daughter of Herodias.

And yet she is not what one would call a cute girl. She isn't a girl,
she is a mature woman with all the freshness of a girl. She has the
carriage, the attitude of mind, the aplomb of a woman, and yet she cannot
be described as being in the slightest degree stately. She is generous,
dependable, sensible--yes, and sensitive; and her superabundant vitality,
the vitality that makes her walk so gloriously, discounts the maturity of
her. Sometimes she seems all of thirty to me; at other times, when her
spirits and risibilities are aroused, she scarcely seems thirteen. I
shall make a point of asking Captain West the date of the _Dixie's_
collision with that river steamer in San Francisco Bay. In a word, she
is the most normal, the most healthy, natural woman I have ever known.

Yes, and she is feminine, despite, no matter how she does her hair, that
it is as invariably smooth and well-groomed as all the rest of her. On
the other hand, this perpetual well-groomedness is relieved by the
latitude of dress she allows herself. She never fails of being a woman.
Her sex, and the lure of it, is ever present. Possibly she may possess
high collars, but I have never seen her in one on board. Her blouses are
always open at the throat, disclosing one of her choicest assets, the
muscular, adequate neck, with its fine-textured garmenture of skin. I
embarrass myself by stealing long glances at that bare throat of hers and
at the hint of fine, firm-surfaced shoulder.

Visiting the chickens has developed into a regular function. At least
once each day we make the journey for'ard along the bridge to the top of
the 'midship-house. Possum, who is now convalescent, accompanies us. The
steward makes a point of being there so as to receive instructions and
report the egg-output and laying conduct of the many hens. At the
present time our four dozen hens are laying two dozen eggs a day, with
which record Miss West is greatly elated.

Already she has given names to most of them. The cock is Peter, of
course. A much-speckled hen is Dolly Varden. A slim, trim thing that
dogs Peter's heels she calls Cleopatra. Another hen--the
mellowest-voiced one of all--she addresses as Bernhardt. One thing I
have noted: whenever she and the steward have passed death sentence on a
non-laying hen (which occurs regularly once a week), she takes no part in
the eating of the meat, not even when it is metamorphosed into one of h