That day Harold passed in unutterable gloom.  The reaction was strong on him; and all his woe, his bitter remembrance of the past and his desolation for the future, were with him unceasingly.  
In the dusk of the evening he wandered out to his favourite spot, the cable-tank on top of the aft wheelhouse.  Here he had been all alone, and his loneliness had the added advantage that from the isolated elevation he could see if anyone approached.  He had been out there during the day, and the Captain, who had noticed his habit had had rigged up a canvas dodger on the rail on the weather side.  When he sat down on the coiled hawsers in the tank he was both secluded and sheltered.  In this peaceful corner his thoughts ran freely and in sympathy with the turmoil of wind and wave.
 
How unfair it all was!  Why had he been singled out for such misery?  What gleam of hope or comfort was left to his miserable life since he had heard the words of Stephen; those dreadful words which had shattered in an instant all the cherished hopes of his life.  Too well he remembered the tone and look of scorn with which the horrible truths had been conveyed to him.  In his inmost soul he accepted them as truths; Stephen’s soul had framed them and Stephen’s lips had sent them forth.
 
From his position behind the screen he did not see the approaching figure of Mr. Stonehouse, and was astonished when he saw his head rise above the edge of the tank as he climbed the straight Jacob’s ladder behind the wheelhouse.  The elder man paused as he saw him and said in an apologetic way:
 
‘Will you forgive my intruding on your privacy?  I wanted to speak to you alone; and as I saw you come here a while ago I thought it would be a good opportunity.’  Harold was rising as he spoke.
 
‘By all means.  This place is common property.  But all the same I am honoured in your seeking me.’  The poor fellow wished to be genial; but despite his efforts there was a strange formality in the expression of his words.  The elder man understood, and said as he hurried forward and sank beside him:
 
‘Pray don’t stir!  Why, what a cosy corner this is.  I don’t believe at this moment there is such peace in the ship!’
 
Once again the bitterness of Harold’s heart broke out in sudden words:
 
‘I hope not!  There is no soul on board to whom I could wish such evil!’  The old man said as he laid his hand softly on the other’s shoulder:
 
‘God help you, my poor boy, if such pain is in your heart!’  Mr. Stonehouse looked out at the sea, at last turning his face to him again he spoke:
 
‘If you feel that I intrude on you I earnestly ask you to forgive me; but I think that the years between your age and mine as well as my feeling towards the great obligation which I owe you will plead for excuse.  There is something I would like to say to you, sir; but I suppose I must not without your permission.  May I have it?’
 
‘If you wish, sir.  I can at least hear it.’
 
The old man bowed and went on:
 
‘I could not but notice that you have some great grief bearing upon you; and from one thing or another—I can tell you the data if you wish me to do so—I have come to the conclusion that you are leaving your native land because of it.’  Here Harold, wakened to amazement by the readiness with which his secret had been divined, said quickly, rather as an exclamation than interrogation:
 
‘How on earth did you know that!’  His companion, taking it as a query, answered:
 
‘Sir, at your age and with your strength life should be a joy; and yet you are sad: Companionship should be a pleasure; yet you prefer solitude.  That you are brave and unselfish I know; I have reason, thank God! to know it.  That you are kindly and tolerant is apparent from your bearing to my little child this morning; as well as your goodness of last night, the remembrance of which her mother and I will bear to our graves; and to me now.  I have not lived all these years without having had trouble in my own heart; and although the happiness of late years has made it dim, my gratitude to you who are so sad brings it all back to me.’  He bowed, and Harold, wishing to avoid speaking of his sorrow, said:
 
‘You are quite right so far as I have a sorrow; and it is because of it I have turned my back on home.  Let it rest at that!’  His companion bowed gravely and went on.
 
‘I take it that you are going to begin life afresh in the new country.  In such case I have a proposition to make.  I have a large business; a business so large that I am unable to manage it all myself.  I was intending that when I arrived at home I would set about finding a partner.  The man I want is not an ordinary man.  He must have brains and strength and daring.’  He paused.  Harold felt what was coming, but realised, as he jumped at the conclusion, that it would not do for him to take for granted that he was the man sought.  He waited; Mr. Stonehouse went on:
 
‘As to brains, I am prepared to take the existence of such on my own judgment.  I have been reading men, and in this aspect specially, all my life.  The man I have thought of has brains.  I am satisfied of that, without proof.  I have proof of the other qualities.’  He paused again; as Harold said nothing he continued in a manner ill at ease:
 
‘My difficulty is to make the proposal to the man I want.  It is so difficult to talk business to a man to whom you under great obligation; to whom you owe everything.  He might take a friendly overture ill.’  There was but one thing to be said and Harold said it.  His heart warmed to the kindly old man and he wished to spare him pain; even if he could not accept him proposition:
 
‘He couldn’t take it ill; unless he was an awful bounder.’
 
‘It was you I thought of!’
 
‘I thought so much, sir;’ said Harold after a pause, ‘and I thank you earnestly and honestly.  But it is impossible.’
 
‘Oh, my dear sir!’ said the other, chagrined as well as surprised.  ‘Think again!  It is really worth your while to think of it, no matter what your ultimate decision may be!’
 
Harold shook his head.  There was a long silence.  The old man wished to give his companion time to think; and indeed he thought that Harold was weighing the proposition in his mind.  As for Harold, he was thinking how best he could make his absolute refusal inoffensive.  He must, he felt, give some reason; and his thoughts were bent on how much of the truth he could safely give without endangering his secret.  Therefore he spoke at last in general terms:
 
‘I can only ask you, sir, to bear with me and to believe that I am very truly and sincerely grateful to you for your trust.  But the fact is, I cannot go anywhere amongst people.  Of course you understand that I am speaking in confidence; to you alone and to none other?’
 
‘Absolutely!’ sai............