erfectly still, however.

"I am glad you think that," she replied. "Please tell me whenever I
am at fault."

"I wish you did have some faults, Ruth. You're an angel of
goodness."

"No, no! I have had wicked thoughts."

He laughed and pushed back his chair. "So has the butterfly evil
thoughts. We're to be given a treat to-night. McClintock will be
tuning up the piano to-day. I say, I'll take the yarn over and read
it to McClintock. That old chap has a remarkable range in reading.
But, hang it, I know it's good!"

"Of course it is!"

In the afternoon he began work on another tale. It was his purpose
to complete four or five stories before he sent any away. But to-day
he did not get beyond half a dozen desultory start-offs. From
McClintock's came an infernal _tinkle-tinkle, tump-tump_! There was
no composing with such a sound hammering upon the ear. But
eventually Spurlock laughed. Not so bad. Battle, murder, and sudden
death--and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the
midst of it. He made a note of the idea and stored it away.

He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee;
and when he had done, the old trader nodded.

"That's a good story, lad. You've caught the colour and the life.
But it sounds too real to be imagined. You've never seen a typhoon,
have you?"

"No."

"Well, imagination beats me!"

"It's something Ruth saw. She told me the tale the other night, and
I've only elaborated it."

"Ah, I see." McClintock saw indeed--two things: that the boy had no
conceit and that this odd girl would always be giving. "Well, it's
a good story."

He offered cigars, and Ruth got up. She always left the table when
they began to smoke. Spurlock had not coached her on this line of
conduct. Somewhere she had read that it was the proper thing to do
and that men liked to be alone with their tobacco. She hated to
leave; for this hour would be the most interesting. Both Spurlock
and McClintock stood by their chairs until she was gone.

"Yes, sir," said McClintock, as he sat down; "that's South Sea
stuff, that yarn of yours. I like the way you shared it. I have
read that authors are very selfish and self-centred."

"Oh, Ruth couldn't put it on paper, to be sure; but there was no
reason to hide the source."

"Have you told her?"

"Told her? Told her what?" Spurlock sat straight in his chair.

"You know what I mean," said the trader, gravely. "In spots you are
a thoroughbred; but h