r with convincing Nordenfeldt and Hotchkiss guns;
how the stalwart force of barbaric existence declined, and with it the
crude sense of justice, the practice of communism at its simplest
and purest, the valour of nationality. These phrases are my own--the
substance, not the fashion, of her speech.

"You do not, then," I said, "believe wholly in the unselfishness of
missionaries, the fair dealing of traders, the perfect impartiality of
justice, as shown through steel-clad cruisers?"

"I have seen too much to be quite fair in judgment, I fear, even to
men-of-war's men;" and she paused, listening to a song which came from
the after-part of the ship. The air was very still, and a few of the
words of the droll, plaintive ditty came to us.

Quartermaster Stone, as he passed us, hummed it, and some voices of the
first-class passengers near joined in the refrain:

"Sing, hey, for a rover on the sea,
And the old world!"

Some days later I got all of the song from one of the intermediate
passengers, and the last verse of it I give here:

"I'm a-sailing, I'm a-sailing on the sea,
To a harbour where the wind is still;
Oh, my dearie, do you wait for me?
Oh, my dearie, do you love me still?
Sing, hey, for a rover on the sea,
And the old world!"

I noticed that Mrs. Falchion's brow contracted as the song proceeded,
making a deep vertical line between the eyes, and that the fingers of
the hand nearest me closed on the chair-arm firmly. The hand attracted
me. It was long, the fingers were shapely, but not markedly tapering,
and suggested firmness. I remarked afterward, when I chanced to shake
hands with her, that her fingers enclosed one's hand; it was not a mere
touch or pressure, but an unemotional and possessive clasp. I felt sure
that she had heard the song before, else it had not produced even this
so slight effect on her nerves. I said: "It is a quaint song. I suppose
you are familiar with it and all of its kind?"

"I fancy I have heard it somewhere," she answered in a cold voice.

I am aware that my next question was not justified by our very
short acquaintance; but this acquaintance had been singular from its
beginning, and it did not seem at that moment as it looks on paper;
besides, I had the Intermediate Passenger in my mind. "Perhaps your
husband is a naval man?" I asked.

A faint flush passed over her face, and then, looking at me with a
neut