e done," she said, quietly.

"You leave it to me," said Flower, in satisfied tones. "I'm at the
wheel."

There was a long silence. Poppy got up and crossed to the window, and,
resting her cheek on her hand, sat watching the restless life of the
street. The room darkened slowly with the approach of evening. Flower
rose and took the seat opposite, and Fraser, who had been feeling in the
way for some time, said that he must go.

"You sail to-morrow evening, Jack?" said Flower, with a careless
half-turn towards him.

"About six," was the reply.

"We sail Saturday evening at seven," said Flower, and took the girl's
hand in his own. "It will be odd to see you on board, Poppy, and not
to be able to speak to you; but we shall be able to look at each other,
sha'n't we?"

"Captain Martin is a strict disciplinarian," said Poppy.

"Well he can't prevent us looking at each other," said Flower, "and
he can't prevent us marrying when we get to the other end. Good-night,
Jack. Next time you see us we'll be an old married couple."

"A quick passage and a safe return," said Fraser. "Good-night."

Poppy Tyrell just gave him her small hand, and that was all. Flower,
giving him a hearty grip, accompanied him as far as the door of the
room.

He looked back as he gained the pavement, and the last he saw of them
they were sitting at the open window. Flower leaned out and waved his
hand in farewell, but Poppy made no sign.

CHAPTER XX.

In the rising seaport of Bittlesea Captain Fraser, walking slowly along
the quay on the fateful Saturday, heard the hour of seven strike from
the tower of the old church wedged in between the narrow streets at the
back of the town. The little harbour with its motley collection of craft
vanished; he heard the sharp, hoarse cries of command on the _Golden
Cloud_, and saw the bridge slowly opening to give egress to the tug
which had her in tow. He saw her shapely hull and tapering spars glide
slowly down the river, while Poppy Tyrell, leaning against the side,
took her last look at London. He came back with a sigh to reality: the
_Swallow_ had dwindled to microscopical proportions, and looked
dirty; Bittlesea itself had the appearance of a village with foolish
aspirations to be considered a port, and he noticed, with a strong sense
of pity tempered with disdain, the attentions of two young townsmen to a
couple of gawky girls in white frocks.

With a feeling that the confinement of the house w