the same result. She started to get up,
changed her mind and settled back to wait.

The Tyro, leaning against the cabin, also waited. With no apparent
cause--for he was sure he had made no noise--she turned her head and
looked into the sheltering shadow. She smiled, a very small but very
contented smile.

An officer came along the deck.

"The port screw," he paused to tell the waiting girl, "struck a bit of
wreckage and broke a blade. Absolutely no danger. We will be delayed a
little getting to port, that's all. I am glad you had the nerve to sit
quiet," he added.

"I didn't know what else to do," she said.

She rose and gathered her belongings to her. Going to the entrance she
passed so near that he could have touched her. Yet she gave no sign of
knowledge that he was there; he was ready to believe that he had been
mistaken in thinking that her regard had penetrated his retreat. In the
doorway she turned.

"Good-night," she said, in a voice that thrilled in his pulses.
"And--thank you."

VI

Sixth day out.
Bump! And we're three days late.
Suits me. I don't care if we never get in.

SMITH'S LOG.

Whoso will, may read in the Hydrographic Office records, the fate of the
steamship Sarah Calkins. Old was Sarah; weather-scarred, wave-battered,
suffering from all the internal disorders to which machinery is prone;
tipsy of gait, defiant of her own helm, a very hag of the high seas.

Few mourned when she went down in Latitude 43 deg. 10' North, Longitude 20 deg.
12' West--few indeed, except for the maritime insurance companies. They
lamented and with cause, for the Sarah Calkins was loaded with large
quantities of rock, crated in such a manner as to appear valuable, and
to induce innocent agents to insure them as pianos, furniture, and
sundry merchandise. Such is the guile of them that go down to the sea
in ships.

For the first time in her disreputable career, the Sarah Calkins obeyed
orders, and went to the bottom opportunely in sight of a Danish tramp
which took off her unalarmed captain and crew. Let us leave her to her
deep-sea rest.

The evil that ships do lives after them, and the good is not always
interred with their bones. For the better or worse of Little Miss Grouch
and the Tyro, the Sarah Calkins, of whom neither of them had ever heard,
left her incidental wreckage strewn over several leagues of Atlantic.
One bit of it became involved