"Well, I suppose that a day or so won't make much difference," said Daddy. "How's your coal?"

"Plenty coal, sir."

"All right, get those fellows at work in the engine room, Stefansson. They haven't had much to do of late."

Our skipper departed and I was so happy that I wanted to dance. In the kitchen Susie was washing dishes and assisting her work by intoning the most doleful hymn. I turned up the lamp a little, and things seemed ever so much more cheerful.

So I suppose that I have been ever so foolish. Just now I can hear Daddy and Mr. Barnett saying good night, and I know that they have been fighting tooth and nail over that chess board. And I hear Mr. Barnett thanking Daddy, in a voice that is all choked up with emotion. I am so glad to think the dear little man is happy. Isn't it too bad, Aunt Jennie, that we can't all be happy all the time?

Your loving HELEN.



CHAPTER XV

From John Grant's Diary

Here I am writing again, just for the purpose of trying to keep awake. A fellow in my profession, in such places as this, is much like a billiard ball that finds itself shot into all sorts of corners, without the slightest ordering from any consciousness of its own. I left that child at Atkins' doing fairly well, and have once more been compelled to make one of those rather harrowing choices I dread. I had either to abandon that child, though its mother is fairly intelligent and seems to understand my instructions, fortunately, or to refuse to answer this call, where another man with a large family is lying at the point of death.

It seems strange that I shall probably never see Miss Jelliffe again. The yacht has been delayed for several days, and they did not start as they expected to. But when I return I have no doubt that the Snowbird will be gone, and with it two charming people who will be but delightful memories. I had thought to show Dora how willing I was to do what she calls a man's work, and expected to accomplish it at the cost not only of hard toil, which is an easy enough thing to get through with, but also at the price of exile among dull people. I have had plenty of work, but for the last two months there has not been a stupid moment. The girl's bright intelligence and fine womanliness, the old gentleman's kindly and practical ways, have made my visits to them ever so pleasant, and those journeys to the barrens and the river have been delightful.

And now the Barnetts will be left, pleasanter companions by far than I had any right to expect in this out-of-the-way corner of the island. And then I always hope that Dora will soon be coming home, as she calls it, and I will hasten away to her, and perhaps plead with her for the last time. I do hope she will approve of the man's work; perhaps also of the man!

I last saw Miss Helen the day before yesterday morning, just before the summons came for me to go to Edward's Bay, and she told me she hoped I would return before her departure. She said it so kindly that I am rather proud of having won the friendship of such a splendid girl.

Here I found a man with pneumonia, who has still a chance. His wife and children are sleeping on the floor, all around me. Once more I am seeking to preserve one life, that others may go on too, and I ordered the woman to take a rest, for she has been up two nights.

When I last went to the Jellifies', after changing all my clothes, and taking all possible precautions, I told her that the child was better, and that I was under the impression that the antitoxine was having a favorable effect. Also I informed her that I was going to start Atkins off to St. John's for another supply in case the malady should spread, for I only had about enough left for one bad case.

"I hope he makes good time," I said, "but of course one can never tell, though he's a first rate man and can make his way into the cove in weather of all kinds, barring an offshore gale. Fog doesn't bother him."

"You have had a sleepless night," she told me. "It must have been hard to keep awake after all the work you have done in the last few days."

I assured her that I had enjoyed some sleep, having dozed off several times on my chair. I had ordered Mrs. Atkins, under dire threats, to awaken me at least every half hour, and she had obeyed fairly well.

"You know that we may perhaps be able to leave to-morrow," she said.

"Yes, it is best that you should," I told her. "Your father is quite well able to stand the journey now. They can easily warp the schooner up to the little dock so that he may walk aboard without trouble. I hope this wind may change soon, for just now it looks rather threatening."

We were walking away from the house, in the direction of the cliff which forms one of the iron-bound limits of the cove and extends out into the open sea. Miss Jelliffe was very silent. It is easy to see that she regrets the idea of leaving, but now something seemed to be oppressing her.

"You don't know how greatly I shall miss all this," she told me, in a low voice. "It has been a simple existence full of a charm that has meant more than all the golf and autos and dancing. I have regretted none of the yachting or the Newport gayeties. None of those things compare at all with what one finds in poor old Sweetapple Cove, with all its smell of fish, or even its rains and fogs. These only blot out an outer world that seems of little interest now, and after a while the sun always comes out again."

I walked by her side, and after going for a short distance we sat upon a rock and looked out over the ocean, which extended afar, under a sky that was dark with mountainous masses of piled-up clouds. The great roll of the sea struck the foot of the cliffs rather slowly, as if performing some solemn function, and the swash of the returning water was like some strange dirge. The very waves had lost their blueness and were tinted with a leaden, muddy hue.

"It looks as if some awful storm were coming," said Miss Jelliffe.

"It may pass away," I answered, "but I don't generally shine as a weather prophet."

We sat there for some time, watching the ominous stirring of the clouds, that seemed like an invading army whose might would soon be unleashed and burst out with fierce violence. Then, in the distance, we saw a small boat. The tan-hued sails flapped idly and one could see that the men were rowing hard.

"They are pulling for their lives," I said. "I hope they get in soon. It looks as if they were coming from Edward's Bay. It is likely enough that it is another call for me. All the boats belonging to the Cove are in, as far as I can see. They all know very well what is coming."

"Then you will have to rush away again!" she exclaimed.

"It is all in the game," I answered. "One has to try to play it according to the rules."

"Yes, and you try very hard," she said. "Those journeys over rough waters, those nights of watching, the toil over hopeless cases, the meager reward when devoted care has saved. It is surely a wonderful game, and you play it well."

I have always been glad to see the enthusiasm of healthy and strong young womanhood. The girls of to-day like to see a man's game played, and they surely know how to help.

We continued to watch the small boat, which rose and fell to the swing of the long rollers. The wind was beginning to rise a little, striking the water with black squalls, and we saw the little sails grow rigid as the boat careened and sped towards us like an affrighted bird.

"They will make it all right, thank goodness," I said.

After this we strolled back, to find Susie sitting on the little porch as she mopped her face with her blue apron.

"Look at this silly girl," said Miss Jelliffe. "She has been weeping off and on like a Niobe, and makes me feel like crying too. Among us poor women tears are dreadfully contagious things, and I'm trying hard to escape the infection."

"I can't help it," said the girl, showing a red nose and swollen eyes. "Sweetapple Cove ain't a-goin' ter be the same place after you folks goes. 'Course I knows ye'd have no room fer a girl like me over ter yer place in Ameriky. 'Tain't my fault if we Newfoundlanders is said ter be that green th' devil has to put us in th' smoke-house ter dry afore we'll burn. Ye'd ought ter have hustled me hard an' said mean things ter me. Then I'd 'a' been glad when ye left. It's a sight better ter say good riddance ter bad rubbish than ter lose people one's fond of."

She was bravely trying to smile, and accused herself of being a silly fool. Miss Jelliffe put her hand on the girl's shoulder.

"You never said you would like to go with us, Susie," she said. "I'll be only too glad to take you if you want to come."

"Now don't be after foolin' me jest ter make me stop greetin' like a silly calf!" exclaimed Susie. "Yer sure don't mean it, does yer?"

"Now I am determined to take you if I have to tie you up and have you carried on board by the crew," laughed Miss Helen, whereupon a broad smile illumined the girl's face.

"If I doesn't allers do what yer tells me to," she declared, "ye kin take me by the scruff of me neck an' ship me back ter work on the flakes again. Oh, Lord! I got ter run off an' tell the folks. I'll jest be back in a minute."

She scampered up the path, scaring two goats and sending a hen flying over some palings into a cabbage patch, while we entered the house.

"I am afraid I have come to say good-by, Mr. Jelliffe," I said to Mr. Jelliffe. "I rather think that some one is coming for me to go to the Bay, and I shall probably not be back in time to see you off. Be very prudent about using your leg and have some one hold your arm when you move about the yacht."

"Hold on!" exclaimed Mr. Jelliffe. "First I want to thank you ever so much for the excellent care you have taken of me, and for your kindness to Helen. You have been exceedingly good and attentive to us both. And I want to say that I think you are doing fine work in this jumping-off place, and it seems a pity that a man like you should be wasted here. Now here's a bit of paper in this envelope, and you can spend it on codfish or codfisherrnen, just as you please. Thank you again for my spliced leg, it's a fine job."

He put out his hand, which I shook heartily. Indeed I felt very sorry over this separation. These people are friends such as I have never had yet, and the salt of the earth.

When I sought to open the door I was compelled to push hard against the force of the fierce wind that had arisen during our conversation. The rocky spurs which close in the cove were now a foaming mass over which mighty combers were hurling themselves, to the shrieking of the gale.

I found Miss Jelliffe on the porch, with locks of her hair flying about her pretty head.

"You are not going," she cried. "You can't possibly go off in such a storm."

"I can see that no boat could leave the cove now," I replied, "but if I should be badly wanted I might be able to make my way over there by land."

"Oh! I hope you won't go," she said. "It is a terrible storm."

Some men were coming towards us, their oilskins slatting in the wind that sought to tear them from their backs.

"'Tis a hard bit of a blow, sir," said one of them. "It's too bad, for they is Dicky Jones, as has seven young 'uns, and they says he is mortal sick. The woman o' he she were bawlin' terrible fer us to go an' fetch yer, an' we resked it, but now 'tain't no use, for there ain't no boat could ever get out o' th' cove an' live."

The other man was Sammy, who nodded gravely, in confirmation.

I looked at the raging seas that were now leaping over the little strait into our cove.

"I'll have to try and get there by land," I said.

