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“The man was lifted aboard drunk at New York,” broke in the first officer, “and remained in a condition of delirium tremens up to the shipwreck. We did not meet the Royal Age and are in no way responsible for her loss.”

“Yes,” added Captain Bryce, “and a man in that condition is liable to see anything. We listened to his ravings on the night of the wreck. He was on lookout–on the bridge. Mr. Austen, the boats’n, and myself were close to him.”

Before Mr. Meyer’s oily smile had indicated to the flustered captain that he had said too much, the door opened and admitted Rowland, pale, and weak, with empty left sleeve, leaning on the arm of a bronze-bearded and manly-looking giant who carried little Myra on the other shoulder, and who said, in the breezy tone of the quarter-deck:

“Well, I’ve brought him, half dead; but why couldn’t you give me time to dock my ship? A mate can’t do everything.”

“And this is Captain Barry, of der Peerless,” said Mr. Meyer, taking his hand. “It is all right, my friend; you will not lose. And this is Mr. Rowland–and this is der little child. Sit down, my friend. I congratulate you on your escape.”

“Thank you,” said Rowland, weakly, as he seated himself; “they cut my arm off at Christiansand, and I still live. That is my escape.”

Captain Bryce and Mr. Austen, pale and motionless, stared hard at this man, in whose emaciated face, refined by suffering to the almost spiritual softness of age, they hardly recognized the features of the troublesome sailor of the Titan. His clothing, though clean, was ragged and patched.

Mr. Selfridge had arisen and was also staring, not at Rowland, but at the child, who, seated in the lap of the big Captain Barry, was looking around with wondering eyes. Her costume was unique. A dress of bagging-stuff, put together–as were her canvas shoes and hat–with sail-twine in sail-makers’ stitches, three to the inch, covered skirts and underclothing made from old flannel shirts. It represented many an hour’s work of the watch-below, lovingly bestowed by the crew of the Peerless; for the crippled Rowland could not sew. Mr. Selfridge approached, scanned the pretty features closely, and asked:

“What is her name?”

“Her first name is Myra,” answered Rowland. “She remembers that; but I have not learned her last name, though I knew her mother years ago–before her marriage.”

“Myra, Myra,” repeated the old gentleman; “do you know me? Don’t you know me?” He trembled visibly as he stooped and kissed her. The little forehead puckered and wrinkled as the child struggled with memory; then it cleared and the whole face sweetened to a smile.

“Gwampa,” she said.

“Oh, God, I thank thee,” murmured Mr. Selfridge, taking her in his arms. “I have lost my son, but I have found his child–my granddaughter.”

“But, sir,” asked Rowland, eagerly; “you–this child’s grandfather? Your son is lost, you say? Was he on board the Titan? And the mother–was she saved, or is she, too–” he stopped unable to continue.

“The mother is safe–in New York; but the father, my son, has not yet been heard from,” said the old man, mournfully.

Rowland’s head sank and he hid his face for a moment in his arm, on the table at which he sat. It had been a face as old, and worn, and weary as that of the white-haired man confronting him. On it, when it raised–flushed, bright-eyed and smiling–was the glory of youth.

“I trust, sir,” he said, “that you will telegraph her. I am penniless at present, and, besides, do not know her name.”

“Selfridge–which, of course, is my own name. Mrs. Colonel, or Mrs. George Selfridge. Our New York address is well known. But I shall cable her at once; and, believe me, sir, although I can understand that our debt to you cannot be named in terms of money, you need not be penniless long. You are evidently a capable man, and I have wealth and influence.”