The child's room proved to be the old cabin of the canal-boat, with the
three steps leading down from the decks. The little slanting windows were
still there, and so were the bunks,--or, rather, the lower one. The upper
one had been altered into a sort of closet. On one side hung a row of
shelves on which were such small knickknacks as a child always loves,--a
Christmas card or two, some books, a pin-cushion backed with shells, a
doll's bonnet, besides some trinkets and strings of beads. Next to this
ran a row of hooks covered by a curtain of cheap calico, half concealing
her few simple dresses, with her muddy little shoes and frayed straw hat
in the farther corner.

Above the head-board hung the likeness of a woman with large eyes, her
hair pushed back from a wide, high forehead. It was framed in an
old-fashioned black frame with a gold mat. Not a beautiful face, but so
interesting and so expressive that I looked at it half a dozen times
before I could return it to its place.

Everything was as clean and fresh as care could make it. When I dropped to
sleep, the tide was swashing the floor beneath me, the rain still sousing
and drenching the little windows and the roof.

* * * * *

The following week, one crisp, fresh morning, I was again at the Hulk. My
experience the night of the storm had given me more confidence in
Brockway, although the mystery of his life was still impenetrable. As I
rounded the point, the old man and little Emily were just pushing off in
the boat. He was on his way to his oyster beds a short distance off, his
grappling-tongs and basket beside him. In his quick, almost gruff way, he
welcomed me heartily and insisted on my staying to dinner. He would be
back in an hour with a mess of oysters to help out. "Somebody has been
raking my beds and I must look after them," he called to me as he rowed
away.

I drew my own boat well up on the gravel, out of reach of the making tide,
and put my easel close to the water's edge. I wanted to paint the Hulk and
the river with the bluffs beyond. Before I had blocked in my sky, I caught
sight of Brockway rowing hurriedly back, followed by a shell holding half
a dozen oarsmen from one of the boating clubs down the river. The crew
were out for a spin in their striped shirts and caps; the coxswain was
calling to him, but he made no reply.

"Say, Mr. Brockway! will you please fill our water-keg? We have come off
from the boat-hous