Donald was talking. “And, Mother, I’ve got the house and everything all ready for you. All you’ve got to do is step into it. It’s a pretty little place up on a hill overlooking the harbor. Of course, it isn’t anything like our old home in Maxwell Park, but it’ll do until I can save some money to build another—”

Mrs. McKenzie, looking just a shade older, but there were little lines around the eyes and mouth which told a story not of Time’s making, gazed lovingly at her sea-bronzed son. How he had grown! And how strong and handsome he was! The sight of him revived memories ... he reminded her of him who went out to Eternity in the maw of a big Atlantic comber not so many years ago. She realized that the pale-faced, sensitive little chap of two years ago had vanished, and in his place was a strapping, ruddy-visaged youth who was almost a man. His dark eyes flashed with the fire of life and the enjoyment of it, and there was a timbre in his voice which expressed confidence, fearlessness, and the ability to command if necessary. The sea had worked wonders in him. It had given her a new son, and her heart filled with pride at the capable, possessive manner in which he sketched out her future with him. She drew his face down to hers and kissed him on the cheek. “Anywhere with you, my bonny, will be home. Be it cot or palace, it will be yours, Don, and it’s proud I’ll be to keep it neat and sweet for my laddie.”

Donald laughed happily. “Mother, do you remember when the Kelvinhaugh towed out? I saw you standing at the ferry slip by Shearer’s Yard that morning. My, but I was feeling miserable then! I was ready to run away if I could.”

The mother rose and opened a drawer. They were seated in her room at the Home for the Aged, and Donald had just arrived from Glasgow but an hour before. “Here’s a clipping from a paper I saved for you,” she said. “It’s about the Kelvinhaugh, and many’s the prayer I’ve made in thankfulness.” Donald took the piece of newspaper, read it, and whistled. It ran—a terse, unsentimental record of disaster:—

LOSS OF A GLASGOW BARQUE.

Sydney, N.S.W., Jan. 15:—The ship Castor arrived here to-day from Chemainus, B.C., and reports passing a large quantity of wreckage in lat. 31 degrees North, long. 152 degrees West, which seems to prove the loss at sea of the Glasgow four mast barque, Kelvinhaugh. The wreckage consisted of lumber, yards and upper masts, and a damaged life-boat bore the name KELVINHAUGH—GLASGOW. The master of the Castor is of the opinion that the barque foundered by capsizing in a squall. The ill-fated vessel carried a crew of twenty-five men, most of whom were signed on in Vancouver, B.C., from which port she loaded lumber for Sydney, N.S.W. She was a new vessel of 2,500 tons, commanded by William Muirhead of 972 Glenburn Road, Glasgow, and owned by D. McKenzie & Co., Glasgow.

He laid the clipping down and looked into space. “So she went ... just as Nickerson said she would. We’re lucky ... darned lucky!” The mother nodded as he spoke his thoughts aloud. “You don’t know how thankful I was that you had left that ship when I read that,” she said. “Just think ... if you had remained in her. It would have been dreadful!”

Donald slipped his arm around her shoulders and laughed. “I’m not born to be drowned, Mother,” he said. “Now tell me, what do you know about that lovely uncle of mine? Is he dead, knighted, in jail, or what?”

Mrs. McKenzie gave a contemptuous grimace as she replied, “The wicked ever prosper, Donald. He seems to be getting along wonderfully. I see his name in the papers quite often, and he is reputed to be one of the wealthiest men in Glasgow. He has a whole fleet of tramp steamers now—the Dun Line—”

“It’s well named,” interrupted Donald grimly. “He should spell it D-O-N-E—for it has been by doing poor sailors and insurance companies and others that he has made progress. I wonder what his object was in trying to ‘do’ me? The fellow apparently meant to have me put out of the way.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea, sonny-boy. I thought possibly it might be something in connection with the Dunsany title and estate, but I can’t, for the life of me, see how you would have anything to do with it. Sir Alastair died last year and his son, Roderick, inherited the title and the property. I don’t know much about him, except what I’ve heard in various ways. He’s a professional man of some kind, unmarried and in poor health, and he spends most of his time in England. Your Uncle David would claim the title should anything happen to Roderick, and when David passed on, it would go to his son—young Alastair. About the only decent trait in that man is the affection he seems to have for that boy—so I’ve been told—and I only hope, some day, that he is punished through his son for what he has done to you—” The fierce spirit of the Highlander flamed in her eyes.

