s
to duty, there was a sort of thrill along the good ship, as if she had
responded with one quick heart-beat. Then, fair, still, magnificent,
she glided away, leaving the twinkling lights of city and harbor to
fade out in distance--first those low on the water, then the street
lights on the terraces, and lastly one lone gleam in a distant tower
that, like a friendly eye, still gazed after them when, far out in the
open, they sailed smoothly on, the fires banked, and Steam gracefully
yielding place to his older brother, Wind.

CHAPTER VII.

KITE-FLYING AND GIBRALTAR.

When they awoke, next morning, the engines were at work again, and
their heavy thud, thud, was mingled with the swash of water, as the
Bengali boys washed down decks, while a rattling of spars and creaking
of cordage showed that sails were being set, or lowered.

Hope, always wide awake at once, sprang from her little white couch to
find that it was difficult to keep her footing on the sliding plane of
her stateroom floor, but slipping into gown and ulster as quickly as
possible, and bracing herself with extended hands through the narrow
passageway to the deck, she was soon outside, gasping a little in the
fresh wind that met her full in the face and caught her breath away.
For the ship was now headed for the Straits, and steaming almost in the
teeth of the brisk northeaster.

There was not a hint of land, as far as the eye could see, and the
waters, of a deep, cold blue, were white-capped to the horizon's edge.
She felt dizzy, and most uncertain on her feet, but not six feet
distant was a heap of low camp-chairs, huddled together out of the way
of the still dripping deck planks. If she could reach one and get to
leeward of that capstan--but what should she hold on to meanwhile?

And, even as she asked herself the question, the goodly steamer,
happening to dip her lowest courtesy to a rude in-coming wave of giant
proportions, shipped its combing crest, that poured through the
latticed guard-rail and swirled across the deck, with a force, that
sent poor Hope a drenched, doubled-up little heap of helplessness,
pounding right into the midst of the chair-stack.

Before she had time to cry out, however, she was caught up, and her
father's voice, hoarse and frightened, asked quickly,

"Are you hurt, love?--Are you hurt?"

As she looked up into his anxious face, pale beneath the sun-bronze,
Hope fully realized how deeply her father loved her, an