lost. Cai had never courted her for
her money: but he had courted without distrust, on the strength of his
own security in a competence. At the back of his mind there may have
lurked a suspicion that Mrs Bosenna, as a business woman, was not in the
least likely to bestow her hand on a penniless sailor: but there was no
reason why he should allow this suspicion to obtrude itself, since
self-respect would have forbidden him, being penniless, to pursue the
courtship.

No; if he thought of Mrs Bosenna at all, it was in a sort of dull rage
against her sex: not specially against her, who happened to be her sex's
delegate to work this particular piece of mischief, but generally
against womankind, that with a word or two, a look or two, it could rob
a man of a friend--and of such a friend as 'Bias!

'Bias was undemonstrative, Cai had always prided himself on recognising
a worth in him which did not leap to the eyes of other men--which hid
itself rather, and shunned the light. It had added to his sense of
possession that he constantly detected what others overlooked. In this
matter of his behaviour to Rogers, 'Bias had eclipsed all previous
records. It was (view it how you would) magnificent in 'Bias--a high
Christian action--to tend, as he had tended, upon a man who presumably
had robbed him of his all.

And at the same moment 'Bias could behave so callously to a once-dear
friend--to a friend bringing glad tidings--to a friend, moreover,
rejoicing to bring them, though they meant his own undoing! It was
almost inconceivable. It was quite unintelligible unless you supposed
the man's nature to be perverted, and by this woman.

Cai's heart was bruised. It ached with a dull insistent pain that must
be deadened at all costs, even though his own wrecked prospects called
out to be faced promptly, resolutely, and with a practical mind.
He would face them to-morrow. To-day he would tire himself out:
to-night he would sleep.

And he slept, almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. His sleep
was dreamless too.

"_Dame, get out and bake your pies--bake your pies--bake your pies--_"

"_Whoo-oo-sh!_"

He sat up in bed with a jerk. . . . What on earth was it? A squall of
hail on the window? Or a rocket?--a ship in distress, perhaps, outside
the harbour? . . .

"_Dame, get out and bake your pies--_" piped a high childish voice.
Some one was unbarring a door below. A voice--'Bias's voice--spoke out
gruffly, deman