"'Tis an awful long ways around," said Sammy. "Not as I says it can't be done."

"We's fair done with th' long pull we's had," said the messenger. "I mistrust us men couldn't do it."

"You will stay here and rest," I told him. "I think I will have to try it."

"You goin' now?" asked Sammy.

"I'll be off in a few minutes."

"Then I goes wid yer, in course," said the sturdy old fellow. "I might be hinderin' you a bit with th' walkin', 'count o' them long legs o' yourn, but I knows th' way an' ye'll be safer from gettin' strayed."

So I ran up to Atkins', to see once more how the child was getting on, finding everything satisfactory enough. I left some medicine and gave careful directions, after which I returned to the Jelliffes' house. Miss Helen was waiting, wrapped in a waterproof coat. Her head was bare, and she did not appear to mind the gusts of rain which came down upon it, driven under the porch by the gale.

"Good-by, oh! good-by!" she cried. "Thank you for everything and God be with you!"

She gave me a grip of the hand that was strong with a nervous force one would hardly have deemed her capable of, and I left her regretfully, I must say, for she had become such a comrade as a man seldom meets with. Then Sammy and I started on our long walk over the ridges and barrens, striking well inland. We had been gone but a few minutes before Sweetapple Cove was blotted from our sight by the pelting rain that spattered fiercely over our oilskins.

And now I am putting in another long night.

The storm still beats upon the roof and the wind is howling like some unmerciful beast unleashed. The Snowbird surely could not sail away to-day, for the dawning is showing its first gleams through the tiny window panes, and there is no sign of any change.



CHAPTER XVI

From Miss Helen Jelliffe to Miss Jane Van Zandt

Dearest Aunt Jennie:

Why does the world sometimes seem to turn the wrong way, so that everything becomes miserably topsy-turvy? I have often had to struggle to keep awake when writing you these long letters, which you say you are so glad to get. But now I am writing because I am so dreadfully awake that I don't feel as if I ever could sleep again.

It is now a week since Stefansson came up to the house, and the water dripping from him ran down and joined the baby rivers that were rushing down the little road before our house.

"I've come for orders, Mr. Jelliffe," he said.

"Orders! What orders?" asked Daddy, irascibly. "I'd like to know what orders I can give except to wait till this fiendish weather gets better. You don't expect to start in such a gale, do you?"

"We couldn't make it very well, sir, and that's a fact. I don't even think I could take her out of the cove. If we could only get her clear of the coast we'd be all right enough, but I wouldn't like to take chances."

"Who wants to take chances? Do you suppose I'm so anxious to go that I'm going to risk all our lives? Come back or send word as soon as you think it safe to start. That's all I want. I suppose everything is all right in the engine room now."

Our skipper confirmed this and left. All day the storm gathered greater fury, and has kept it up ever since. At times the rain stops, and the great black clouds race desperately across the sky while the world outside our little cove is a raging mass of spume that becomes wind-torn and flies like huge snow flakes high up in the air. And then the rain begins again, slanting and beating down wickedly, and I feel that no such thing can ever have existed as clear skies and balmy breezes.

A number of hours ago, I don't really know how many, I was sitting with Daddy, who looked very disconsolate. I am afraid that this long storm has got on his nerves, or perhaps the poor dear is worrying about me. I think he has been afraid that I might catch the disease from that sick child. And now I am sure that his worries have increased ever so much, but what can one do when it really becomes a matter of life and death to go out and help, to the best of one's poor abilities? How could any one stand on a river bank, with a rope, however frail, in one's hands, and obey even one's father if he forbade you to throw it to a drowning child?

I am afraid I have again wandered off, as I so often do when I write to you, Aunt Jennie. Well, we were there, and the lamp flickered, and the rain just pelted the house so that it looked as if it were trying to wash us down into the cove. But I heard a knock at the door, and listened, and it came again. So I went and opened it to find Yves, with his long black hair disheveled and his face a picture of awful anxiety. In the gesture of his hands there was pitiful begging, and his voice came hoarsely as he sought to explain his coming.

I interrupted him and bade him enter.

"Pardon," he said, "please pardon. Eet is de leetle bye. All day I wait. I tink heem docteur maybe come back. But heem no come. Maybe you know about leetle byes very seek. You help docteur once."

"I am afraid I know very little, my poor Yves," I cried, shaking my head.

"What is the matter with him, Frenchy?" asked Daddy.

"Me not know, monsieur," he answered. "Heem now cry out heem want la belle dame. Heem lofe de yong lady. Seek all day, de poor leetle bye, an' lie down and cry so moch! An' now heem terreeble red in ze face, an' so hot, an' speak fonny. An' heem don' want eat noding, noding at all. So I know mademoiselle she help fix heem leetle girl, de oder day, an' me tink maybe she tell me what I do. All de oder womans dey know noding at all, an' I hear Docteur say oder day zey all big fool. Please you come, mademoiselle."

"I have to go, Daddy," I cried, and caught up my woollen cap and wrapped myself up in my waterproof.

"I wish you wouldn't, daughter," said poor Daddy. "I am sure it must be something catching."

"I'm so sorry, Daddy, but I just have to go. I'll try to be back soon."

"But why doesn't he go for Mrs. Barnett?" asked Dad. "She knows all about sick babies."

"Oh! I don't want her to be sent for. She has those dear little ones of her own," I said.

Then I kissed him quickly and ran out into the darkness before he could object any further. The wind just tore at me, and I had to seize Frenchy's arm as we splashed through the puddles, with heads bent low, leaning against the storm.

And so we reached the poor little shack Yves calls his home. On the floor he had placed some pans that caught some of the drippings from the leaky roof, and a piece of sail-cloth was stretched upon a homemade pallet covered with an old caribou hide, upon which the poor little fellow was lying. Unable to bear any heat he had cast away all his coverings, in the fever that possessed him, and when I heard him moan and knelt beside him he stretched out his arms to me, and his pleading face grew sweet with hope.

"Heem too young to be widout moder ven seek," said Frenchy, apologetically. "Heem moder is dead."

I bathed the hot little head, and the touch of my hand made the poor wee thing more contented. After this I sent Frenchy to our house for some alcohol, with which I washed the boy, who finally fell into a restless sleep.

Frenchy had placed his only chair near the pallet for me, and after a while he drew up a big pail, on the bottom of which he sat, with his elbows upon his knees and his jaws in the palm of his hands, staring at the child. One could see that an immense fear was upon the man, but that my presence was of some comfort to him. It really looks as if men in trouble always seek help from women, and this poor fellow was now leaning upon me, just as I had leaned on his big arm when we had made our way through the storm. Something was tearing away at his heart-strings, and after a time the pain of it, I think, opened the fount of his memories, as if an irresistible desire had come upon him for the balm there is in pouring them out.

How can I tell you all that he said? It was in fragments, disconnected, and represented the great tragedy of a humble life. I remember that several times, while he told it to me, my hand rested in sympathy upon that great arm of his, that had now become very weak. It was at first just the simplest little tale of love somewhere on the coast of Brittany, and of vows exchanged before a Virgin that stretched out her arms towards the sea. And then Yves was taken away upon a warship, and there were tears and prayers for his return. He couldn't remember all the countries from which he had sent letters, but after many months answers ceased to come.

Then a new recruit had joined, who belonged to his town, and informed him that the family had moved away on the other side of the ocean, to St. Pierre-Miquelon. So Yves had written, but still no letters came. But one day it chanced that the cruiser was sent up there, to keep an eye on the fisheries, and he was in a fever of waiting until they should arrive. On the first day that he obtained shore leave he had wandered up and down the little streets, and looked at names over cafes and shops, and asked questions of all who would listen to him. No one knew anything of Jeanne-Marie Kermadec. At last one man remembered that a family of that name had remained less than a year and had gone back to France.

Then he had wandered off again, and from the cafes comrades of his called to him to join them, but he strolled on, and suddenly he had seen a hollow-eyed woman enter a drinking-shop, and on her arm she bore a baby. So of course he had followed her, feeling as if he had been very drunk. But he had not had a drop. She had gone to a bleary man who sat at a little table, with others, and tried to make him come out with her. But the man swore at her, and the woman left, crying, and Yves had followed her out into the street, and when he spoke she knew him, and cried harder. So he had gone as far as her house, and then she wept on his shoulder. Her people had gone away but she had remained, for her love had gone out to this man and the Virgin on the hill was very far away. At first she had been very happy, but now Yves could see what was happening, and the baby was very hungry, for there was no bread in the house.

Then Yves had emptied his pocket on the table and gone away, very unsteadily, and some of the men on his ship laughed at him. But perhaps he was looking dangerous, because after he had glared at them once they left him alone.

After this he had met Jeanne-Marie several times, but his ship soon left on a trip to some places in Canada. In one of these there was a great coal mine near the sea, and in another town perched queerly on a rock they had anchored in the Saint Laurent. Yes, perhaps it was Quebec; he knew the people spoke French there. Then after a time the cruiser had returned to St. Pierre. He thought it might be better not to go back to that house, but he found that he could not keep away.

