'Oh, Captain,' said I, 'home is home.'
'And Mr. Tregarthen wishes to return to his mother,' said Helga.
'But, my dear young lady, your home is not in England, is it?' he asked.
She coloured, faltered, and then answered: 'My home is in Denmark.'
'You have lost your poor dear father,' said he, 'and I think I understood you to say, Mr. Tregarthen, that Miss Nielsen's poor dear mother fell asleep some years since.'
This was a guess on his part. I had no recollection whatever of having told him anything of the sort.
'I am an orphan,' exclaimed Helga, with a little hint of tears in her eyes, 'and—and, Captain Bunting, Mr. Tregarthen and I want to return home.'
'Captain Bunting will see to that, Helga,' said I, conceiving her somewhat too importunate in this direction.
She answered me with a singularly wistful, anxious look.
The conversation came to a pause through the entrance of Punmeamootty. He arrived with a tray and hot water, which he placed upon the table together with some glasses. The Captain produced wine and a bottle of rum. Helga would take nothing, though no one could have been more hospitably pressing than Captain Bunting. For my part, I was glad to fill my glass, as much for the sake of the tonic of the spirit as for the desire to appear entirely sociable with this strange skipper.