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The little flower’s head being well down on his shoulder again, the celebrated actor exchanged glances with the worshipping Pepper.

“If you’d only come before, Jem,” said Mrs. Pepper. “Who was he? What was his name?”

“Smith,” said the cautious captain.

“If you’d only come before, Jem,” said Mrs. Pepper, in a smothered voice, “it would have been better. Only three months ago I married that object over there.”

The captain attempted a melodramatic start with such success, that, having somewhat underestimated the weight of his fair bride, he nearly lost his balance.

“It can’t be helped, I suppose,” he said reproachfully, “but you might have waited a little longer, Martha.”

“Well, I’m your wife, anyhow,” said Martha, “and I’ll take care I never lose you again. You shall never go out of my sight again till you die. Never.”

“Nonsense, my pet,” said the captain, exchanging uneasy glances with the ex-pilot. “Nonsense.”

“It isn’t nonsense, Jem,” said the lady, as she drew him on to the sofa and sat with her arms round his neck. “It may be true, all you’ve told me, and it may not. For all I know, you may have been married to some other woman; but I’ve got you now, and I intend to keep you.”

“There, there,” said the captain, as soothingly as a strange sinking at the heart would allow him.

“As for that other little man, I only married him because he worried me so,” said Mrs. Pepper tearfully. “I never loved him, but he used to follow me about and propose. Was it twelve or thirteen times you proposed to me, Pepper?”

“I forget,” said the ex-pilot shortly.

“But I never loved him,” she continued. “I never loved you a bit, did I, Pepper?”

“Not a bit,” said Pepper warmly. “No man could ever have a harder or more unfeeling wife than you was. I’ll say that for you, willing.”

As he bore this testimony to his wife’s fidelity there was a knock at the door, and, upon his opening it, the rector’s daughter, a lady of uncertain age, entered, and stood regarding with amazement the frantic but ineffectual struggles of Captain Crippen to release himself from a position as uncomfortable as it was ridiculous.

“Mrs. Pepper!” said the lady, aghast. “Oh, Mrs. Pepper!”

“It’s all right, Miss Winthrop,” said the lady addressed, calmly, as she forced the captain’s flushed face on to her ample shoulder again; “it’s my first husband, Jem Budd.”

“Good gracious!” said Miss Winthrop, starting. “Enoch Arden in the flesh!”

“Who?” inquired Pepper, with a show of polite interest.

“Enoch Arden,” said Miss Winthrop. “One of our great poets wrote a noble poem about a sailor who came home and found that his wife had married again; but, in the POEM, the first husband went away without making himself known, and died of a broken heart.”

She looked at Captain Crippen as though he hadn’t quite come up to her expectations.

“And now,” said Pepper, speaking with great cheerfulness, “it’s me that’s got to have the broken heart. Well, well.”

“It’s a most interesting case,” cried Miss Winthrop; “and, if you wait till I fetch my camera, I’ll take your portrait together just as you are.”

“Do,” said Mrs. Pepper cordially.

“I won’t have my portrait took,” said the captain, with much acerbity.

“Not if I wish it, dear?” inquired Mrs. Pepper tenderly.

“Not if you keep a-wishing it all your life,” replied the captain sourly, making another attempt to get his head from her shoulder.

“Don’t you think they ought to have their portrait taken now?” asked Miss Winthrop, turning to the ex-pilot.

“I don’t see no ‘arm in it,” said Pepper thoughtlessly.

“You hear what Mr. Pepper says,” said the lady, turning to the captain again. “Surely if he doesn’t mind, you ought not to.”

“I’ll talk to him by-and-bye,” said the captain, very grimly.

“P’raps it would be better if we kept this affair to ourselves for the present,” said the ex-pilot, taking alarm at his friend’s manner.

“Well, I won’t intrude on you any longer,” said Miss Winthrop. “Oh! Look there! How rude of them!”