sha, Mr. Bertram! what nonsense! I can't conceive that any woman
can ever be worth looking at on board a ship--much less such a one as
I! I know you're dying to get home."

"I might be if I had a home."

"Is your home with that uncle of yours?" She had heard so much of his
family; but he had as yet spoken to her no word about Caroline. "I
wonder what he would say if he could see you now leaning here and
talking to me."

"If he has any knowledge of human nature, he would say that I was a
very happy fellow."

"And are you?" As she asked him, she looked up into his face with
such an arch smile that he could not find it in his heart to condemn
her.

"What will you think of my gallantry if I say no?"

"I hate gallantry; it is all bosh. I wish I were a man, and that I
could call you Bertram, and that you would call me Cox."

"I would sooner call you Annie."

"Would you? But that wouldn't be right, would it?" And her hand,
which was still within his arm, was pressed upon it with ever so
light a pressure.

"I don't know why it should be wrong to call people by their
Christian names. Should you be angry if I called you Annie?"

"That might depend-- Tell me this, Mr. Bertram: How many other ladies
do you call by their Christian names?"

"A dozen or two."

"I'll be bound you do."

"And may I add you to the number?"

"No, Mr. Bertram; certainly not."

"May I not? So intimate as we have become, I thought--"

"I will not be one of a dozen or two." And as she answered him, she
dropped her tone of raillery, and spoke in a low, soft, sweet voice.
It sounded so sweet on Bertram's ear.

"But if there be not one--not one other; not one other now--what
then, Annie?"

"Not one other now?--Did you say now? Then there has been one."

"Yes; there has been one."

"And she--what of her?"

"It is a tale I cannot tell."

"Not to me? I should not like you the less for telling me. Do tell
me." And she pressed her hand again upon his arm. "I have known there
was something that made you unhappy."

"Have you?"

"Oh, yes. I have long known that. And I have so wished to be a
comfort to you--if I could. I, too, have had great suffering."

"I am sure you have."

"Ah! yes. I did not suffer less because he had been unkind to me."
And she put her handkerchief to her eyes, and then brought her hand
again upon his arm. "But tell me of her--your one. She is not your
one now--is she, Mr. Bertram?"

"No, Annie; not now."

"I