“Hush! hush! Mater dear, don’t talk like that,” Donald said, patting her hands. “What do we need to care for him now? Let him slip away as a bad memory. There’ll come a time when he’ll have to pay the price, but we needn’t be the ones to present the bill. Now, Mater, we’ll go up to Glasgow to-morrow and book passage for Halifax. I have reserved two second cabin berths in the Ontarian, sailing Saturday.” He paused and gave her a keen scrutiny. “Bye-the-bye, Mother,” he asked gravely, “what made you use the passage-money I sent you? I mean, what caused you to use it after leaving the Hydro?”

She tried to evade the question, but he insisted, and after much coaxing she told the story. Dismissed suddenly and without a reference from the Ross Bay Hydropathic, she had tried for place after place, until she was forced to accept a position as waitress in a workman’s coffee room. “Good God!” ejaculated Donald. “In a workman’s coffee room? A waitress...?” Frightful thoughts went through his mind and his mother seemed to divine them. “No, dearie, it wasn’t so bad as you think. The poor are good to the poor. I was never insulted or abused ... nor heard bad language, except when a man was drunk.” She paused, then continued her tale. “It was very hard work, early and late, and I took sick. I was ill for six or eight weeks and had to draw on the money you sent me. I was down to the last shilling when a kind lady, who had been a patient at the Ross Hydro, met me and got me the position of night matron in this home.”

Donald listened quietly, but his knuckles showed white on the tan of his clenched hands, and there was an ominous glint in his eyes. “I’d like to tear the heart out of him!” he growled fiercely, but the mother soothed him. “Let’s forget it all, sonny-dear, and talk of Canada. I have ten pounds saved up. Will I need to buy heavy clothes for the cold winters there? They tell me it’s all frozen up for half the year in Canada.”

The vindictive glint in the youth’s eyes faded away and he laughed heartily. “Why, Mater, where did you get that yarn? I’ll bet you won’t feel the cold as much there in winter as you do here. It was warm enough when I left, goodness knows! What’s good for winter here is good enough for Nova Scotia. Now, we’ll book second cabin passages out, and for once I’ll go as a passenger and find out what it feels like to loaf around at sea.”

After a stay of just three days in Glasgow, during which time McKenzie called on Mrs. McGlashan and gave her news of her son, the two sailed for Halifax. After an uneventful voyage, they arrived in the old Canadian city by the sea on a fine October day, and Donald telephoned the Nickersons at Eastville Harbor. Judson answered the call. “I’ll meet you at the boat, Donald,” he said over the long distance wire, “and I’ll have a load of wood up to your shack, the stove lit, the kittle on and grub in the locker. I’m tickled to death you’re back, and I’ve got a fine little brig for you to second mate in a couple of weeks. And, bye-the-bye, Donny-boy”—he chuckled into the instrument—“Ira Burton’s landed his fish an’ we’ve skinned him hands daown. He jest came short of aour trip by ten quintals. It’s the talk of the taown, boy, and he’s riproarin’ sore abaout it. He lost a lot of time at the Madaleens and he struck a bad breeze on the Banks and lost an anchor and hawser, some of his dories and a pile o’ gear. It’s a rare joke, but I ain’t agoin’ to take his money. He struck hard luck all through. An’ say, Donald, you’ll find Ruth daown home here, but she’s got that codfish aristocrat with her. I’ve a notion to shanghai him to the West Indies—Oh, gorry! they’re here. I must knock off. So long, Donny-me-lad! See you in the morning!”

