Molly, or Mary Swash by her masculine appellation, not only because it is more familiar, but because the other name seems really out of place, as applied to such a person—­as for Jack, then, she sat with her face half averted, thumbing the canvas, and endeavouring to ply the needle, but perfectly mute.  She was conscious that Spike’s eyes were on her; and a lingering feeling of her sex told her how much time, exposure, and circumstances, had changed her person—­and she would gladly have hidden the defects in her appearance.

Mary Swash was the daughter as well as the wife of a ship-master.  In her youth, as has been said before, she had even been pretty, and down to the day when her husband deserted her, she would have been thought a female of a comely appearance rather than the reverse.  Her hair in particular, though slightly coarse, perhaps, had been rich and abundant; and the change from the long, dark, shining, flowing locks which she still possessed in her thirtieth year, to the short, grey bristles that now stood exposed without a cap, or covering of any sort, was one very likely to destroy all identity of appearance.  Then Jack had passed from what might be called youth to the verge of old age, in the interval that she had been separated from her husband.  Her shape had changed entirely; her complexion was utterly gone; and her features, always unmeaning, though feminine, and suitable to her sex, had become hard and slightly coarse.  Still there was something of her former self about Jack that bewildered Spike; and his eyes continued fastened on her for quite a quarter of an hour in profound silence.

“Give me some water,” said the wounded man, “I wish some water to drink.”

Jack arose, filled a tumbler and brought it to the side of the bed.  Spike took the glass and drank, but the whole time his eyes were riveted on the strange nurse.  When his thirst was appeased, he asked—­

“Who are you?  How came you here?”

“I am your nurse.  It is common to place nurses at the bedsides of the sick.”

“Are you man or woman?”

“That is a question I hardly know how to answer.  Sometimes I think myself each; sometimes neither.”

“Did I ever see you before?”

“Often, and quite lately.  I sailed with you in your last voyage.”

“You!  That cannot be.  If so, what is your name?”

“Jack Tier.”

A long pause succeeded this announcement, which induced Spike to muse as intently as his condition would allow, though the truth did not yet flash on his understanding.  At length the bewildered man again spoke.

“Are you Jack Tier?” he said slowly, like one who doubted.  “Yes—­I now see the resemblance, and it was that which puzzled me.  Are they so rigid in this hospital that you have been obliged to put on woman’s clothes in order to lend me a helping hand?”

“I am dressed as you see, and for good reasons.”