t on that very occasion he desired him suddenly after a period of
silent pacing, to have all the staysails sheets eased off, and he was
going on with some other remarks on the subject of these staysails when
Mrs. Anthony followed by her father emerged from the companion. She
established herself in her chair to leeward of the skylight as usual.
Thereupon the captain cut short whatever he was going to say, and in a
little while went down below.

I asked Mr. Powell whether the captain and his wife never conversed on
deck. He said no--or at any rate they never exchanged more than a couple
of words. There was some constraint between them. For instance, on that
very occasion, when Mrs. Anthony came out they did look at each other;
the captain's eyes indeed followed her till she sat down; but he did not
speak to her; he did not approach her; and afterwards left the deck
without turning his head her way after this first silent exchange of
glances.

I asked Mr. Powell what did he do then, the captain being out of the way.
"I went over and talked to Mrs. Anthony. I was thinking that it must be
very dull for her. She seemed to be such a stranger to the ship."

"The father was there of course?"

"Always," said Powell. "He was always there sitting on the skylight, as
if he were keeping watch over her. And I think," he added, "that he was
worrying her. Not that she showed it in any way. Mrs. Anthony was
always very quiet and always ready to look one straight in the face."

"You talked together a lot?" I pursued my inquiries. "She mostly let me
talk to her," confessed Mr. Powell. "I don't know that she was very much
interested--but still she let me. She never cut me short."

All the sympathies of Mr. Powell were for Flora Anthony nee de Barral.
She was the only human being younger than himself on board that ship
since the _Ferndale_ carried no boys and was manned by a full crew of
able seamen. Yes! their youth had created a sort of bond between them.
Mr. Powell's open countenance must have appeared to her distinctly
pleasing amongst the mature, rough, crabbed or even inimical faces she
saw around her. With the warm generosity of his age young Powell was on
her side, as it were, even before he knew that there were sides to be
taken on board that ship, and what this taking sides was about. There
was a girl. A nice girl. He asked himself no questions. Flora de
Barral was not so much younger in years than himself;