“Poor John,” said his wife, holding on to his arm.  “How you must have suffered!”

“I did,” said Mr. Boxer.  “Mother got a cold?” he inquired, eying that lady.

“No, I ain’t,” said Mrs. Gimpson, answering for herself.  “Why didn’t you write when you got to Sydney?”

“Didn’t know where to write to,” replied Mr. Boxer, staring.  “I didn’t know where Mary had gone to.”

“You might ha’ wrote here,” said Mrs. Gimpson.

“Didn’t think of it at the time,” said Mr. Boxer.  “One thing is, I was very busy at Sydney, looking for a ship.  However, I’m ’ere now.”

“I always felt you’d turn up some day,” said Mrs. Gimpson.  “I felt certain of it in my own mind.  Mary made sure you was dead, but I said ‘no, I knew better.’”

There was something in Mrs. Gimpson’s manner of saying this that impressed her listeners unfavourably.  The impression was deepened when, after a short, dry laugh a propos of nothing, she sniffed again—­three times.

“Well, you turned out to be right,” said Mr. Boxer, shortly.

“I gin’rally am,” was the reply; “there’s very few people can take me in.”

She sniffed again.

“Were the natives kind to you?” inquired Mrs. Boxer, hastily, as she turned to her husband.

“Very kind,” said the latter.  “Ah! you ought to have seen that island.  Beautiful yellow sands and palm-trees; cocoa-nuts to be ’ad for the picking, and nothing to do all day but lay about in the sun and swim in the sea.”

“Any public-’ouses there?” inquired Mrs. Gimpson.

“Cert’nly not,” said her son-in-law.  “This was an island—­one o’ the little islands in the South Pacific Ocean.”

“What did you say the name o’ the schooner was?” inquired Mrs. Gimpson.

“Pearl,” replied Mr. Boxer, with the air of a resentful witness under cross-examination.

“And what was the name o’ the captin?” said Mrs. Gimpson.

“Thomas—­Henery—­Walter—­Smith,” said Mr. Boxer, with somewhat unpleasant emphasis.

“An’ the mate’s name?”

“John Brown,” was the reply.

“Common names,” commented Mrs. Gimpson, “very common.  But I knew you’d come back all right—­I never ’ad no alarm.  ’He’s safe and happy, my dear,’ I says.  ‘He’ll come back all in his own good time.’”

“What d’you mean by that?” demanded the sensitive Mr. Boxer.  “I come back as soon as I could.”

“You know you were anxious, mother,” interposed her daughter.  “Why, you insisted upon our going to see old Mr. Silver about it.”

“Ah! but I wasn’t uneasy or anxious afterwards,” said Mrs. Gimpson, compressing her lips.

“Who’s old Mr. Silver, and what should he know about it?” inquired Mr. Boxer.

“He’s a fortune-teller,” replied his wife.  “Reads the stars,” said his mother-in-law.

Mr. Boxer laughed—­a good ringing laugh.  “What did he tell you?” he inquired.  “Nothing,” said his wife, hastily.  “Ah!” said Mr. Boxer, waggishly, “that was wise of ’im.  Most of us could tell fortunes that way.”