Once a sick sailor drew three pictures for me and set down every stay and brace and sail—square-rigger, schooner, and sloop. “Eight pounds,” she plunged, and added foolishly, “fifteen pounds will see me clear of everything. ‘Well, young man,’ he said, ‘we haven’t seen you lately,’ and something about ‘Bateson & Co. I wanted to talk to you before when you first came to live here two years ago, but I never did. And how could I come home—when he locks me in rooms and all that?” “I do wish this wasn’t going on,” said Miss Stanley, after a pause.
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