apart the waters. It seemed to Martin that the whole world
was singing, singing of love. His heart thumped, his breath came
quickly, pin-points of light swam before his eyes.

The girl trembled against his shoulder. Martin leaned eagerly forward,
and their eyes met. They both stiffened at that electric contact. His
eyes were ablaze with passion, purposeful, masterful; and in her eyes
he again glimpsed the fresh-awakened woman, beckoning, elusive,
fearful. For a brief instant they stared at each other, man and woman,
souls bared. But that blinding moment seemed to Martin to encompass
eternity. The songster's liquid notes fell about them, and they were
enthralled.

The song ended. Quite without conscious movement, Martin put his arms
about Ruth and drew her into a close embrace. He pressed his hot lips
to hers, and with a thrill so keen it felt like a stab, he realized her
lips returned the pressure.

It lasted but a second, this heaven. The girl burst backward out of
his embrace. Martin's arms fell to his sides, nerveless, and he stood
panting, tongue-tied with emotion. Nor did he have the chance to
master himself and speak the words he wished, for Ruth, with a half
sob, half laugh, turned and sped across the deck, and through the open
alleyway door, into the cabin.

The next watch Ruth stood upon her dignity, and her manner was
unusually haughty toward her slave. And the next day, in the
dog-watch, he discovered that the old comradeship was fled. She was
shy and silent, and she listened to his stammered apology with averted
eyes and pink ears.

When Martin attempted to supplement his apology with ardent words, she
fled straightway. And never again during the passage did Martin find
an opportunity to avow his love. He discovered that somehow Little
Billy, or the boatswain, or Captain Dabney was always present at their
talks. Her elusiveness made him very wretched at times. But then,
occasionally, he would surprise her looking at him, and the light in
her eyes would send him to the seventh heaven of delight.

There came the day when the little vessel reached the southern point of
the great arc she was sailing across the Pacific. Martin came on deck
to find the bows turned northward, toward the Bering, and the yards
braced sharp to catch the slant from the dying trades.

The _Cohasset_ raced northward, though not as swiftly as she had raced
southward. The winds were light, though generally fa