It was some illness he did not know that killed her. Yes, he had been there when she died, and had paid money to a doctor and to the priest. Perhaps she just died of not having enough to eat, he didn't know. She had asked him to kiss her before she died, and it was the only time since he had left Brittany. Then Jeanne-Marie's husband had come into the house, and borrowed five francs from him and was very maudlin, and asked what the devil he was going to do with that brat, which cried all the time. But the little one was quiet when Yves took it in his arms, so poor Frenchy asked if he might take it, because he knew it would die if left there. The man had laughed, so he had taken it on his arm and wandered out in the street with it, and a quarter-master asked him what he was doing with a baby. He answered that he didn't know, for one can't take little ones away on warships. He had met a man from the French shore, who told him there was a schooner from Newfoundland which had lost two men in a blow, and needed a hand or two. Then he had gone and offered to ship for nothing, if they would let him take the baby. Yes, they had laughed at him, but the skipper was drunk and good-natured, and told him to come aboard. He had done so at night, when no one was looking, and had with him some milk that comes in cans. So they had sailed away for Newfoundland, and he supposed it was as good a place as any for a man who was now a deserter. Very likely they had looked for him a long time, and had been surprised, for he was accounted a good man. Anyway it was Jeanne-Marie's baby, and one could not leave it to be neglected and to die, because Jeanne-Marie had loved it very much.

Of course he would never see France again, unless the boy died. If this happened he would go and give himself up, because nothing would matter any more. So many of his shipmates had gone to lands of black and yellow people, and had never returned. They were dead, and some day he also would be dead, and it made no difference.

I really think, Auntie dear, that he had quite forgotten me as he spoke, low, haltingly, in mingled French and English words. He was just rehearsing to himself something that had been all of his life, because everything that had happened before, and the struggle for a living afterwards, were of no moment. Through the poor man's ignorance, through his wondrous folly, I could discern an immense love that had overpowered him and broken him forever. He was an exile from his beloved land of Brittany, and would never see its heather and gorse again, or the flaming foxgloves that redden some of its fields.

And all this because of a little child that was the only thing left that had belonged to the woman he had loved so greatly! He said that perhaps that Virgin on the hills might still be looking far out over the waters, and he knelt before a little crucifix which hung from a nail in the rough boards of the walls. I heard him repeating, in a low voice, in soft quick words, the prayers his faith led him to hope might be hearkened to by the Lady of Sorrows, as she watched from that little hill on the other side of the great sea.

The poor candle was guttering and the wind howled outside. I looked around and saw the few clothes hanging from pegs, the rusty cracked stove, the table made of rough boards, the bunk filled with dry moss and seaweed, and then my eye caught one flaring note of color. It was a gaudily hued print representing a woman holding aloft a tricolor flag, and labelled La Republique Francaise! And the poor cheap picture was all of the inheritance of this man, marooned and outlawed for the sake of a woman and her dying kiss, which had been the only reward of all his devotion.

So I sat there, awed by the greatness of it all. There were no tears in my eyes; indeed, it seemed too big a thing for tears, a revelation and an outlook upon life so vast that it held me spell-bound. I had never realized that love could be such a thing as that, feeding upon a mere sad memory, able to take this rough viking of a man and toss him, a plaything of its stupendous force, upon these barren rocks. Surely it was arrant folly, utter insanity, but it showed that men's lives are not regulated by clockwork, and that, however erring an ideal may be, the passions it may inspire can bring out the greatness of manhood or the ardent devotion of women.

It awed me to think that among the teeming millions of the earth there were thousands upon thousands bound to potential outbursts of a love that may slumber quietly until death or awake, great and inspiring in its might.

As the muttered prayers went on I watched the uneasy tossing of the child, until Susie Sweetapple came in, hurried and dripping.

"You's got ter come home," she said. "Yer father he's bawlin' as how he wants yer back. My, the poor mite of a young 'un! The face o' he looks dreadful bad! D'ye know it's most midnight? Come erlong now, ma'am."

I rose, feeling very trembly about the knees. There was nothing that I could do. I could not let poor Daddy worry any longer about me.

"Come for me, Yves," I told the man, "if he seems worse, or if there is anything I can do."

He came to me, and I saw that his eyes were full of tears as I put my hand out to him. He lifted it up to his lips with a sob.

So we two hurried back home. By this time the wind had abated a little, and the moon was shining through some great rifts in the clouds, the waters of the cove reflecting a shiny path. The road was no longer in darkness; I could see it dimly, rising to higher ground.

I will write again very soon, Your loving HELEN.



CHAPTER XVII

From Mr. Walter B. Jelliffe to Miss Jane Van Zandt

My dear Jennie:

You know I'm no great hand at letter writing when I have no stenographer at hand. It may not be courteous of me to say I am writing to you because I am the lonesomest old party you have seen in a half a century, but you have your dear sister's sweet disposition, and I know you will forgive me. I am all alone in this packing-box of a house, when I expected to be at sea and sailing for Newport to say how d'you do on my way to New York. I wanted to have the pleasure of seeing your kindly face and of having you take that niece of yours in hand for a time. The girl is getting beyond me, and when I want to bluster she looks at me just as her mother used to and I get so weak that you could knock me over with a feather. She looks so much like Dorothy that sometimes I have to pinch myself to make sure it is not her mother sitting at the other end of the table.

When a man is sixty, and begins to think he owns his fair share of the earth, or even a bit more, I daresay that it does him good to be humbled a little, but it's a hard thing to become used to. Hitherto when Helen wanted anything I always let her have it, for on the whole she has always been sensible in her desires and requests, or maybe I have been an old fool. Didn't some Frenchman say once that an old man is a fellow who thinks himself wise because he's been a fool longer than other people? Anyway, that's me! For the last few days I have been itching to scrap with her, and I find she minds me about as much as the man in the moon.

Of course, Jennie, it is a disgruntled old brother-in-law who writes this, and you will have to make allowances.

Would you believe that last night she went out and remained till after midnight in a sailor's house, watching a sick child, after I had objected to her doing so, as forcibly as I could? I had to send the queer female native who looks after us to that shanty to bring her back, and the child returned with swollen eyes and a drawn face that positively hurt me to see. She has derived so much benefit from her stay here, and was looking so splendidly just a few days ago, that I felt angry enough to have whipped her, if a silly old chap like me could ever chastise a daughter like Helen. At any rate I rushed her off to bed, and I know she never went there for a long time. I have no doubt that instead of sleeping she was probably scribbling to you.

This morning she was down before eight, and I will acknowledge that she looked better than I had expected. Yet there were great dark rings under her eyes, and I tried to look as disagreeable as possible. But you women are too smart for an old fellow like me. She simply cuddled up to me as I sat in the only armchair in Sweetapple Cove and put her arm around my neck, and I could only grumble a little like a decrepit idiot.

Then she looked out of doors and rushed back again, and put on that crazy woollen cap you crocheted for her, and opened the door to the kitchen, where Susie was singing some hoarse ditty of her own, and told her that she was going out again to see that child, and that she would be back in a few minutes. That Susie showed her sense, and I'm going to give her a big tip.

"Ye'll not be doin' no sich thing," shrieked our domestic. "They be plenty sickness already in th' Cove, an' Doctor not back yet. Ye'll jist take yer coffee as is waitin' fer ye, an' not be goin' ter see illness on a empty stummick. An' Captain he've been round ter say they is still quite a jobble of a sea outside but he can make it fine, and he've steam up. So it's good-by to th' Cove this fine marnin.'"

"Yes," I said hurriedly. "We're off just as soon as we've had breakfast and the men have moved everything down to the yacht. It is a corking fine day, and as we're all proof against sea-sickness we've got nothing to worry over. Of course you're all played out after that nursing all night, and are a foolish girl, but I suppose one can't keep women away from those jobs. Sit right down and have your breakfast."

"I'll have to see that child before we leave, Daddy," she said, "and—and—and then I will be all ready."

She spoke in such a queer way that I was positively alarmed. I am sure I have never seen her look like that.

"What's the matter?" I asked her. "You speak in such a weary, discouraged way that you must be getting ill. You have simply tired yourself to death over that boy of Frenchy's. By George! But I'll be glad when we get away from this place!"

And then the minx looked at me, just as sweetly as ever, and her voice had that little caressing tone of hers.

"Don't worry, dear Daddy, I'll have plenty of rest at sea," she told me.

So we had our breakfast, very pleasantly, and I was thanking my stars that all our troubles would be over in no time, little thinking that they were just beginning. So I rose, and took my stout cane, very proud of showing the population how nicely I could walk, and went out on the porch, ready to go on board the yacht. The men were coming up to get our baggage and the furniture we had taken from the Snowbird, and Susie was ready to boss them. Then Helen, who had run upstairs, came down and joined me.

"I'll help you down the road, Daddy," she said, "and after that I'll run back to Frenchy's. I hear that Mr. Barnett went off somewhere in the middle of the night, so as to return in time to see us off. He will be back soon, and an hour or so won't matter, will it? The Snowbird doesn't run on a schedule, Dad."

I looked at my watch, it was a quarter to nine.

"We're off by ten," I said. "First thing I know we won't get away till afternoon if I listen to you another minute."

We had gone but a very little way down the road, which is nothing but a deplorable sort of goat-path or gutter running down the side of the hill, when we saw Dr. Grant coming down from Sammy's house, and the old fisherman was remonstrating with him. My dear Jennie, it gave me the shock of my life! The young man was actually staggering, and I immediately decided that he was drunker than a whole batch of lords.

"Yer isn't fit ter be goin'," the old fellow was objecting. "Ye jist come back ter th' house an' git ter bed, where ye belongs. Ye'll get a mite o' sleep an' feel better. 'Tain't fair ter be goin' again right off. You can't hardly be a-holdin' of yerself up."

Of course all this made me positive that the doctor had been hitting a bottle pretty hard, and I was angry and sorry that Helen should see it too, because she's taken a huge liking to that chap, and hitherto I could hardly blame her. When I turned to her she was staring at him, and looked as if some one had hit her with a club.

"It is too bad, daughter," I said. "I would never have thought that he was that kind of a man."

Then the poor girl grabbed my arm with a clutch which actually hurt.

