A cold plunge next morning in water combed up from the very bottom of the sea was my final baptismal ceremony. Fully restored I hastened on deck. Chauncey and Edith Gale were already there, walking briskly up and down, and I joined in the joyous march. A faint violet bank showed on the western horizon. Looking through a glass I could see that it was solid and unchanging in outline. It was land, they explained; we were off Cape Charles, and would pass Hatteras during the afternoon. I remembered an account in my old Fifth Reader of “The Last Cruise of the Monitor.” It had been always my favorite selection in the reading class. It gave me a curious feeling now to know that we were soon to pass over the waters where the sturdy little fighter had gone down. However, I had no longer a sense of unreality in my surroundings. I had been too thoroughly waked up the day before.

We were presently joined by Ferratoni—spiritually pale, but triumphant. I was not sorry, for I could not help caring for the man, and it seemed to me that after all his devotion to Edith Gale might be rather a tribute to an ideal than a genuine passion of the heart. We ascended to the bridge where we found the First Officer on watch. His name was Larkins—Terence Larkins—a sturdy Newfoundlander of forty, whose life ashore had been limited to childhood only—a period now lost in the cloudland of myth and fable. He had no prejudices concerning our destination. He was ready at any moment to go anywhere that the sea touched, and to maintain a pleasant discourse at any stage of the journey. He was big and blond, with a touch of ancestry in his speech and a proper disregard of facts—a merry Munchausen of the sea. He saluted as we approached, and pointed shoreward.

“Farrmers’ day ashore,” he said, with a serious air. “All the farrmers come to the beach to-day for their annual shwim.”

“Is this the day?” I asked, looking where he pointed. “I’ve heard of it, but I had forgotten the date.”

“Sure it is, man; an’ can’t ye see thim over there, dhriving down to the beach with their teams? An’ thim fellies puttin’ up the limonade shtands, an’ merry-go-rounds fer the farrmer lads an’ their shweetheartses?”

I reached for the glass and took a long look. The solid purple wall was as solid and purple as it had been before.

“No, really, Mr. Larkins,” I admitted, “I do not.”

“Let me look, Larkins,” said Gale.

He leveled the glass and began to testify.

“Why, of course! And there’s a new addition laid out just below, and a little sign stuck up with—let me see—M-A-R-S-H-S-I-D-E on it. Well, that’s a funny name for an addition, ‘Marshside!’”

Edith Gale seized the glass. After a hasty glance she declared:

“Of course Mr. Chase couldn’t see anything! And you and Mr. Larkins didn’t, either.”

Ferratoni who had been gazing through another glass also shook his head. Chauncey Gale and Mr. Larkins joined in a hearty laugh at our expense.

“Oh, now,” consoled the latter, “it’s because yer eyes are not thrained to lookin’ over the sea. By the time ye get back from the South Pole they’ll be opened to a great many things.”

There came the summons to breakfast and we went below—certainly with no reluctance on my part, this time.

And now passed beautiful days; glorious shipboard days to which the slight uncertainty of a rival’s relative position gave only added zest. Ferratoni, it is true, may have had somewhat different views in this matter. He was obliged to spend the greater part of his time with Gale in the modeling of the new electrical propelling apparatus, which the latter was perfecting for the balloon. In the matter of constructive detail my assistance was not highly regarded by Gale who had really a mechanical turn of mind, as the Billowcrest itself proved; for whatever may have been the vessel’s faults from the seaman’s standpoint it was certainly all that a landsman could desire. Below stairs there was a splendidly appointed workshop, and the engineers on the Billowcrest were also skilled workers in wood and metals. The boat-car for the Cloudcrest, as we had decided to name the balloon, was a matter of daily discussion among us all, but at the point of technical intricacy I was promptly relieved for the good of all concerned.

It was but natural, therefore, that I should be a good deal in Edith Gale’s company. Also that I should feel a gentle solicitude for Ferratoni—a sweet soul whom all presently grew to love; it seemed too bad that he should not come in for his full share of paradise. My own fancies had been called poetic, but I realized daily that Ferratoni lived in a world which to me could be never more than borderland. And this I hoped consoled him somewhat for what he was missing by tinkering away his days with Gale on a dynamo for my balloon car, while I was revelling in the seventh delight of the daughter’s company, above stairs.

We cared for pretty much the same things. We liked to walk up and down the decks, discussing the books we had read, the pictures we had seen, and the purpose and possibilities of art.

was the quotation most frequently on her lips.

She had seen so much more of the world and its glories than I, and her understanding of nature was a marvel to me. She taught me to see colors that I had been blind to before. Sometimes she brought up her materials and sketched, while I looked on and loved her. When she would let me I photographed her. One day I ventured to show her some verses that I had written, and the fact that she really seemed to care for them gave me a higher opinion of us both.

And the sea racing past made a fine accompaniment to these pleasant things. She liked to watch the surge along the side and listen to its music. So did I, and often together we leaned over the rail to watch and hear it rush by.

We discussed metaphysics, and talked of life, and love, and death. Remembering Chauncey Gale’s advice, I was careful to avoid the personal note at such times. Ferratoni had touched now and then upon his theories in these matters, and these suggested speculations of our own. I was not displeased to find that Edith Gale did not quite accord with, or perhaps altogether grasp, his filmy philosophies. I preferred that she should be less ethereal—what she was, in fact—a splendid reality of flesh and blood and soul, with a love of all the joys of earth and sky. The clouds scudding across the blue, the white joy of the sunlit sails, the smash of the spray over the bow, a merry game of shuffle-board, and even hop-scotch—these things gave her life and sustenance—and then, at the end of the day, came the good dinner, and the untroubled sleep of a healthy child.