"Mr. Powell--here."
"Yes, sir."
"Give this to Mrs. Anthony. Evenings are getting chilly."
And the haggard face sank out of sight. Mrs. Anthony was surprised on
seeing the shawl.
"The captain wants you to put this on," explained young Powell, and as
she raised herself in her seat he dropped it on her shoulders. She
wrapped herself up closely.
"Where was the captain?" she asked.
"He was in the companion. Called me on purpose," said Powell, and then
retreated discreetly, because she looked as though she didn't want to
talk any more that evening. Mr. Smith--the old gentleman--was as usual
sitting on the skylight near her head, brooding over the long chair but
by no means inimical, as far as his unreadable face went, to those
conversations of the two youngest people on board. In fact they seemed
to give him some pleasure. Now and then he would raise his faded china
eyes to the animated face of Mr. Powell thoughtfully. When the young
sailor was by, the old man became less rigid, and when his daughter, on
rare occasions, smiled at some artless tale of Mr.
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