The doctor and the old man were coming very near. I saw the lad look up at us, and it was really pathetic to see how he tried to straighten himself up and steady his gait as he took his cap off, with a shaking hand.

"It's really too bad," I said again.

And then Helen just stared at me for an instant, shaking her head.

"I don't believe it," she cried. "I won't believe it."

She let go my arm and dashed away from me. I could see that the poor child was moved again by that instinct of helpfulness which you dear women have, and by the sense of loyalty to friends which girls like Helen always show.

"Oh! What is the matter?" she cried.

Then I saw the doctor move back, and hold up his hand as if seeking to repel her.

"Go back! Don't come near me," he said, hoarsely, and hurried on, unsteadily, while she stood there, dumbfounded, unable to understand. I saw her sense of helplessness grow into resentment and wounded pride. The poor little girl was hurt, Jennie, deeply hurt.

Our men had already invaded the house and were carrying the things away, and the population of Sweetapple Cove was gathering, for our departure was even a more wonderful event than our arrival. There was not a house in the Cove that Helen had not visited, and she has made friends with every last Tom, Dick and Harry in the place, and their wives and children. I know that the women have appreciated her friendly interest in their humble lives. Some little children were howling, possibly at the prospect of being henceforth deprived of the sweets she has distributed among them. All the fish-houses and the flakes were deserted, though it was a fine drying day. The men came towards us, with slightly embarrassed timidity, and I shook hands all around as they grinned at us and wished us a good journey. They actually wanted to carry me down to the yacht.

So I took Helen's arm again, after declining their kind offers, and began my slow descent to the cove.

My poor girl was walking very erect, and she often smiled at the people who surrounded us. But I could see that it took the greatest effort on her part. I'm sure she was impatient to be gone and wanted to shut herself up in her stateroom. It was so hard, Jennie, to see the dear child whose nature has ever been such a happy, cheery one, and who has never seemed to have a moment's suffering in her life, give such evidence of pain and sorrow.

It was at this moment, Jennie, that the suspicion entered my soul, that I had been wrong in letting her enjoy so much of the society of this young man, who is certainly a fine, attractive fellow when in his right mind. Isn't it wonderful how young people become attracted by one another, and their heads and hearts get filled while we old people can only worry, for whether they choose well or ill it always ends in our being left alone.

I noticed that Frenchy and Sammy were not among the people who crowded about us to say good-by. I looked for them in vain, and was a bit hurt that they should be absent, for we have become very fond of them. Helen was also searching the friendly faces, and I knew that she missed them.

Her head was held high up, and but for the little curling up of her lip, in which her teeth bit hard, she would have looked a picture of serene indifference. We were nearing Frenchy's shack, in front of which the path leads to the cove, and finally we were opposite the ramshackle place. It must be very dreadful to a girl, who has learned to admire a man, perhaps even to love him, to discover that her idol has feet of clay. She had allowed the best of her nature, I could see it now, to be drawn in admiration and regard towards a man she deemed unworthy. That odor of the fish-houses had always been bad enough before, but now it seemed to rise in her nostrils and sicken her. And now, Jennie, I can only repeat Puck's words, "What fools we mortals be!"

That man Frenchy rushed out of the door as we were going by. His face looked as if he had been suffering tortures.

"Please, please!" he cried. "Come, vite, heem Docteur hawful seek. Me no can stan' it no more! You so good in de las' night, mademoiselle, now please come in, for de lofe of le bon Dieu!"

And then the strain that had been on the heart of my poor girl seemed to give way, suddenly. The tension was released, like a powerful spring, and the hardness went out of her face. She dropped my arm and dashed past the man who sought her help, and entered the place, where I followed as fast as my leg would let me.

First she looked towards the child, which I suppose she expected to see under a sheet that would have just revealed the stark little form, but the little thing was smiling at her, weakly.

"Je vous aime bien" he said.

Then her eyes filled with tears, and she turned towards the man who, with a gesture of his hand, had swept her from his path. He had arisen on her entrance, and leaned hard on the back of the chair. To my surprise he spoke quite composedly, and I realized I had made an awful mistake.

"This is all wrong, Miss Jelliffe," he said. "I tried to prevent Yves from calling you. The child has diphtheria and you must leave at once."

The man's voice was frightfully hoarse, and he unconsciously put his hand up to his throat. She looked at him without answering. Then she went up to the little table and picked up a small vial she had noticed.

"Antitoxine, seven thousand units," she read. Then she took up a small glass syringe armed with a bright steel needle, and stared at it.

"You have given it to the child?" she asked.

"Yes, just a few minutes ago," he answered. "We only left Edward's Bay at sunrise. The man is getting well. I was told of this case and went up to Sammy's for the antitoxine."

"But it was the last you had!" she cried, "and Atkins has only been able to start this morning for more, and the wind is very bad for him. It may be days before he returns."

The man shrugged his shoulders, very slightly, and Helen went up to him, scrutinizing his face, silently. Then she put her fingers on the wrist that was supporting his hand on the back of the chair.

"I am not well," he said, "and I wish you would leave. I think I will have to let Mrs. Barnett into this mess. She's away at Goslett's house, where they expect a baby."

"How long have you known that you had diphtheria too?" asked Helen, and I could detect in her voice an intensity of reproof that was wonderful, for she was scolding the man, just as excited mothers sometimes scold a little one that has fallen down and hurt itself.

"I was beginning to feel it last night," he answered, "but please go away now, for it is dangerous."

Then he addressed me.

"Mr. Jelliffe, do take her away. I hear that she was here last night and remained for hours. You will take her away to St. John's at once, and have her given a preventive injection. Now please hurry off."

I could see that the poor chap's voice rasped his throat painfully. His two hands dropped to his side, with the palms turned forward, in a feeble gesture of entreaty.

"You knew this morning that you had it," said Helen again. "And you only had that vial and used it all for the boy."

He nodded, with another slight shrug of his shoulders.

"I see that you have been playing the game!" she said quietly.

Then she turned to me, seizing one of my arms.

"Hurry!" she cried. "You must hurry, Daddy. Why don't you go on? He has diphtheria, and perhaps half the people here will have it now. Perhaps he is going to die! Come, Daddy, you must hurry. The Snowbird will take you to St. John's and you must buy antitoxine, a lot of it, and come back with it at once. And you should get a doctor, and a nurse or two, and I will stay here, and please don't look at me that way! Do hurry, Daddy! Oh! I was forgetting your poor leg. Never mind, take your time, Daddy, but as soon as you are on board make them hurry. Susie will stay with me. A few days won't matter, Daddy!"

"Oh! Daughter. Please come," I implored her. "I promise that I will send the yacht back at once with a doctor and everything."

She looked at me in amazed surprise.

"But how can I leave now, Dad?" she asked. "Don't you understand that a lot of people may die if you don't get help at once, and of course I must stay. You will do your best, won't you? Come, dear, and let me help you down the path. You can be gone in a few minutes."

"Leave you here!" I exclaimed, indignantly. "You are crazy, girl! I'll stay with you, of course. Here, some of you fellows, run down to the cove and tell my skipper to come here at once."

So I stood there, just outside the door, watching a man scramble down the road, who finally returned with Stefansson. Helen stood perfectly still, except for the toe of one of her boots, which was tapping a tattoo on the boards.

"Get the Snowbird under weigh at once," I shouted. "Run up to St. John's and buy all the antitoxine you can get hold of, any amount, barrels of it, if it comes that way. And bring a doctor back with you. Promise him all the money he wants. And get a nurse, or a couple of them, or a dozen. Regular trained nurses, you understand. Yes, it's antitoxine I want. Write it down. It's the stuff they use for diphtheria. Then get back here at once. Carry all the sail she'll bear and all the steam she'll take. Look lively and don't waste a minute. Here, you Sammy! Go aboard too and help pilot her back if it's dark or foggy. Good luck to you and jump her for all she's worth!"

I suppose I spoke like a crazy man, but the two started down hill. Stefansson, who has long legs, only beat the old fellow by a skip and a jump. Then I saw the men casting off the hawsers, and the thin film of smoke became black, and the good old Snowbird shook herself. I was tickled to see how a crew of chaps used to count seconds in racing were handling her. She was moving, the smoke pouring thicker and thicker from her funnel, and the screw began to churn hard. Then her sharp bowsprit turned around a little, till it was aimed at that cleft between the rocks. She gathered speed and struck the billowing seas outside and turned a bit. Then the big sails began to rise, as did the jibs, and I saw a man run out to the end of the bowsprit as a thick white rope ran up to the fore topmast head and broke out into a fleecy white cloud of silk. Then, under the great balloon jib topsail my little ship flew off like a scared bird and disappeared behind the edges of the cliffs.

"Byes, did yer ever see the like o' that?" shouted an old fisherman, enthusiastically. "My, but Sammy's a lucky dog ter be gettin' sich a sail. I'd give a quintal fer the chance."

I must say that I was pleased with this expert appreciation, and began to feel better.

"But why didn't we send the doctor on her?" I suddenly asked. "He would have been attended to sooner. We could have taken him with us."

"He wouldn't have gone," said Helen, whose cheeks had now become red with excitement. "He would never leave until some one came to take his place. He thinks he can still help that child of Frenchy's."

So after a time we returned to the house we had thought we were seeing the last of, and it seemed very different, having been dismantled of many things which were now lying on the dock.

Helen sat down for a moment, putting her elbows on the table and resting her face on her hands. So of course I went to her, and stroked her head, and she looked at me with eyes that were full of tears.

"I'm ashamed," she said. "At first I thought just as you did. I was sure he had been drinking. And he seemed so awfully rude when he motioned me away. But he could hardly drag himself, the poor fellow, and he was trying to keep me away from him, because he was afraid for me."

