angrily in
Jamie's arms. That is, he sought to comfort her; but she pressed him
aside rudely. "Oh, Jamie," she sobbed (she was suffered to call him
Jamie), "why didn't you give me gloves?"

Poor Jamie scratched his head. He had not thought of them; and that
was all. He tried to caress the child, with a clumsy tenderness, but
she stamped her little foot. Outside, they heard the voices of the
other children. Miss Dowse was talking to Master Bowdoin of sights in
the harbor; but--how early is a boy sensible to a child's
prettiness!--he was asking after Mercedes. It was now Miss Dolly's
turn to bite her lip. "She's in the cabin, crying because she has no
gloves."

Jamie felt Mercedes quiver; her sobs stopped, panting; in a moment she
put her hand to her hair and went to the deck unconcernedly.

But no one ever made Mercedes cry again.

Poor Jamie went to a window where he could hear them talking. He took
off his white straw hat, and rubbed his eyes with a red silk
handkerchief; the tears were almost in them, too. He had wild thoughts
of trying to buy gloves at Nahant. He listened to hear if his child
was merry again. She was laughing loudly, and pointing out the white
column of Boston Light. "That is the way to sea!" she cried. "I came
in that way from sea."

The other children had crept about her, interested. Even Miss Dowse
had come over, and was standing with them.

"Did your father take you to sea?"

"I was at sea in my father's ship," said Mercedes proudly.

"Ah, I didn't know Jamie McMurtagh owned a ship," said Miss Dolly.
Jamie leaned closer to the window.

"Jamie McMurtagh is not my father," said Mercedes. She said it almost
scornfully, and McMurtagh slunk back into the cabin.

Perhaps it was the first time he had ever cried himself.... He felt so
sorry that he had not thought of gloves!

VIII.

When they came to the wharf, several carriages were waiting. Some were
handsome equipages with silver-mounted harnesses (for nabobs then were
in Nahant); others were the familiar New England carryalls. Mercedes
looked for Mr. Bowdoin, hoping he had come to meet her in one of the
former, but was disappointed, for that gentleman was seen running down
the hill as if too late, his blue dress-coat tails streaming in the
wind, his Panama hat in one hand, and a large brown-paper bag,
bursting with oranges, in the other. By accident or design, as he
neared the wharf, the bag did burst, and all the oranges went