on
the outward voyage. Percival was too busy attending to wounded sailors
to be interrupted. His services, I knew, were useless now, but I wanted
him to refute or corroborate a conviction which my own medical knowledge
had forced upon me. The thought was so repellent, I clung to any hope
which might lead to its dispersion. I waited alone with my dead.

Percival came after an hour, which seemed to me an eternity. He
stammered out some incoherent words of sympathy as soon as he looked in
my face. But this was not the purpose for which I had detached him from
his pressing duties elsewhere. I made a gesture towards the dead girl.
He attended to it immediately. I watched closely and took care that the
light should be on his face, so that I might read his eyes rather than
listen to his words.

"She has fainted!" he exclaimed, as he approached the rigid figure. I
said nothing until he turned and faced me. Then I read his eyes. He said
slowly: "You are aware, Marcel, that--that she is dead?"

"I am."

"That she has been dead--several hours?"

"I am."

"But let me think. It was only an hour--"

"No; do not think," I interrupted. "There are things in this voyage
which will not bear to be thought of. I thank you for coming so soon.
You will forgive me for troubling you when you have so much to do
elsewhere. And now leave us alone. I mean, leave me alone."

He pressed my hand, and went away without a word. I am that man's
friend.

They buried her at sea.

I was happily unconscious at the time, and so was spared that scene.
Edith Metford, weak and suffering as she was, went through it all. She
has told me nothing about it, save that it was done. More than that I
could not bear. And I have borne much.

The voyage home was a dreary episode. There is little more to tell, and
it must be told quickly. Percival was kind, but it distressed me to find
that he now plainly regarded me as weak-minded from the stress of my
trouble. Once, in the extremity of my misery, I began a relation of my
adventures to him, for I wanted his help. The look upon his face was
enough for me. I did not make the same mistake again.

To Anderson I made amends for my extravagant display of temper. He
received me more kindly than I expected. I no longer thought of the
money that had passed between us. And, to do him tardy justice, I do not
think he thought of it either. At least he did not offer any of it back.
His scruples, I presume, were conscien