She was utterly disconsolate, and I could only keep on stroking the child's head as I used to, when she came to seek consolation for babyish sorrows. Of course I was worried about her, and realized how helpless I was. She hadn't grown over night, naturally, yet something appeared to have been added to her stature. She was a woman now, full of the instincts of womanhood, and she was escaping from my influence. Her life was shaping itself independently of me. It is pretty tough, Jennie, to see one's ewe lamb slipping away. She loves me dearly, I know it, but she is now flowering into something that will never be entirely mine again, and the realization of it is cutting my heart.

After a moment she was restless again, and we went out on the porch. We could hear Susie Sweetapple messing about in her kitchen, whose destinies she again cheerfully controls, and presently some men came down the road, carrying a bed.

"'Un says he've got ter have his bed at Frenchy's," one of them explained to me.

"'Un's scared to give the diphtherias ter Sammy's young 'uns."

They started again, wiping their brows, for the late September day was growing warm, and soon after we saw a small boat entering the cove and Helen, who seems to know everything about this place, declared that it was not one of our boats, as she calls the fleet at Sweetapple Cove. It reached the dock and a man jumped out while the sails were still slatting.

Susie had stuck her head out of the window.

"'Un's parson comin'," she announced.

Mr. Barnett hastened towards us as fast as his little legs would carry him. He passed Frenchy's house, not knowing that the doctor was there, and stopped in surprise when he saw us.

"I thought I was too late!" he exclaimed. "We saw the Snowbird flying, miles away, and I thought I should never see you again."

"The doctor is at Frenchy's!" cried Helen. "He is dreadfully ill. Please go and see what you can do for him."

"I'll go at once," he replied. "We intercepted the mail-boat and I have a letter for you, Mr. Jelliffe, and one for the doctor. I hear he saved that man's life, over to the Bay. Been up with him day and night. You can't understand what it means to us to have a man like him here, who permeates us all with his own brave confidence. The blessing of it! It was a terrible storm that he went through when he walked over to the Bay. It is an awful country, and his steps were surely guided over pitfalls and rocks."

The little man is quite admirable in the sturdiness of his faith, in the power of his belief, that is the one supreme ideal always before him, and I shook hands with him.

"But I fear he is very ill now. A boy just told me they had to carry him from his boat, when he returned this morning."

"I'll go with you now to Frenchy's," said Helen.

"Are you not afraid?" asked the little parson.

"Are you?" she asked, just a little rudely, I fear.

"With me it is a matter of duty and love, you know," he replied.

"With me also," she said, with head bent down. Then she looked up again.

"I don't think you have any better right to expose yourself than I," she said, with spirit. "You have children of your own, and a wife to think of. Your life is a full one, rounded out and devoted to a work that is very great. Mine is only beginning; nothing has come from it yet; I have done nothing. It all lies before me and I won't stand aloof as if I were outside of laboring humanity, while there is sickness to be fought. I'm going with you."

She came to me.

"I hope you don't think I'm very bad, Daddy?" she said. "I'm sorry to give you so much trouble, but something tells me I must go. I just have to!"

I looked at her, as she walked rapidly away with the parson, and then sat down on the steamer chair that had been brought up again, and for the first time I felt that age was creeping up on me. It looks as if all of us, ill or hale, poor or rich, are but the playthings of nature, bits of flotsam on the ocean of human passions. Your poor dear sister, Jennie, died young, and I believe that her life with me was a happy one as long as she was spared. After a little while Helen began to fill some of the emptiness she had left, but now there come again to me memories of a sweet face, uplifted lovingly to my own, and I am overcome with a sense of loss indescribable. And yet this is mingled with some pride. My daughter is no doll-like creature, no romantic, unpractical fool destined to be nothing but a clog to the man who may join his life to hers. She will never lag behind and cry for help, and hers will be the power to walk side by side with him. She can never be a mere bauble, and will play her own part.

Oh! Jennie. The pluck of the child, the readiness with which she wants to give the best of herself because she thinks it right and just, and because she refuses to concede to others a monopoly of helpful love!

That young man, if he lives, will be a fit mate for any woman, but I swear to you that if it comes to that I will insist upon paying the salary of some man to take his place. I want my girl nearer to me than in Sweetapple Cove!

After a time I pulled out the letter Mr. Barnett had handed me. It was from that young rascal Harry Lawrence. He says he's heard from you about that caribou shooting, and wants to come up anyway and find out how I look after my tough summer in this neck of the woods, and he's never been to Newfoundland anyway, etc., etc.

Of course that boy cares as much for my looks as for those of the Egyptian Sphinx. At one time I really hoped that Helen and he, since she would have to leave me some day, might grow fond of one another. I know how devoted he is to my girl, but I'm afraid she has made her own choice. I must write to Harry that we shall be leaving before long and that it will be too late for him to come now,—as, indeed, it is. What puzzles me is that, on his own part, that doctor never has seemed to be anything but a good friend to Helen. I suppose I was an old fool, and never saw things that went on under my nose. Poor Harry, he's such a splendid lad, and his father was my dearest friend, as you know.

Helen has been gone for hours, and I'm going to send Susie after her. In the meanwhile I have sought to possess my soul in patience by writing to you.

Affectionately yours, WALTER



CHAPTER XVIII

From Miss Helen Jelliffe to Miss Jane Van Zandt

Dearest Aunt Jennie:

It is very disturbing to think that one has, in some ways, been a very naughty bad girl, and yet to be utterly unable to see how one could have acted any differently.

It is my fault that we are still here, though we were all ready to start, and were on our way to the yacht when we discovered that Dr. Grant had just returned from one of the outports and was dreadfully ill. He has been so kind to us that it was utterly impossible for us to leave him at such a time and I just had to insist on delaying our departure, and of course I made poor Daddy very miserable. The Snowbird had to wing its flight away without us, hastening to seek help. We needed succor ever so badly, so very badly that if one of those strange vows of ancient days could have hastened her return by one little hour I would willingly have undertaken to drag myself on my knees along scores of miles of this rock-strewn shore. I begged Dad to send her, and he did, at once, for he was only too glad to do anything he could for the doctor, but he has been so dreadfully anxious on my account, and was so eager to take me away at once to some big place where I could be treated if I fell ill. You understand, of course, that I am not ill at all, and never was better in my life, and that there is no reason at all to be afraid for me.

Mr. Barnett and I left the house yesterday morning to go to the Frenchman's place, where the doctor has insisted on remaining. I was quite surprised to see a number of people around the poor little shack.

They all knew that Dr. Grant was very ill, and were gathered there with anxious faces. They simply looked worried to death. Isn't it wonderful, Aunt Jennie, how some people have the faculty of causing themselves to be loved by every one? Of course, his coming here has been such a great thing for these poor fishermen that they have learned to regard him as their best friend, one whose loss would be a frightful calamity. He certainly has never spared himself in their behalf.

Mr. Barnett stopped to shake hands with a few of them, and I heard little bits of their talk, which made me feel very unhappy.

"I jist seen Frenchy little whiles ago," one of them was saying, "and they wuz tears runnin' erlong the face o' he. Yes, man, he were cryin' like a young 'un, though some does say as his bye be better. Things must sure be awful bad with th' doctor."

The fisherman brandished his splitting knife as he spoke, and, with his torn oilskins dripping with blood and slime he was a terrible-looking figure, until his arms fell to his side and he stood there, an abject picture of dejection.

Then I heard a woman's voice. She is a poor thing whose husband and two sons were "ketched" last year, as they say, by these dreadful seas, and some think that her brain is a little affected.

"I mistrust as they is times when th' Lord 'Un's kept too busy ter be tendin' ter all as needs Him bad," she cried.

"Hush, woman!" an old man reproved her. "Ye'll be temptin' the wrath o' God on all of us wid sich talkin's."

The poor creature stopped, awed by the dread possibilities of bringing down further punishment upon the Cove, and began to weep in silence.

The men had removed their sou'westers and their caps when we came up to them. I believe that our arrival relieved them a little from their fears. They have such a touching faith in all who have been kind and friendly to them. It looked as if our coming was something material that they could lean upon, for, in their ignorance, they deem us capable of achieving wonderful things. I am certain that they firmly believe that their little parson is able to intercede with higher powers far more effectively than they possibly can, with their humble prayers. So a few of them returned to their fish-houses, and women and children hastened back to the flakes, since the sun was shining and the cod must be dried even if the heavens fall. I remember that when we entered the house I was very nervous and afraid. It is very natural, Aunt Jennie, for a girl to be frightened when she has never seen much sickness before, and one is lying helpless who has always been such a kind friend.

His little iron bed had been put up in a corner of the room, and the doctor was lying upon it, with his face very red. His breathing came very hard and rapidly, and it was horribly distressing to see a man brought to such a state, who, a few days ago, was so full of life and strength. Yet when he saw me he made an effort to rise to a sitting position, and his eyes brightened, but he looked anxiously at me.

"You haven't gone yet," he said, hoarsely. "And you, Barnett, have you no regard for your little chaps? You have no right to be here, and Frenchy is looking after me all right."

"You keep your breath to cool your porridge, boy," said the little parson. "I'm in charge now."

What a queer sort of freemasonry there must be among strong men, Aunt Jennie, which allows them to say gruff things to one another in friendly tones. The sick man seemed to recognize the little parson's authority and lay back, exhausted and conquered.

"I've done all I could," he said.

