“Do you take the ‘Angelina Dobbs’ for a cemetery, Mr. Parmalee?” demanded Captain Dobbs, with asperity.  “Who’s that air corpse?”

“Come into the cabin and I’ll tell you.”

There he heard, in wonder and pity, the story.

“Poor creeter!  Pretty as a picter, too!  Who did the deed?”

“It looked like her husband,” replied Mr. Parmalee.  “He was as jealous as a Turk, anyway.”

“She is not dead!” exclaimed Mrs. Denover; “her heart flutters.  Oh! pray leave me alone with her; I think I know what to do.”

The men quitted the cabin.  Mrs. Denover removed her daughter’s clothing and examined the wound.  It was deep and dangerous looking, but not necessarily fatal—­she knew that, and she had had considerable experience during her rough life with John Thorndyke.  She stanched the flow of blood, bathed and dressed the wound, and finally the dark eyes opened and looked vaguely in her face.

“Who are you?  Where am I?” very feebly.

“I am your nurse,” she said, tremulously, “and you are with friends who love you.”

“Ah!  I remember.”  A look of intense anguish crossed her face.  “You are my mother!”

“Your most wretched mother!  Oh, my darling, I am not worthy to look in your face!”

“You are all that is left to me now—­ah, Heaven pity me!—­since he thinks me guilty.  I remember all.  He tried to murder me; he called me a name I will never forget.  Mother, how came I here?  Is this a ship?”

Very gently, softly, soothingly the mother told how Mr. Parmalee had saved her life.

“And where are we going now?”

“To Southampton, I think.  But we will return if you wish it.”

“To the man who tried to take my life?  Ah, no, mother!  Never again in this world to him!  Call Mr. Parmalee.”

“My dear, you must not talk so much; you are not able.”

“Call Mr. Parmalee.”

Mrs. Denover obeyed.

The artist presented himself promptly, quite overjoyed.

“Why, now,” said Mr. Parmalee, “I’d rather see this than have a thousand dollars down.  Why, you look as spry almost as ever.  How do you feel?”

“You have been very good to me and my mother.  Be good until the end.  If I die, bury me where he will never hear of my death nor look upon my grave.  If I live, take me back to New York—­I have friends there—­and don’t let him know whether I am living or dead.”

“I’ll do it!  It’s a go!  I owe him one for that kicking, and, by Jove! here’s a chance to pay him.  Jest you keep up heart and get well, and we’ll take you to New York in the ‘Angelina Dobbs,’ and nobody be the wiser.”

Mr. Parmalee kept his word.  They lay aboard the vessel while loading at Southampton, and a surgeon was in daily attendance upon the sick girl.

“You fetch her round,” said Mr. Parmalee.  “She’s the skipper’s only daughter—­this ’ere craft, the ‘Angelina Dobbs,’ is named after her—­and he’ll foot the bill like a lud.”