Two hours later, in the midst of my dressing, I looked out of the
window again, and I saw the St. Mawes packet reaching across towards
Falmouth merrily, quite as if nothing had happened. Yet something--
I told myself--_must_ have happened.

The Copenhagen Academy enjoyed a holiday that day, for Captain
Branscome failed to present himself, and Mr. Stimcoe lay under the
influence of sedatives. At eleven in the morning he awoke, and began
to discuss the character of Talleyrand at the pitch of his voice.
Its echoes reached me where I sat disconsolate in the deserted
schoolroom, and I went upstairs to the bedroom door to offer my
services. Doggy Bates, Pilkington, and Scotty Maclean had hied them
immediately after breakfast to the harbour, to beg, borrow, or steal
a boat and fish for mackerel; and Mrs. Stimcoe, worn out with
watching, set down my faithful presence to motives of which I was
shamefully innocent. In point of fact, I had lurked at home because
I could not bear company. I preferred the deserted schoolroom,
though Heaven knows what I would not have given for the dull
distraction of work--an hour of Rule of Three with Captain Branscome,
or Caesar's Commentaries with Mr. Stimcoe. But Mr. Stimcoe lay
upstairs chattering, and Captain Branscome appeared to be taking a
protracted holiday. It hardly occurred to me to wonder why.

It was borne in upon me later that during this interval of anarchy in
the Stimcoe establishment--it lasted two days, and may have lasted
longer for aught I know--I wasted little wonder on the continued
absence of Captain Branscome. I was indeed kept anxious by my own
fears, which did not decrease as the hours dragged by. From the
window of Mr. Stimcoe's sickroom I watched the St. Mawes packet