I was so sorry to hear the tone of discouragement in his voice. He is just a man, Aunt Jennie, with a man's weaknesses and a man's strength, and for the moment the latter had forsaken him. I suppose that some of his self-reliance had gone, for after a moment he smiled at us, and doubtless was glad to have friends with him and was comforted by their sympathy.

I could not help marvelling at the efficiency of the little parson, who, before they had a doctor here, was compelled to do the best he could to take care of sick people, assisted by his wife. He questioned the doctor, who wearily told him of some things that might be done for him, but without appearing to care. Mr. Barnett ran out of the house and up to Sammy's, returning with some bottles. He looked at labels ever so carefully and mixed some drugs with water, after which he wound some cotton on a stick to make a sort of a brush.

"Now sit up a little and let me fix your throat," he said. "Yes, you've got to take some of your own medicine now, old fellow. Frenchy, you get behind him and hold him up. The light is poor here; better bring your candle. Miss Jelliffe, hold it just this way for me. That's good. Now open your mouth, my boy."

He swabbed the throat, in which there were ugly, white patches, so conscientiously that it brought on severe coughing, and after this he compelled the doctor to swallow some medicine.

"If keeping at it will do you any good, old man, you may depend on me. And now we'll have a look at that kiddie."

I looked around the room, where there was an awful penury of all sorts of things, so that I went up to our house and brought back some provisions. I am afraid that I established a corner in milk, for I took nearly all that the poor, lone, lean cow of Sweetapple Cove could provide.

When Mr. Barrett finally sat down I noticed that he looked quite weary and exhausted.

"Now you must go to our house," I told him, "and get Susie to give you something to eat. I am sure that you have had nothing since last night, and I won't have you falling ill too. I have arranged it all, so please don't say anything but just go, and don't hurry back. There is plenty of time and poor Daddy would be so glad to see you. I am sure it would do him a lot of good. I can watch both the patients perfectly well. And, Frenchy, you must go too and Susie will look after you. You look perfectly starved, and I'm sure you've forgotten to have any breakfast. Make him go with you, Mr. Barnett!"

They protested a little, but finally went out, reluctantly.

Of course I have always looked after Daddy's comfort a good deal, but when you have plenty of servants it is very easy to do, especially when one has also an Aunt Jennie to come around from time to time and put fear in their hearts, when they don't behave. But it seemed to me that this was really the first time that I had tried to take charge of things, although it didn't really amount to anything. I suppose it comes quite naturally to a woman to boss things a little in a household.

But now all I could do was to sit down by the bed, with my hands folded in my lap. I have seen so many women do this for hours at a time, Aunt Jennie, and I could never understand how they did it without an awful attack of the fidgets. But now I think I have found the solution. I am persuaded that these women just sit down quietly, and that the strength flows back into them in some mysterious way, and presently they become as strong as ever, just as happens with those storage batteries of the automobile, which are all the time having to be recharged. I don't exactly know what the folded hands have to do with it, but they are certainly an indispensable part of the process.

Dr. Grant rested quietly enough, and sometimes, when he opened his eyes, I saw that he looked at me, in a strange, sad way. But he was exhausted by the malady and the hard work of the previous days, and seemed too utterly weary to be suffering much pain. At times the little boy would moan, and I would go to him. It would only take a passing of my hand over the little forehead, or a drink of water, to quiet him again. The poor wee man loves me, I think, and I hope he will never know what a tragedy he is responsible for, but, indeed, I hope he will learn, some day, that this great, rough fisherman, Yves, has laid down all of his life for him. When the child was quiet I would return and sit again by the doctor.

After a short time Mr. Barnett and Yves returned, and were soon followed by Daddy and Susie, whose sturdy arm supported him. Poor Dad! He was looking aged and worried, and I felt ever so sorry for him.

Susie's way of speaking to people is invariably to address them as if they were rather deaf, and as if no one else could possibly hear.

"Yis, sor," she was saying, "it's jist as you says, a real crazy, foolish thing. But fur as I kin see them kind o' things is what makes up the most o' folk's lives. They is some gits ketched all by theirselves, and others gits ketched tryin' ter help others, and some niver gits ketched at all an' dies peaceful in the beds o' they. If there didn't no one take chances th' world wouldn't hardly be no fit place ter live in."

I suppose that Daddy could find no reply to such philosophy. He was doubtless very angry on my account, and I am sure he had been giving Susie a piece of his mind, all the way down. He entered the shack, ordering Susie to remain outside.

"Don't you dare come in," he said, quite exasperated. "I have no doubt at all that you will have to look after all the rest of us when we get ill. You can go back to your pots and pans or wait for me out of doors, just as you wish."

Then he came in, closing the door behind him, and looked around the room, profoundly disgusted. Mr. Barnett was again engaged in swabbing throats while Frenchy supported the patients and I held a bottle in whose neck a candle had been planted. No one could pay much attention to him just then. Poor old Dad! He thinks that because the first emigrant in our family dates back a couple of hundred years or so we are something rather special in the way of human beings, and I know very well that he thought it most degrading for a daughter of his to be in such a miserable place. Of course it is really very clean, Aunt Jennie, because Yves has been trained on a man o' war, where the men spend nearly all of their time scrubbing things. I have seen them so often at Newport, where they wash down the decks even when it is pouring cats and dogs. The poor dear was rather red in the face, by which I recognized the fact that he was holding himself in for fear of an explosion.

But you know that there never was a better man than Dad, and he got all over this in a moment. Of course he had come with the firm intention of explaining to the poor doctor what a fine mess he had made of things, but as soon as he saw that poor, pinched face on the pillow he changed entirely. Quite a look of alarm came over his countenance, and he was certainly awfully sorry. I have an idea that people who have never been very ill, and who have never seen many sick people possess a little egotism which it takes experience to drive out of them. He had surely never thought that poor Dr. Grant would look so ill, and his bit of temper melted away at once. He forced himself to take the hand that was nearest to him.

"I hope you are doing very well," he said, with a queer accent of timidity that was really very foreign to his nature.

"They are taking splendid care of me," answered Dr. Grant, with an effort that made him cough.

Daddy smiled at him, in a puzzled sort of way, and then turned to the child's couch, gazing at it curiously. Mr. Barnett stood at his side.

"He doesn't look as ill as..."

He whispered this as he pointed to the bed where the doctor was lying.

"The boy is getting well," answered the parson, in a low voice. "He had a large dose of antitoxine and it is beginning to show its effect."

"Ah? Just so," said Daddy, weakly.

Then he looked around the room again, quite helplessly.

"Is there anything that I could do?" he asked in a general way.

"Nothing, Daddy," I said. "Thank you ever so much for coming, but there is nothing you can do now. I would go home if I were you. I promise that I will return in time for supper."

Then Daddy looked around again, as if all his habitual splendid assurance and decisiveness of manner had forsaken him. After this he tiptoed his way to the door, outside of which Susie was waiting. I followed him, because I knew he would feel better if I just put my hand on his arm for a moment and assured him that I was feeling perfectly well.

The girl pointed out at sea.

"It's a-comin' on dreadful foggy," she said, gloomily.

Daddy and I looked at one another, and we stared at the dark pall that was sweeping in, raw and chilly. Of course we at once knew its significance. It must surely detain the Snowbird on its return journey.

Just then an old fisherman came up, touching his cap.

"Beggin' yer pardon, sor," he said. "Is yer after findin' th' doctor gettin' any better?"

"I can hardly tell you," answered Daddy, impatiently. "I know very little about such things, but he looks very badly to me."

"Oh! The pity of it!" exclaimed the man. "I tells yer, sor, it's a sad day, a real sad day fer Sweetapple Cove."

"Damn Sweetapple Cove!" Daddy shouted right in the poor fellow's face with such energy that he leaped back in alarm.

But Susie had taken hold of Daddy's arm.

"Now you come erlong o' me, sor," she said, soothingly, as if she had spoken to a child. "Don't yer be gettin' excited. Yer needs a good cup o' tea real bad, I'm a-thinkin', and a smoke. Yer ain't had a seegar to-day, and men folks is apt to get awful grumpy when they doesn't get ter smoke. Come erlong now, there's a good man."

Strange to say, Daddy went with her, willingly enough, after I had kissed him. He didn't resent Susie's manner at all. As I watched he stopped after going a few yards, and looked out at sea, beyond the entrance of the cove. Everything was disappearing in a dull greyness that was beginning to blot out the rocky cliffs, and he turned to the girl.

"My boat will never get back to-night," he said, "and I suppose that to-morrow will be worse. It always is. I wonder whether there is another such beastly country in the world?"

"I've heerd tell," remarked Susie, sagaciously, "as how they is some places as has been fixed so them as lives in 'em will sure know what a good place Heaven is when they gits to it."



CHAPTER XIX

Dr. Frank Johnson to Mrs. Charlotte Johnson

Dearest Mother:

I had expected to sail away from St. John's on the twentieth to return to you before resuming the hard search for something to keep together the body and soul which struggling young doctors without means have so hard a time to maintain in their proper relation. Since the old Chandernagore limped into St. John's with its bow stove in, after that terrible collision, and the underwriters decided that she was hopelessly damaged, my prospects have been those of a man living on a pittance and merely entitled to his passage home and a trifle of salary.

A ship-surgeon utterly stranded can hardly be a very merry soul, and the day before yesterday I was strolling rather disconsolately about the docks, when I saw a stunning yacht come in. She was a sight to feast one's eyes on, and until the last moment was under a cloud of sail while her funnel belched black smoke. For a few minutes I saw some of the smartest handling of canvas it has ever been given me to behold. As she came on the great, silken, light sails fluttered, shrank and disappeared as if by magic; her headway stopped and the screw ceased its throbbing. She was just like a grand, white bird folding its wings and going to sleep. But even before she had ceased to move a boat was overboard and four men were at the sweeps, pulling for shore. A few minutes later I was passing in front of Simpson & Co., the big ship-chandlers who were the Chandernagore's agents, when one of the clerks came out and ran towards me.

