last."

"I wouldn't try," said Miss Van Buren. "I suppose, when one thinks of
it, worse things could happen to one on a motor-boat than in a
motor-car, because there's water all round; but it seems so heavenly
restful, rather like motoring in heaven might be, and no frightened
horses, or barking dogs, or street children to worry you."

"I pity people on steamboats, just as the other day, when we motored, I
pitied people in stuffy black trains," said Miss Rivers. "But I don't
pity the people on lighters and barges. Don't they look delightful? I
should love to live on that one with the curly-tailed red lion on the
prow, and the green house with white embroidered curtains and
flower-pots, and sweet little china animals in the windows. It's called
'Anna Maria,' and oh, it's worked by a _motor_!"

"Lots of them are, nowadays," I said. "They're easy to rig up, and save
work. I happen to know 'Anna Maria,' and the lady she's named after, who
lives on board and thinks herself the happiest woman on earth--or water.
There she goes, on her way to the kitchen, with her baby in her arms.
Pretty creatures both, aren't they?"

"Pictures!" cried Miss Rivers; and her stepsister, who at the moment was
being particularly nice to the Mariner (I fancy by way of showing the
Outcast how nice she can be--to others), glanced up from a map of
Holland, which Starr had opened, across his knees. "It's like a very
young Madonna and Child, painted by a Dutch master. I wish you could
introduce us."

"Perhaps I will, when we come back this way," said I. "You shall go on
board and have tea with Anna Maria and her baby, and the husband too,
who's as good-looking as the rest of the family. They would be
delighted, and proud to show off their floating home, which saved Anna
Maria's life."

"How? It sounds like a story."

"So it is--a humble romance. Anna Maria's the daughter of a bargeman,
and was born and brought up on a barge. When she was seventeen and
keeping house-boat for her father (the mother died when she was a child)
the poor man had an accident, and was drowned. There wasn't much money
saved up for Anna Maria, so the barge was sold, and she had to live on
dry land, and learn how to be a dressmaker. She was as miserable as a
goldfish would be if you took it out of its bowl and laid it on the
table. In a few months she'd fallen into a decline, and though, just at
that time, she met a dashing young chauffeur, who took a fancy to her
pretty