, with a meaning in them that needed no words. Quickly she
passed her arm around Clinton, and let his head lie upon her shoulder.
He sighed heavily and then lay still.

The surgeon touched the kneeling figure of Convict Adair on the arm, and
together they walked softly out of the cabin.

"Come again in an hour, Adair," said Dr. Williams; "you can help me
best. We must bury him by daylight. Meanwhile you can get a little
sleep."

No. 267 clasped his hands tightly together as he looked at the doctor,
and his lips worked and twitched convulsively. Then a wild beseeching
look overspread his face. "For God's sake don't ask me!" he burst out.
"I implore you as man to man to have pity on me. I _cannot_ be here at
daylight!"

"As you please," answered Williams, with a surprised expression; and
then as he went on deck he said to himself, "Some cursed, degrading
Irish superstition, I suppose, about a death at sea."

*****

Slowly the hours crept on. No noise disturbed the watcher by her dead
save the low voices of the watch on deck and the unknown sounds that
one hears at night alone. Prisoner Adair was sitting in the main cabin
within near call of Mrs. Clinton, and, with head upon his knees, seemed
to slumber. Suddenly the loud clamour of five bells as the hour was
struck made him start to his feet and look quickly about him with
nervous apprehension. From the dead officer's state-room a narrow line
of light from beneath the door sent an oblique ray aslant the cabin
floor and crossed the convict's stockinged feet.

For a moment he hesitated; then tapped softly at the door. It opened,
and the pale face of Marion Clinton met his as he stood before her cap