l. When I didn't know my lesson
one day I put on a stammer, and my bub--bub--bubbing, as the farmer
calls it, made the master so uncomfortable that, ever afterwards, at
the first sign of it he passed me over. That's why I'm such a fool
to-day."

"You're incorrigible. Come, it's time to dress for dinner."

The time between dinner and eleven passed all too slowly. Mrs. Smith
and Barracombe played cribbage; Kate was restless, opening a book,
laying it down, touching the piano, going to the window and peering
out into the dark.

"Why are you so restless to-night, Kate?" asked her mother. "One would
think that Charley had been away for months instead of a week."

"Ah, but you see, Mother, he hasn't--"

"Hasn't what--Fifteen two, fifteen four--Well, Kate?"

"Has never been quite so late home on his last night of leave, has he,
Mother?"

"That is true--one for his nob. I really think they ought to make him
a captain, for he seems to be an exceedingly useful officer. He went
away last Thursday, as I understood, on some business connected with a
wreck. I do hope none of the poor men were drowned. I often think of
my husband, Mr. Barracombe, on the other side of the world, going
about among those dreadful coral reefs, and I wish he would retire and
live safely at home. I could never understand what he finds
interesting in bits of stone and things of that sort, but of course he
is a very distinguished man."

So the good lady prattled on, placidly unconscious of her nearness to
the border-line between comedy and tragedy.

The clock struck eleven.

"Thank you, Mr. Barracombe; I have enjoyed the game," said Mrs. Smith.
"Charley will soon be here."

"Let us go to the door," said Kate. "Perhaps we shall hear him."

"Mr. Barracombe will go with you, Kate; I am a little afraid of the
night air. Wrap yourself up."

The two went to the conservatory door, overlooking the park. The sky
was clear, the air was still; not a sound was to be heard. Every now
and then a broad flash of light fleetingly illuminated the sky; it was
no doubt the searchlight at Spithead.

"I wish he would come," said Kate. "It would be terrible if anything
went wrong at the very last. How far is it across the Atlantic?"

"It's three thousand five hundred miles to Liverpool from New York,
and rather more from Toronto; a ticklish journey, with no chance of
landing till he gets to Ireland."

"It makes me shudder to think of him crossing the sea in tha