s side. As she
alighted on deck a swift glance passed between her and the red-faced
man. Quite casually she laid two fingers on her chin. Uriah T.
Potter did the same; but Mr. Moggridge was giving some instructions
to his minions at the moment, and did not notice it.

"Anything to declare?" he asked.

"Mainly corn aboard, an' tinned fruits for Port o' London.
Reas'nable deal o' tea an' 'baccy, though, for you to seal--shipped
for same place. By the way, chest o' tea for party living
hereabouts--Goodwyn-Sandys, friend of owner--guess that's the reason
for putting in at this one-hoss place," wound up Uriah T. Potter,
with a depreciatory glance at the beauties of Troy.

"This is Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys," said the Collector.

"Proud to make your 'cquaintance, marm." The Captain held out his
hand to the lady, who shook it affably.

"Let's see the cargo," said Mr. Moggridge.

The Captain led the way and they descended; Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys full
of pretty wonder at the arrangements of the ship, and slipping her
fingers timidly into the Collector's hand on the dark companion
stairs. He seized and raised them to his lips.

"Oh, you poets!" expostulated she.

"Where the tyrant's only fee," murmured Mr. Moggridge.

"Is the kissing of a hand."

"What, more verses? You shall repeat them to me."

I am afraid that in the obscurity below, Mr. Moggridge inspected the
weighing of ship's stores and sealing of excisable goods in a very
perfunctory manner. There were so many dim corners and passages
where Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys needed guidance; and, after all, the
minions were sufficient for the work. They rummaged here and there
among casks and chests, weighing, counting, and sealing, whilst the
red-faced Uriah stood over them and occasionally looked from the
Collector to the lady with a slow grin of growing intelligence.

They were seated together on a cask, and Mr. Moggridge had possessed
himself, for the twentieth time, of his companion's hand.

"You think the verses obscure?" he was whispering. "Ah! Geraldine,
if I could only speak out from the heart! As it is, 'Euphelia serves
to grace my measure!'"

"Who's she?" asked Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys, whose slight acquaintance
with other poets was, perhaps, the reason why she rated her
companion's verse so highly.

"'The merchant, to conceal his treasure,
Conveys it in a borrowed name,'"

Mr. Moggridge began to quote.--"Why, Geraldine, what is the matt