a sigh and a shrug. "She
was very pretty, is so still, and I took a fancy to her and let her help
me when I was pottering about the garden. I used to like to have him
near me, and so they were thrown together. The old story. And yet I
found it hard to believe that Derrick Dene was a scoundrel, and a
heartless one to boot. There! That's enough of it. But as I say, you
would have heard of it sooner or later. Put it out of your head, my
dear; it's not the kind of story to dwell upon; though I suppose
nowadays young girls read and hear about these sort of things every day.
Now mind! you're to come to see me whenever you feel inclined."

Celia promised warmly, and the childless woman stood in the doorway and
sighed as she watched the girlish figure going lightly down the drive.
Celia was feeling very happy; she would try to make a friend of Susie,
and forget the story of her ruin and the name of Derrick Dene.

CHAPTER X

It was a pity that Derrick Dene was not a descriptive writer, instead of
a struggling engineer, for had he been, he might have got some copy of
quite a purple hue out of the "tramp" and its temporary denizens. We
often hear of a literary production which is without a dull page, but it
may be said with truth that Dene's life on board the _Angelica_ was
without a dull moment. And without an idle one; for he had accepted the
position of general utility, and the man-of-all-work is expected to do
everybody else's as well as his own. So it happened that while Sidcup,
for instance, who was the principal acrobat and trapeze man, lolled
through his day with a pipe in his mouth, and only lending an occasional
hand, when necessity compelled him, Dene was in request everywhere.

Fortunately he was as strong as a modern Hercules, quick and alert in
his movements, and, now that he was free from the terror which had
overthrown him at Brown's Buildings, was of his wonted cheerfulness.
Fortunately, also, he was a good sailor, and did not go under with the
sea-sickness which soon prostrated nearly all the other members of the
company. For they ran into bad weather, and once or twice, when the
storm was at its worst, scenes occurred which would need the pen of a
Joseph Conrad or a Morley Roberts to describe adequately; I will not
attempt to do so.

The rickety old tub, straining in every plate, rolled and pitched and
tossed all ways at once, like an hysterical cat, and the discomfort in
which they had started ros