the island in the boat, and,
rather than face the dangers of a long voyage in such a small boat, the
two natives and the woman elected to remain on the island.

"That's a mighty fishy yarn," said Packenham to me. "I daresay these
fellows have been doing a little cutting-off business. But then I don't
know of any missing vessel. We'll go ashore to-morrow and have a look
round."

A little after sunset the skipper and I were leaning over the rail,
watching the figures of the natives, as they moved to and fro in the
glare of the fires lighted here and there along the beach.

"Hallo!" said Packenham, "here's a canoe coming, with only a woman in
it. By thunder! she's travelling, too, and coming straight for the
ship."

A few minutes more and the canoe was alongside. The woman hastily
picked up a little girl that was sitting in the bottom, looked up, and
called out in English--

"Take my little girl, please."

A native sailor leant over the bulwarks and lifted up the child, and
the woman clambered after her. Then, seizing the child from the sailor,
she flew along the deck and into the cabin.

She was standing facing us as we followed and entered, holding the
child tightly to her bosom. The soft light of the cabin lamp fell full
upon her features, and we saw that she was very young, and seemed
wildly excited.

"Who are you?" we said, when she advanced, put out a trembling hand to
us, and said: "Don't you know me, Mr Supercargo? I am Nerida, Taplin's
wife." Then she sank on a seat and sobbed violently.

* * * * *

We waited till she regained her composure somewhat, and then I said:
"Nerida, where is Taplin?"

"Dead," she said in a voice scarce above a whisper; "only us two are
left--I and little Teresa."

Packenham held out his hands to the child. With wondering, timid eyes,
she came, and for a moment or two looked doubtingly upwards into the
brown, handsome face of the skipper, and then nestled beside him.

For a minute or so the ticking of the cabin clock broke the silence,
ere I ventured to ask the one question uppermost in my mind.

"Nerida, how and where did Taplin die?"

"My husband was murdered at sea," she said and then she covered her
face with her hands.

"Don't ask her any more now," said Packenham pityingly; "let her tell
us to-morrow."

She raised her face. "Yes, I will tell you to-morrow. You will take me
away with you, will you not, gentlemen--for my child's sake?"

"Of course," said the c