nked at her over the spokes of the wheel, and in his
father's heart acknowledged her charm, realizing more acutely that
his motherless girl had become too much of a problem for his limited
knowledge in the management of women.

He had not seen her grow up gradually, as other fathers had viewed their
daughters, being able to meet daily problems in molding and mastery.

She seemed to reach development, mental and physical, in disconcerting
phases while he was away on his voyages. Each time he met her he was
obliged to get acquainted all over again, it appeared to him.

Captain Candage had owned up frankly to himself that he was not able to
exercise any authority over his daughter when she was ashore.

She was not wilful; she was not obstinate; she gave him affection. But
she had become a young woman while his slow thoughts were classing her
still as a child. She was always ahead of all his calculations. In
his absences she jumped from stage to stage of character--almost of
identity! He had never forgotten how he had brought back to her from New
York, after one voyage, half a gunny sackful of tin toys, and discovered
that in his absence, by advice and sanction of her aunt, who had become
her foster-mother, she had let her dresses down to ankle-length and had
become a young lady whom he called "Miss Candage" twice before he had
managed to get his emotions straightened out. While he was wondering
about the enormity of tin toys in the gunny sack at his feet, as he sat
in the aunt's parlor; his daughter asked him to come as guest of
honor with the Sunday-school class's picnic which she was arranging as
teacher. That gave him his opportunity to lie about the toys and allege
that he had brought them for her scholars.

Captain Candage, on the deck of his ship, found that he was able to
muster a little courage and bluster for a few minutes, but he did not
dare to look at her for long while he was asserting himself.

He looked at her then as she stood in the gloomy companionway, a
radiant and rosy picture of healthy maidenhood. But the expression on
her face was not comfortingly filial.

"Father, I must say it again. I can't help saying it. I am so unhappy.
You are misjudging me so cruelly."

"I done it because I thought it was right to do it. I haven't been
tending and watching the way a father ought to tend and watch. I never
seemed to be able to ketch up with you. Maybe I ain't right. Maybe I be!
At any rate, I'm going t