said it tenderly, yet with a little pain.

"Yes, yes, that is it, Guida dearest," he replied. "I suppose women are
different altogether from men," she answered. "I could have waited ever
so long, believing that you would come again, and that I should never
lose you. But men are different; I see, yes, I see that, Philip."

"We are more impetuous. We know, we sailors, that now-to-day-is our
time; that to-morrow may be Fate's, and Fate is a fickle jade: she
beckons you up with one hand to-day, and waves you down with the other
to-morrow."

"Philip," she said, scarcely above a whisper, and putting her hands
on his arms, as her head sank towards him, "I must be honest with you--
I must be that or nothing at all. I do not feel as you do about it; I
can't. I would much--much--rather everybody knew. And I feel it almost
wrong that they do not." She paused a minute, her brow clouded slightly,
then cleared again, and she went on bravely: "Philip, if--if I should,
you must promise me that you will leave me as soon as ever we are
married, and that you will not try to see me until you come again from
Portsmouth. I am sure that is right, for the deception will not be so
great. I should be better able then to tell the poor grandpethe. Will
you promise me, Philip-dear? It--it is so hard for me. Ah, can't you
understand?"

This hopeless everlasting cry of a woman's soul!

He clasped her close. "Yes, Guida, my beloved, I understand, and I
promise you--I do promise you." Her head dropped on his breast, her arms
ran round his neck. He raised her face; her eyes were closed; they were