"Won't you come in?" he asked, excitedly. "There is the skipper of that white yacht that just came in who wants a doctor at once, and at any cost. We supplied that boat after she left dry-dock here, some weeks ago. She belongs to regular swells, awfully rich people."

"Is the man hurt or ill?" I asked.

"No, he's all right. There is sickness at a little outport, diphtheria, I hear, and they want a man at once. Money's no object."

It really seemed as if a bit of luck might be coming my way, at last. Indeed I wanted badly to see your dear face again, and that silver hair I think so beautiful, but here was a prospect of sailing away on that stunning little ship and of earning some badly needed money, so that I felt like whooping with joy. I leaped through the open door and saw a very gold-laced man who was talking very fast to the head of the firm.

"Here's just the man you want," said the latter. "He's a first-rate young chap who will go anywhere and do anything. His skipper of the Chandernagore swears by him. I can send for him, if you like."

"No time for that," interrupted the yacht's captain. "There is diphtheria at Sweetapple Cove, and a doctor there who is nearly dead with it, I believe. I've sent our mate for all the antitoxine he can buy, and he's driving around to all the druggists in the place. We also want a nurse, several nurses, all you can get. I'm keeping steam up and will start the minute you're ready."

"And the remuneration," suggested Mr. Simpson.

"Anything he wants to ask," said the captain, hurriedly, turning again to me; "just get a move on you, young man. Run off and get some nurses; promise any money they want to charge, and I won't wait over an hour."

He saw a cab passing in the street and ran out to hail it.

"Here," he said, "get into this thing and hunt for nurses."

In his excitement he actually pushed me out of the shop and I jumped in the cab, without the slightest idea of where I might find the desired nurses. At the nearest pharmacy, however, I obtained a couple of addresses. I 'phoned to the hospital but there was none there who could be spared. On following up my clues I found both nurses away on cases. More telephoning brought the information that several might be had in a day or two, and finally I called up Simpson & Co., who informed me that the skipper was tearing his hair at the delay.

"He says you're to return at once. You can kill the cab-horse if you want to. He'll pay for it."

These were the last words I heard. I dashed off to the little hotel where I stayed, for my trunk, and soon we were galloping along the peaceful streets, here and there encumbered by pony-carts laden with vast piles of codfish, and finally reached the chandlery.

"Well?" asked the captain, rushing out.

"Not a nurse to be had to-day," I announced. "To-morrow or next day several may be disengaged."

There was an ejaculation excusable under the circumstance and the skipper grabbed my arm.

"I won't wait a minute," he said. "I've got a doctor, that's the main thing, and all the antitoxine in the place. Come along."

We jumped in the cab, which drove off rapidly, and in a minute we reached the dock, where the yawl was waiting. Two of the men grabbed my trunk and put it on board and the skipper tossed a banknote to the driver, without waiting for change, and we were off.

The men pulled towards the yacht, and they must have been watching for us on board for I heard the clanking of the small donkey engine and the anchor-chain stiffened and began to draw in, fast. We scrambled on board, the trunk was tumbled in, and before the yawl was half way up to the davits we were steaming away.

"Come up on the bridge if you want to, Doctor," the captain called down to me, civilly.

I accepted his invitation and ran up the steps. At his side stood a grizzled old man with a seamed, kindly face and the wrinkled eyes of the men who spend their lives searching through fog and darkness.

"Good day, sor," he said to me. "You're a man as is real sore needed at Sweetapple Cove."

"I hope I may be of service," I answered.

"Ye will be, God willin'," he assured me.

By this time we had gathered full speed and were steaming fast between the narrow headlands. The pilot was dropped a little later, without slackening our way much. We had passed swiftly by the crowded flakes which clung to the steep, rocky shore, inextricably mixed with battered-looking fish-houses. As soon as we struck the swelling seas outside we saw many little smacks engaged in fishing. We bore no canvas, for the wind was against us on the return journey. Then I noticed that the skipper was looking anxiously ahead, where, at a distance, a low fog-pall was gathering.

"Yes, sor," said the old man, guessing at his thoughts, "it's a-comin' on real thick, but we's goin' ter pull her through."

I ran below and got my oilskins out of my trunk, which I discovered in a beautiful little state-room, prettily furnished and dainty-looking indeed to a surgeon of tramp steamers. I did not waste much time in inspecting it, however, as I was interested in our progress towards that ominous bank of fog. When I reached the bridge again I was conscious of the moist chill of northern mists, and saw that the vapor was closing down upon us fast. The land astern was disappearing in a grey haze, while ahead the thickness was becoming more and more impenetrable. The skipper kept walking from end to end of the bridge, restlessly, and I could sympathize with him. He was in a hurry, a deadly hurry, which he had shown plainly enough from the first moment my eyes had rested upon him, and now this mist was rendering all his haste futile, as far as I could see. Every moment now I expected to see him ring down to the engine room for reduced speed, but we kept on going, doggedly, blindly, until at last we were pitching over long, smooth swells that were covered by a blanket of murk.

"We'll have to slow down, Sammy!" he suddenly cried, impatiently, to the old man. "That fog's too much for us, and getting worse every minute."

"Keep on a bit yet," advised the latter. "'Tis all clear goin' fer a whiles, and we's too close inshore ter run into any big craft. They'll all be standin' out to sea."

I could see that the captain was torn between his keen desire to keep on speeding and his fear for the safety of his beautiful ship. He was utterly unable to keep still more than a minute at a time, but the old fisherman looked as cool and collected as if he had been puffing at his rank old pipe within the four walls of a house.

And those minutes seemed very long, then, as they always do when men are laden with the weight of constant suspense. Presently even the grey and blue waters our sharp bow was cleaving lost their color and the whole world was dismal, and grey, and dripping.

This went on for long hours, as it seemed to me, and finally the captain could stand it no longer.

"I'm going to ring for half speed," he shouted. "We can't keep this up, Sammy!"

"Let be, let be fer a whiles," the old man counselled again. "I knows jist where I be. I'll not be runnin' ye ashore, lad."

And the yacht kept on for a long, long time, cleaving the grey water and the fog, between which there was no difference now. It was really a spooky thing, even if a sporting one, to be dashing at fifteen knots through that wall of vapor. Our steam whistle was sounding constantly, and old Sammy listened with his grey head cocked to one side, in a tense attitude of constant attention.

"We's gettin' nigh," he said, quietly. "I knows the sound o' he."

Then, after a long, wailing blast, he suddenly lifted up his hand.

"Port a bit till I tells yer," he called. "That'll do. Keep her so."

The next sobbing cry of the siren brought a dull prolonged echo that reverberated in the air.

"I knowed we must be gettin' close to un," he said; "now we'll be havin' all open water again fer a whiles."

The captain was tremulous with the excitement he bravely sought to suppress, and my own heart was certainly in my throat. We were all straining our eyes at this moment, and all at once we dimly had revealed to us something like the shadow of a great ghost-like mass that slipped by us, very fast, with a roar of the great swells bursting loudly at its foot.

"Thunder! you Sammy!" shrieked the skipper. "I won't have you taking such chances. I'm just as crazy to get there as you are but I'll be hanged if I'm going to smash my ship."

"We's all right now, Cap'en," answered the old man, quietly; "I sure knows all right what we is doin'."

The captain had taken the wheel, and he glared at his binnacle like a wild man. Now and then he gave a swift look around him, nervously, but the old man's assurance had some effect upon him. Yet once I heard him snarling:

"Any man who ever catches me cruising around this country again can have me locked up in an asylum. After I get shut of this job they can get some one else if they ever want to come back."

And still the fog seemed to deepen, and the moisture dripped from everything, and the very air seemed hard to breathe. The darkness began to come and all our lights were burning, while the siren continued to moan. Several times, in answer to it, we faintly heard mournful sounds of fishermen's horns, and once we blindly swerved just in time to avoid running down a tiny schooner.

"Beggin' yer pardon, sor," the old man said to me, "seem' as how ye ain't busy it might be yer wouldn't mind startin' a bit of prayer as how we don't smash up one o' them poor fellows. We jist got ter take some chances, fer I mistrust th' Lord he be wantin' ter save that doctor o' ours an' only needs be asked the right way."

We were now shooting through that fog like lost wild things, like the ducks and geese bewildered of a stormy night, which mangle themselves against the wire nettings of light houses. Now and then the land abeam would give forth response to the booming of our whistle. The old man Sammy had taken the wheel and his grim face was frozen into an expression of desperate energy, as his keen little grey eyes peered through the murk. By this time there was a heavy roll and our tall spars were slashing at the mist as if seeking to cut down an unseen enemy. Every man on board was under a nervous tension, conscious that a big thing was being done. For a time there had been something akin to fear in all our hearts, but after a while it left us, to make room for the delirium of blind, reckless speed.

And then, suddenly, like a flash, the captain grasped the old fellow's shoulder.

"Slow down, man," he shrieked. "I bet all I've got you don't know where you are, and I can hear waves breaking ashore."

But Sammy lifted up his hand, with an authority that seemed inspired, and gave another pull at the whistle cord. It brought forth a sound that was repeated, again and again, confusedly. For a frightfully long half minute we kept up our speed; then the bell jingled in the engine-room and we slowed down a little. Under the old fisherman's hands the wheel began to spin around while we breathlessly watched him aim the ship at the furious breakers inshore, at the foot of dark cliffs.

