h you'd come too and be our new mamma," she begged.

A shell-pink tinge crept into the milky skin of the Irish girl. She was
less sure of herself, more easily embarrassed, than the average American
of her age and sex. Occasionally in her manner was that effect of
shyness one finds in the British even after they have escaped from
provincialism.

"Are all your things gathered ready for packing, Janet?" she asked
quietly.

The purser gave information to Elliot. "They call her Aunt Sheba,
but she's no relative of theirs. The kids are on their way in to their
father, who is an engineer on one of the creeks back of Katma. Their
mother died two months ago. Miss O'Neill met them first aboard the
Skagit on the way up and she has mothered them ever since. Some women
are that way, bless 'em. I know because I've been married to one myself
six months. She's back there at St. Michael's, and she just grabs at
every baby in the block."

The eyes of Elliot rested on Miss O'Neill. "She loves children."

"She sure does--no bluff about that." An imp of mischief sparkled in
the eye of the supercargo. "Not married yourself, are you, Mr. Elliot?"

"No."

"Hmp!"

That was all he said, but Gordon felt the blood creep into his face.
This annoyed him, so he added brusquely,--

"And not likely to be."

When the call for breakfast came Miss O'Neill took her retinue of
youngsters with her to the dining-room. Looking across from his seat at
an adjoining table, Elliot could see her waiting upon them with a fine
absorption in their needs. She prepared an orange for Billie and offered
to the little girls suggestions as to ordering that were accepted by
them as a matter of course. Unconsciously the children recognized in her
the eternal Mother.

Before they had been long in the dining-room Macdonald came in carrying
a sheaf of business papers. He glanced around, recognized Elliot, and
made instantly for the seat across the table from him. On his face and
head were many marks of the recent battle.

"Trade you a cauliflower ear for a pair of black eyes, Mr. Elliot," he
laughed as he shook hands with the man whose name he had just learned
from the purser.

The grip of his brown, muscular hand was strong. It was in character
with the steady, cool eyes set deep beneath the jutting forehead, with
the confident carriage of the deep, broad shoulders. He looked a dynamic
American, who trod the way of the forceful and fought for his share of
the