Whereupon, as goodness takes inspiration from goodness, in Cai’s heart, too, a miracle happened, He forgot himself, forgot his loss which was ’Bias’s gain:  forgot that, keeping his surly attitude, ’Bias had uttered neither a “thank you” nor a word of pity.  Old affection, old admiration, old faith, and regard came pouring back in a warm tide, thrilling, suffusing his consciousness, drowning all but one thought—­ one proud thought that stood like a sea-mark above the flood, justifying all—­“Even such a man I made my friend!”

For a long time Cai stared.  Then, as ’Bias made no sign of lifting his sullen gaze from the strip of carpet by the bed, he turned half-about towards the door.

“‘Bias Hunken,” said he gently, “you’re a good man, an’ deserved this luck better’n me. . . .  If you can’t put away hard thoughts just yet, maybe you’ll remember, some day, that I wished ’ee long life to enjoy it.”

His hand was on the door.  “Here, though—­hold hard!” put in Fancy, who had picked up the bundle of papers.  “I don’t think Cap’n Hunken understands; nor I don’t clearly understand myself.  Was it both packets you carried home, sir? or only this one?”

“I thought as I’d made it clear enough,” answered Cai.  His eyes were still on his friend, and there was weariness as well as pain in his voice.  “There’s only one packet—­’Bias’s—­what you have in your hand.  I must have carried it home by mistake.”

“Then your’s is missin’?”

“That’s so,” said the broken man quietly.

The child turned and walked to the window.  On her way she halted a moment and peered earnestly into the invalid’s eyes, as if the riddle might possibly be read there.  But they were vacant and answered her nothing.  Then for some twenty seconds, almost pressing her forehead to the window-pane, she stood and gazed out upon the glancing waters of the harbour.

“There’s only one thing to be done—­” She wheeled about sharply.  “Why, wherever is the man? . . .  You don’t mean to tell me,” she demanded of ‘Bias indignantly, “that you sat there an’ let him go!”

“I couldn’ help his goin’, could I?” muttered ’Bias, but his eyes were uneasy under the wrath in hers.

“You couldn’ help it?” she echoed in scorn, and pointed to the figure on the bed.  “Here you come playin’ the Early Christian over a man that, for aught you knew, had robbed you to a stair:  and when ’tis your tried friend fetchin’ back riches to you—­fairly bringin’ you back to life at the cost o’ bein’ a beggar hisself—­you let him go without so much as a thank’ee!”

“Cai Hocken don’t want my thanks.”

“Didn’t even want politeness, I suppose—­after runnin’ here hot foot with the news that made you rich an’ him a poor man!  Oh, you’re past all patience! . . .  Who should know what he wanted an’ didn’t get—­ I, that had my eyes on his face, or you, that sat like a stuck pig, glowerin’ at the carpet?”