Lucy Woodrow’s spirit was up in arms.  The girl who had feared nothing so much as to find herself at variance with her fellows, and had believed the affection and the goodwill of those about her to be the first essentials to happiness, felt no weakness, no lack of self-reliance, now that she was in some measure pitted against the many.  She resented the conduct of the passengers in making her the subject of their tittle-tattle with a bitterness she had never felt before.  In overlooking her actions and assuming a right to influence her in a purely personal matter, these people were guilty of an insolence to which she would not submit.  She thought she discovered a certain antagonism amongst those with whom she presently came into contact, and the opposition developed character.  Pride came to her aid.  No doubt some peeping Tom or prying woman had been witness to the theft of kisses.  In that case the incident would now be a theme of conversation in the cabins.  She could not trust Mrs. Macdougal to withhold from the gossips a single word of their conversation.  Lucy’s determination was to show herself superior to the ship’s opinion; she would not have it thought she was influenced one way or the other, and for that reason it was necessary that there should be no appearance of a quarrel between herself and Done.

She found him sitting on a gun-carriage, and seated herself by his side, having offered her hand in token of amity.

Jim’s heart had never been so light; his cherished animosities were fled for the time being.  But conversation was difficult.  He detected a difference in the girl that was not explicable to him, and imagined that she was still angry.  He realized, too, that she was at a disadvantage, because of the service he had rendered her, and presently blurted something like an apology.

‘I suppose I oughtn’t to have done that the other night?’ he said.

‘No,’ she murmured.  Her head was bowed, and her foot tapped tremulously on the deck.

’It’s the sort of thing the respectables pretend to be shocked at, isn’t it?  Well, I regretted it immediately.’  His voice had grown softer.  ’I did, upon my word!’

‘Please don’t speak of it,’ she pleaded.  In truth, the apology troubled her deeply where the offence had left no pain.  She wished it had never been spoken The thought of it had power to provoke tears long after.

The Francis Cadman sailed majestically through the Heads into Port Phillip on a beautiful Sunday morning in November, when the beneficent spring was merging into a fiery Southern summer.  The sun blazed with tropic splendour in a sky of unspotted sapphire; the blue, translucent waters danced in unison with the hearts on deck, rippling into gold and silver and the sparkle of a myriad diamonds.  Eager eyes saw the symbols of wealth in all things, and a fever of exultation and expectancy burned in the ship.  Done was like a man drunken.  It was as if sunshine