mandoline playing "La Donna e Mobile."

She had seen ships pass in the darkness at home, out on the horizon, a
glimmering blur of light. She had pictured them by daylight, shining in
the sunlight with snowy decks and glittering engines; she had no idea
that this spirit of desolation would rise out of the waves and possess
her. For an hour she sat, dreaming of grey things, for her dreams could
admit of no colour. After a while, cold and cramped, she went to her
cabin for her coat. She noticed Mr. Peters and the little widow sitting
on two deck-chairs in a corner, their faces two blurs in the darkness,
the widow's tinkling laugh an oversong to his deep voice. Around the bar
some dozen men were laughing and talking loudly; in the dining saloon a
few people were playing cards, a few more writing letters, to post in
Plymouth next day. The thin girl sat with her elbows on the table, her
chin on her hands, crying. The tears were running down her cheeks, over
her fingers and dropping on to the table. It seemed less lonely on the
dark fo'c'sle, so Marcella went back.

It was quite dark now; the mandoline had stopped. From a ventilator
shaft close by came a deep murmur of conversation from the crew's
quarters that mingled with her dreams. Aunt Janet, her father, Wullie,
Dr. Angus, the restless London crowds came and went like pictures
crossing a screen. Jimmy, the thin girl, Ole Fred and Louis Farne
followed them, passing on. Suddenly out of the darkness at the other end
of the great anchor came a sound that was entangled with the wash of the
waves against the bows of the ship. It was a sob, choked back quickly
and bursting out again. She crept along the anchor softly. A huddled
figure was there, looking out to the black sea.

"What's the matter now? It's you, isn't it, Louis?" she said, for she