came to my mind whom the picture on his breast resembled: it was Mrs.
Falchion.

I think he saw this new intelligence in my face, and a meaning smile took
the place of words, as he slowly left the cabin, mutely refusing
assistance.

I went to Mrs. Falchion's cabin, and met her outside the door. She
looked displeased. "Justine has hurt herself," she said. "Please attend
to her; I am going on deck."

The unfeeling nature of this remark held me to the spot for a moment;
then I entered the cabin. Justine Caron, a delicate but warm-faced girl
of little more than twenty, was sitting on the cabin sofa, her head
supported against the wall, and her hand wound in a handkerchief soaked
in blood. Her dress and the floor were also stained. I undid the
handkerchief and found an ugly wound in the palm of the hand. I called
the steward, and sent him to my dispensary for some necessaries; then I
asked her how it happened. At the moment I saw the cause--a broken
bottle lying on the floor. "The ship rolled," she said. "The bottle
fell from the shelf upon the marble washstand, and, breaking, from there
to the floor. Madame caught at my arm to save herself from falling; but
I slipped, and was cut on the bottle--so."

As she ended there was a knock, but the curtain was not drawn, and Mrs.
Falchion's voice was heard. "My dress is stained, Justine."

The half-fainting girl weakly replied: "I am very sorry, madame, indeed."

To this Mrs. Falchion rejoined: "When you have been attended to, you may