The nurse stooped for the hat, patted the thin shoulders, and went into the adjacent room for the slippers, whispering to Carlin on her way back to keep hidden until she called.  He was still standing concealed by the folds of the calico curtain dividing the apartment, a choke in his throat as he watched the frail woman, her sharpened knees outlined under the folds of the black dress and, below it, the edge of a white petticoat bespattered with mud, the whole figure drooping as if there were not strength enough along its length to hold the body upright.  What shocked him even more were the deep-sunken eyes and the hollows in the cheeks and about the brows.  All the laugh and sparkle of the once joyous, beautiful girl he had known were gone.  Only the gentle voice was left.

Martha was now back, kneeling on the floor, untying the shabby shoes, rubbing the small, delicately shaped feet in her plump hands to rest and warm them.  “There, my lamb, that’s better,” he heard her say, as she drew on the heelless slippers.  “I’ll have tea in a minute.  The kettle’s been boiling this hour.”  Then, as though it were an afterthought:  “Stephen wants to see you, so I told him maybe you would let him.  Shall I tell him to come?”

“Your brother, you mean?  The one who lives here in New York?” she asked listlessly.

“Yes, he’s never forgotten you.  And—­”

“Some day I will see him, Martha.  I shall be better soon, and then—­”

She stopped and stared at Carlin, who misunderstanding Martha’s words, had drawn aside the calico curtain and was advancing toward her, bowing as he walked, the choke still in his throat.  “I hope your ladyship is not offended,” he ventured.  “It was all one family once, if I may say so, and there is only Martha and me.”

She had straightened as she saw him coming and then, remembering that she was in Martha’s room, and he Martha’s brother, she held out her hand.  “No, Stephen, I am very glad.  I was only a little startled.  It is a long time since I saw you, but I remember you quite well, and you have not changed.  A little grayer perhaps.  When was it?”

“When I came back from Calcutta, your ladyship, and the Rover was wrecked.  Your father ordered the crew home.  I was first mate, your ladyship remembers, and had to look after them.  Some six years agone, I take it.”

“Yes, it all comes back to me now,” she answered dreamily “six years—­is it not more than that?”

“No, your ladyship.  Just about six.”

She paused, rested her head on her hand, and looked at him intently from beneath the wave of hair that had dropped again about her brow, and asked:  “Why do you still call me ‘your ladyship’ Stephen?”

“Well, I don’t know, your ladyship.  Mebbe it’s because I’ve always been used to it.  But I won’t if your ladyship doesn’t want me to.”