and held the bottle of time-faded ink for her.  Both girls looked up with startled faces at the skipper’s entrance.  The young man halted in the middle of the room, and stared at the singer.  It was the first time he had seen her since the day he had saved her from the Royal William’s fore-top and brought her to this house.  He saw that her face was thinner now than on that day, but no paler.  The wonderful eyes were as clear, as bright as crystal, and yet as limpid, as when they had first opened to him, there on the swaying cross-trees, and worked their spell on him.  But the lips were red now—­as red and bewitching as a mermaid’s lips are supposed to be.  She was the first to speak.

“What is it?  What do you want?” she asked somewhat fretfully, in that silver voice that had delighted the ears of the young Queen on the other side of the ocean.  The question, or perhaps the way it was asked, sent a chill through Black Dennis Nolan.  His glance wavered and he crumpled his fur cap in his hands.  His sudden confusion showed in his dark face.

“It bes the skipper,” said Mary Kavanagh, “him that fetched ye from the wrack.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Flora.  “Of course I should have remembered your face, and now I do.  I am very, very grateful to you for saving my life, and I shall never forget it.  I shall do everything in my power to repay you for your courage and kindness, you may be sure; but why did you not send out word that I was here?  You knew that I could not do it myself, lying here ill with fever.  Perhaps they have grown tired of waiting for me by now, in New York.  Perhaps they think I am dead.  Perhaps they have forgotten me—­and that would be worse than death!”

The skipper felt like a fool, then like a whipped dog.  It was this last sensation that sent a wave of choking anger through him.  He was not accustomed to it.  Had any other woman taken him to task so he would have laughed and forgotten the incident in a minute.  Had any man shown such ingratitude he would have smashed his head; but now his dark face flushed and he muttered a few words thickly which passed unheard and unheeded even by himself.

“I am writing now,” continued Flora, “and must ask you to send it out to some place from which it can reach civilization, and be mailed to New York.  It is very important—­almost a matter of life and death to me—­for it may yet be in time to save my career, even my engagement in New York.”

The skipper maintained his silence, crushing his cap in his big hands and glowering at the rag-mat under his feet.  Two kinds of love, several kinds of devils, pride, anger and despair were battling in his heart.

“Ye’ll take out the letter, skipper, sure ye will,” said Mary, smiling at him across the bed.  Her fair face was pink and her eyes perturbed.  The man did not notice the pink of her cheeks or the anxiety in her eyes.

“Why, of course you will take it—­or send it,” said Miss Lockhart.  “It is a very small thing to do for a person for whom you have already done so much.  You are the kindest people in the world—­you three.  You have saved my life twice, among you.  I shall never, never forget your kindness, and as soon as I reach New York I shall repay you all.  I shall soon be rich.”