"For God's sake! What are you doing?" yelled the captain.

The bell rang in the engine room to slow down and suddenly, on both sides of us, appeared like devouring jaws great mass of rock upon which the huge rollers were crashing in a smother of spume. Between them the yacht slipped, gracefully, and this time the siren's shriek was like a victorious cry. The bell sounded again and the Snowbird, after her long swift flight, came to a stop between the hilly sides of Sweetapple Cove, where men's voices roared indistinctly at us, and their forms stood dimly revealed by twinkling lanterns.

And now, mother dear, I am writing at the bedside of a man lying in a poor little hut, whom I shall leave soon for a few hours of badly needed rest. I shall stop for the moment, but I have a great deal more to say.



CHAPTER XX

From Miss Helen Jelliffe to Miss Jane Van Zandt

Dearest Auntie:

It is again the little girl to whom you have been a mother for so many years who comes to you now, to lay her weary head upon your dear shoulder and seek from you the kindness and sympathy you have always so freely given me.

Last night I slept. Yes, slept like some dead thing that never cared whether it ever returned to life, but which would awaken, at times, stupidly, and toss until oblivion returned. I don't exactly know what it is that affects me so. It may be the long watching, I suppose, and the uneasiness of a heart that has lost its owner, and seeks and seeks again, turning for comfort like a poor lost dog to every face which may prove friendly. Just now things seem to be in such a dreadful tangle that I can not even find a thread of it that I can unravel.

Late in the evening, the day before yesterday, I was sitting by the bed where Dr. Grant was lying, and the conviction kept on growing upon me that he was becoming worse all the time. I could not help whispering my fears to Mr. Barnett, who gulped when he answered, as if he also knew what it is to have that dreadful lump in one's throat.

The long, weary hours dragged themselves along, and presently the doctor began to speak, and we bent forward to listen, because it was not very loud and he spoke fast. At first it was all a jumble of delirious words, but suddenly he looked at me and shook his head.

"My own poor darling," he said. "I am afraid that the sea has 'ketched' me, and that I shall never make that cove again."

Then he was still again, so very still that I was afraid, and the tears came and my head went down in my lap, between my hands, and the world became so full of bitterness that I did not feel as if I could stand it for another minute. The dear little parson put his hand on my shoulder, in that curiously gentle way of his.

"We must be strong," he told me, "and we must pray for power to endure."

He then rose, quietly, and moistened the doctor's lips and his brow while I looked on, feeling that I was the most desolate and helpless thing in the world, and as if I could weep for ever. And then all of a sudden, through the recurring booming voices of the waves breaking on the cliffs outside, burst out the shrill voice of the Snowbird's siren and I rushed to the door. Frenchy followed me, and I was so weak that I hung upon his big arm. In the sodden blur of everything I saw our boat coming in, like a great white ghost, and there were more blasts of her whistle. She knew what a welcome awaited her and how we had despaired of her arrival.

In the darkness I could see that people were rushing out of their houses, cheering, and I heard piercing cries of women.

"Th' white ship she've come back," some of them were screaming.

They were scrambling down towards the landing, just hoping that they might in some way be of service. The yacht had lost her headway but the propeller was still churning, and I could see that she was turning around to her mooring. Then I heard them putting the yawl overboard. Lights were breaking out of some of the fish-house windows, and lanterns swung on the little dock, and at last I dimly saw the rowboat coming. I ran down also, with Frenchy, and met Stefansson.

"I got all of that stuff there was in St. John's," he said, "and this gentleman is the doctor. We hunted high and low for a nurse but couldn't get one right off."

But what cared I for nurses just then? Was I not ready to do all that a woman possibly could? Was there a nurse in the world as ready as I to lay down her very life for her patient?

I seized the doctor's hand. I had never been so glad in all my life to see any one. He looked just like a big boy, but he represented renewed hope, the possibility of the achievement of a longing so shrewd that it was a bitter pain to endure it.

"You are going to help us save him!" I cried.

"I will most gladly do all I possibly can," he answered, very simply and quietly.

These doctors are really very nice people, Aunt Jennie dear. They speak to you so hopefully, and there seems to be something in them that makes you feel that you want to lean upon them and trust them.

When I had a better look at this one he appeared to be really very young, and perhaps just a little gawky, and he wore the most appreciably store-clothes, and the funniest little black string of a neck-tie. Isn't it queer that silly things should enter one's head at such times? But he looked like a fine, strong, honest boy, and I liked him for coming, and when he smiled at me I really thought he had a very nice face, and one that gave one the impression that he knew things, too.

"Please hurry," I said. "Come with me quick. Dr. Grant is dying, you know. I am sure he is dying, but perhaps those things you have brought will make him well again."

"I hope so," answered that doctor boy, and together we ran up the path to that poor little hut that holds all the world for me, perhaps a dying world, like those I have been told are fading away in the heavens.

He wasn't a bit out of breath, though I was panting when we reached the shack. He cast a quick look about him, and just nodded briskly to Mr. Barnett, like a man who has no leisure for small talk. He first went up to the little boy's bed, and looked at the parson, enquiringly.

"He's getting better," said the latter.

At once the new doctor turned away and stood by John's bed. I must say John now, Auntie dear, just when you and I are talking together. Perhaps it will only be for a few hours, or a day or two, that he can be John to me, in my heart and soul, for after that he may be only a memory, a killing one, as I feel now.

For a moment he stood there, immobile, looking at John, noting that awful grey color, and the rapid, hard breathing that sometimes comes in little sobs. And then he felt the pulse, coolly, and counted the respirations, in so calm a way that I began to feel like shrieking to him to do something. But all this really took but a very short time. He went to the little table, on which a lamp was burning, rather dimly, and opened the package which contained all those vials they had brought from St. John's. Captain Sammy had just come in, and stood near the door, and he sought my eyes for some message of comfort, but I could only shake my head sadly.

"This lamp gives a very poor light," said Dr. Johnson.

At once the old man leaped out and sprinted towards the nearest neighbor's. There he dashed in, seized the lamp around which the family sat at their evening meal, and rushed out again, leaving them in total darkness. Of course it went out in the wind and had to be lighted again, and I noticed that the young doctor gave a calm, curious glance at me, and Frenchy, and that his eyes swiftly took in all of the poor, sordid, little place.

I stood in a corner, out of the way, for now it seemed to me that I was of very little moment. This man was going to do everything that really mattered, and I would only sit by the bed, afterwards, and watch, and try and do things to help.

Dr. Johnson filled a syringe with the antitoxine and injected the stuff in Dr. Grant's arm, which looked awfully white, and then he turned to me.

"You need not stay any longer, Miss Jelliffe," he said, civilly. "I shall watch him all night."

"You are not going to drive me away?" I cried.

Then he looked at me again, curiously, and there was a tiny little nod of his head, as if he had just understood something, after which he took the poor little chair and pushed it near the bed.

"Won't you sit down?" he said, so gently that my eyes filled with tears, and again everything was blurred as I blundered to the seat.

He did some other things, and mixed medicines that he took out of a black bag, and made John take some. After this he sat down on a wooden box, near me, and watched in silence, and I felt that he was a friend. Mr. Barnett left, promising to return soon, and we remained there, listening to the quick breathing, and dully hearing the long, low booming of the great waves outside, till I fancied they were saying things to me, which I could not understand.

After a time Susie came in.

"Yer father says won't you please come in an' have yer supper," she said. "I knows ye'd rather stay here, but there ain't no jobs folks kin do better starvin' than when they's had their grub. An' th' poor dear man wants yer that bad it makes me feel sorry fer him."

"You ought to go and have something to eat, and rest a little, Miss Jelliffe," said the doctor. "This young person appears to have some rather sensible ideas, and you can return whenever you want to."

So I rose, because it wasn't fair to poor old Dad to leave him alone all the time. Of course it was hurting me to leave, but it would also have hurt to think that he would be having his supper all alone, so sadly.

"You will let me know if...."

"Of course I will," interrupted the doctor boy. "You may depend on me. I'll send the big chap here over, if there is any change."

"You are very good," I said. "I think—I think you are a very nice doctor."

To my surprise he blushed just a little.

"Thank you," he said. "Thank you very much."

There was a smile on his face, and I think I managed to smile a little too, and then I went off with Susie.

"They is some o' th' old women as tells about love medicines as can make folks jist crazy fer one another," she said, as we walked away, rapidly. "Seems ter me 'twould be good enough if some o' them doctors found out some drug as worked t'other way. This bein' in love is harder'n the teethache, an' is enough ter make one feel like hopin' ter be an old maid."

"Perhaps it does, Susie," I assented.

"Come in," cried Dad, as I pushed the door open. "Glad to see you, Helen. I hope the poor chap's better. I just had Stefansson up here, and he says that old Sammy tried his best to drown them all and smash the yacht to kindling. But he admitted that the way the old fellow slapped her through was a marvel. But next year he's going back to racing boats; says he's had enough of cruising."

He looked at me, as I sank wearily in a chair, too tired to answer.

"What's the matter, daughter?" he asked. "You are not ill, are you?"

He rose and came towards me, his dear loving face full of concern, and I jumped up too and kissed him.

"That's my own dear little girl," he said, much comforted. "And—and Helen dear, I don't suppose you will want to sail to-morrow, will you, or in a day or two?"

There was something very pleading in his voice, it seemed to me.

"Perhaps in a day or two it won't—it won't matter much what I shall do, Daddy dear," I answered.

He took me and pressed me to his breast and I felt as if many years were passing away, and I was again the desolate little girl who used to come to him with her woes, when a kitten died or a doll was broken. He sat again in his armchair, and I rested on the arm.