She wore a black gown, of course, but not a widow’s cap:  and, though in fact a widow of twenty-five, had very much more the appearance of a maid of nineteen as she looked down over the barque’s side.  Her lips were parted as if to smile at the first provocation.  On either side of her temples a short brown curl had rebelled and was kissing her cheek.  The sparkle in her eyes told of capacity to enjoy life.  Behind her a coil of smoke rose from the deck-house chimney.  She had left the midday meal she was cooking, and ought to be back looking after it.  Instead, she lingered and looked upon the three men at work below.

Two of them were old, round-shouldered with labour, their necks burnt brown with stooping in the sun.  The third was a young giant—­tall, fair, and straight—­with yellowish hair that curled up tightly at the back of his head, and lumbar muscles that swelled and sank in a pretty rhythm as he pitched his ballast and sang—­

    “There goes nine. 
     Nine there is gone . . .”

It was upon this man that the woman gazed as she lingered.  His shirt-collar was cut low at the back, and his freckled neck was shining with sweat.  She wanted him to look up, and yet she was afraid of his looking up.  She wondered if he were married—­“at his age,” she phrased it to herself—­and, if so, what manner of wife he had.  She told herself after a while that she really dreaded extremely being caught observing these three labourers; that she hated even in seeming to lose dignity.  And still she bent and heard the song to the twentieth and last verse.

The young giant, when the spell was over, leant on his shovel for a moment and then reached out a hand for the cider-keg.  One of his comrades passed it to him.  He wiped the orifice, tilted his head back and drank as a man drinks at midday after a long morning.  Some of the cider trickled down his crisp yellow beard and he shook his head, scattering the drops off.  Then the keg was tilted again, and suddenly lowered as he was on the point of drinking.  His eyes had encountered those of the woman on deck.

As they did so, the woman recovered all her boldness.  Without in the least knowing what prompted her, she bent a little further forward and asked—­

“What is your name, young man?”

“William Udy, ma’am.”

“Do you mind breaking off work for a moment and stepping up here?”

“Cert’nly, ma’am.”  William Udy laid down his shovel at once.

A shiver of fear went through the young widow.  Why had she asked him up?  Why, on a mere impulse; because she wanted to see him closer—­ nothing more.  What possible excuse could she give?  She heard the sound of his heavy boots on the ship’s ladder:  he would be before her in a moment, expecting, of course, to be set to work on some odd job or other.  She cast about wildly and could think of no job that wanted doing.  It was appalling:  she could not possibly explain—­