“Forgive me,” he decided to say at last, and his voice had a little quiver of emotion, and he laid his hand on hers upon her knee. “Was I that bad?” He asked. "'Cos there's a gale a-getting up as'll perwent you, young freshwater," replied the tar. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. " "It is past," rejoined Lady Trafford, recovering herself by a powerful effort; "but never allude to the circumstance again.
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