.

"She is near here, Mr. Barry. We are poor, very poor now; she is
serving in a draper's shop."

An exclamation of pity that he could not repress burst from the
seaman's lips. Then he pulled himself together again.

"Let us sit down somewhere for half an hour if you can spare me the
time," he said. "See, there's a good place," and he indicated a large,
brilliantly lighted restaurant on the opposite side of the street.
"I've had no supper. Will you come and have some with me, and we can
have a chat?"

"Yes, yes; of course I will, my dear boy. But I must not stay long. I
always wait for Rose to see her home, and must be outside the shop at
nine o'clock."

"It is now a little past eight. We will have something to eat; and
then--if you will allow me to come with you--I should like to see Miss
Maynard. This is my last night on shore. My ship sails early on
Monday."

"She will be delighted to see you, poor child; delighted and yet
distressed to hear that you are leaving. She has never forgotten you,
and we have often wondered why you have not written to us for so long.
'Tis quite a year."

Barry's face flushed with pleasure, but he made no reply. Entering the
restaurant, he chose a table in a quiet corner, and ordered some
supper. Then for the first time he was able to observe the thin,
pinched face and shabby clothing of his companion. "Poor old fellow,
and poor little girl!" he said to himself, and then, being a man of
action, he at once went to the point that was uppermost in his mind.

Placing his big, sun-tanned hand on that of the old man, he said
somewhat nervously,--

"What you told me just now about your changed circumstances has
distressed me very much. Will you, for the sake of our old friendship
when I was chief officer of the _Maid of Judah_, accept a small loan
from me? Do not refuse me, please. I assure you it will give me the
greatest happiness in the world," and then disregarding the old
gentleman's protestations with smiling good-humour, he forced the money
into his hand, and went on volubly, "You see, sir, it's only a
trifle--six pounds--and of no earthly use to me, especially as I'm off
to sea again. So pray do not refuse me."

"Mr. Barry . . . my dear boy . . . you are indeed a generous friend,
and a friend in need, but"--and here the tears stole down his withered
cheeks as he tried to smile--"I know your good-nature too well. I was
always, as my poor wife used to say, a s