As the light grew I became restless, and at last I left my berth and ventured to climb the cabin-steps.  The fresh air smote upon me almost painfully.  There was no rain falling, and the wind had been lulling since the dawn.  The sea itself was growing brighter, and glittered here and there in spots where the sunlight fell upon it.  All the sailors looked beaten and worn out with the night’s toil, and the few passengers who had braved the passage, and were now well enough to come on deck, were weary and sallow-looking.  There was still no land in sight, for the clouds hung low on the horizon, and overhead the sky was often overcast and gloomy.  It was so cold that, in spite of my warm mantle, I shivered from head to foot.

But I could not bear to go back to the close, ill-smelling cabin, which had been shut up all night.  I stayed on deck in the biting wind, leaning over the wet bulwarks and gazing across the desolate sea till my spirits sank like lead.  The reaction upon the violent strain on my nerves was coming, and I had no power to resist its influence.  I could feel the tears rolling down my cheeks and falling on my hands without caring to wipe them away; the more so as there was no one to see them.  What did my tears signify to any one?  I was cold, and hungry, and miserable.  How lonely I was! how poor! with neither a home nor a friend in the world!—­a mere castaway upon the waves of this troublous life!

“Mam’zelle is a brave sailor,” said a voice behind me, which I recognized as my seaman of the night before, whom I had wellnigh forgotten; “but the storm is over now, and we shall be in port only an hour or two behind time.”

“What port shall we reach?” I asked, not caring to turn round lest he should see my wet eyes and cheeks.

“St. Peter-Port,” he answered.  “Mam’zelle, then, does not know our islands?”

“No,” I said.  “Where is St. Peter-Port?”

“In Guernsey,” he replied.  “Is mam’zelle going to Guernsey or Jersey?  Jersey is about two hours’ sail from Guernsey.  If you were going to land at St. Peter-Port, I might be of some service to you.”

I turned round then, and looked at him steadily.  His voice was a very pleasant one, full of tones that went straight to my heart and filled me with confidence.  His face did not give the lie to it, or cause me any disappointment.  He was no gentleman, that was plain; his face was bronzed and weather-beaten, as if he often encountered rough weather.  But his deep-set eyes had a steadfast, quiet power in them, and his mouth, although it was almost hidden by hair, had a pleasant curve about it.  I could not guess how old he was; he looked a middle-aged man to me.  His great, rough hands, which had never worn gloves, were stained and hard with labor; and he had evidently been taking a share in the toil of the night, for his close-fitting, woven blue jacket was wet through, and his hair was damp and rough with the wind and rain.  He raised his cap as my eyes looked straight into his, and a faint smile flitted across his grave face.