“Oh, no—­no relation; only I look on her as my own, poor thing, having no father; and she always calls me uncle, as most do us old men in the West.”

“Well, then, sir,” said Tom, “you will answer for none of the four sailors having robbed me?”

“I’ve said it, sir.”

“Was any one else close to her when we were brought ashore?”

“No one but I. I brought her round myself.”

“And who took her home?”

“Her mother and I.”

“Very good.  And you never saw the belt after she had her hands in it?”

“No; I’m sure not.”

“Was her mother by her when she was lying on the rock?”

“No; came up afterwards, just as I got her on her feet.”

“Humph!  What sort of a character is her mother?”

“Oh, a tidy, God-fearing person, enough.  One of these Methodist class-leaders, Brianites they call themselves.  I don’t hold with them, though I do go to chapel at whiles:  but there are good ones among them; and I do believe she’s one, though she’s a little fretful at times.  Keeps a little shop that don’t pay over well; and those preachers live on her a good deal, I think.  Creeping into widows’ houses, and making long prayers—­you know the text.”

“Well, now, Captain Willis, I don’t want to hurt your feelings; but do you not see that one of two things I must believe,—­either that the belt was torn off my waist, and washed back into the sea, as it may have been after all; or else, that—­”

“Do you mean that she took it?” asked Willis, in voice of such indignant astonishment that Tom could only answer by a shrug of the shoulders.

“Who else could have done so, on your own showing?”

“Sir!” said Willis, slowly.  “I thought I had to do with a gentleman:  but I have my doubts of it now.  A poor girl risks her life to drag you out of that sea, which but for her would have hove your body up to lie along with that line there,”—­and Willis pointed to the ghastly row—­” and your soul gone to give in its last account—­You only know what that would have been like—­And the first thing you do in payment is to accuse her of robbing you—­her, that the very angels in heaven, I believe, are glad to keep company with;” and the old man turned and paced the beach in fierce excitement.

“Captain Willis,” said Tom, “I’ll trouble you to listen patiently and civilly to me a minute.”

Willis stopped, drew himself up, and touched his hat mechanically.

“Just because I am a gentleman, I have not accused her; but held my tongue, and spoken to you in confidence.  Now, perhaps, you will understand why I have said nothing to the Lieutenant.”

Willis looked up at him.

“I beg your pardon, sir.  I see now, and I’m sorry if I was rude; but it took me aback, and does still.  I tell you, sir,” quoth he, warming again, “whatever’s true,—­that’s false.  You’re wrong there, if you never are wrong again; and you’ll say so yourself, before you’ve known her a week.  No, sir!  If you could make me believe that, I should never believe in goodness again on earth; but hold all men, and women too, and those above, for aught I know, that are greater than men and women, for liars together.”