s all writin' was unnatural.
I got to do enough of it for Mr Rogers, the Lord knows! But for them
two, as have spent the best part of their lives navigatin' ships, it do
seem--well, we'll call it unmanly somehow."

"That makes it all the worse," growled Palmerston, sticking both hands
in his pockets and forcing himself to meet her stare, against which he
nodded sullenly. "A man has to lift himself _somehow_--when he wants
something, very bad."

"What is it you want?" asked Fancy.

"You know what it is, right enough." He glowered at her hardily, being
desperate now and beyond shame.

"Do 'I?" But she blenched, meeting his eyes as be continued to nod.

"Yes, you do," persisted he. "I wants to marry ye, one of these days;
and you can't round on me, either, for outin' with it; for 'twas your
own suggestion."

"Oh, you silly boy!" Fancy reproved him, while conscious of a highly
delicious thrill and an equally delicious fear. ("O, youth, youth! and
the wonder of first love!") She cast about for escape, and forced a
laugh. "Do you know, you're the very first as has ever proposed to me."

"I was thinkin' as much," said the unflattering Palmerston. "Come to
that, you was the first as ever offered marriage to me."

"But I didn't! I mean," urged Fancy, "it was only in joke."

"Joke or not," said Palmerston, "you can't deny it." Suddenly
weakening, he let slip his advantage. "But I wouldn' wish to marry one
that despised me," he declared. "I had enough o' bein' despised--in the
Workhouse."

"I never said I despised you, Pammy," Fancy protested.

"Yes, you did; or in so many words--'Unmanly,' you said."

"But that was about writing." She opened her eyes wide. "You don't
mean to tell me _that's_ the trouble? . . . What have you been writing?"

"A book," owned Palmerston with gloom. "A man must try to raise himself
somehow."

"Of course he must. What sort of book?"

"It's--it's only a story."

"Why," she reassured him, "I heard of a man the other day who wrote a
story and made A Thousand Pounds. It was quite unexpected, and
surprised even his friends."

"It must be the same man Mrs Bowldler told me about. His name was
Walter Scott, and he called it 'Waverley' without signing his name to
it, because he was a Sheriff; and there was another man that wrote a
book called 'Picnic' by Boss, and made pounds. So I've called mine
'Pickerley,' by way of drawing attention,--but, of course, if you think
th