So Moodey was down at Eastville! Donald was not very pleased at the news, but then, a girl might have men friends without anything serious being the intention. He was jealous, he said to himself, and Ruth was not tied to him. He had neither a proprietory interest nor a monopoly of her company, and he could not expect her to avoid the society of all men-folk but Donald McKenzie. Thus cogitating, he laughed the matter away, and called up Helena Stuart. “My! Donald, but I’m glad you’re back,” she said after the first greetings. “And your mother is with you? Bring her up to the house this afternoon and stay until your boat leaves for Eastville. Mother will be delighted. Do come now! Don’t forget! Au revoir!”

Before going to the Stuarts, Mrs. McKenzie looked her son over critically. He was wearing the much-detested suit, but his mother had overhauled it and shortened the hated sleeves. It did not look good on him, however, and the mother knew he disliked it. “Don,” she suggested, “I think you could afford to buy another suit. I want to see you looking nice. Don’t you think you could get one ready made to put on before going up to your friend’s house?”

Donald, with true Scotch canniness, counted his money. “I think I can, Mater. I’ve got twenty-five dollars I can spend—some for you and some for me. Let’s go shopping!”

When he stepped into the Stuart parlor that afternoon, he was attired in a neat grey tweed which really fitted his slim, well set-up figure. Fifteen dollars could accomplish wonders! When Helena saw him, she stepped back in surprise. “I really didn’t know you,” she cried, with a smile of admiration on her pretty face. “You don’t look a bit like—like—what will I say?”

“Like a fisherman,” volunteered Donald, laughing at her evident confusion. “That’s what you wanted to say, but you didn’t like to say it for fear of offending.” She came close to him and whispered softly, “If Ruth were to see you now, she’d fall in love with you right off!” And McKenzie blushed furiously.

When his mother was busily engaged in conversation with Mrs. Stuart, Donald got Helena away to a corner. He wanted to find out something, and he thought Helena might tell him. “Helena,” he said quietly, “I look upon you as one of my best friends, and I want you to tell me if Ruth really cares for Mr. Moodey?”

The girl looked up at him quickly with a smile in her dark eyes, but when she saw the earnest look on his face, she became serious. “I—I really don’t know, Donald,” she answered. “He has been going around with her a great deal and she appears to be fond of him. He belongs to a good family here in Halifax and his people are well off. He is studying law at the College and is very popular with a certain set here—quite an athlete and a social star—and he simply dances attendance on Ruth when she is here.”

Donald nodded gloomily. “Does Ruth think anything of me, Helena?”

“She thinks a great deal of you,” replied his companion, “and often talks about you. She thinks you are very clever and very brave, but I don’t think she likes your profession. You see, Ruth is a girl who has always had everything she wanted. Her parents and her brothers have spoiled her. I think she is afraid you’d never earn enough to give her what she has been used to, and she detests the idea of marrying a seafaring man. She has often remarked that she would never be a sailor’s wife.”

McKenzie smiled rather bitterly. “You know, Helena, I’m very much struck with Ruth. It’s awfully foolish of me to be talking like this to you, I know, but ... I want to get my bearings. If Moodey is the favored man ... why, I’ll withdraw. But, you know, Helena, I’m Scotch, and I wouldn’t withdraw unless I had absolutely no chance with her. You say she thinks something of me? If she does, I’ll stick around and give Moodey a run for it, even though I am but a fisherman. Within a few years I hope to be the best fisherman out of Nova Scotia. I have no money, but money isn’t everything.”

Helena slipped her hand into his and gave it a warm squeeze. “That’s the way I like to hear you talk,” she said encouragingly. “You just stick to it. You and Ruth are very young yet—I’m taking advantage of my two or three years’ seniority to speak thus—and I think you have plenty of time ahead of you. Ruth is a very dear sweet girl and I really think she is too good for Walter Moodey—not that he isn’t a nice sort of boy, but I think he’s too conceited. You must work hard to get ahead in your vocation, and keep paying attentions to Ruth, even though Walter is around.”

“You’ll keep this all a secret?” asked Donald shyly. “It’s awfully silly of me to talk to you like this.” Helena laughed. How seriously this eighteen-year-old boy talked! She admired his unsophisticated charm, and wondered how this young fellow who had travelled and seen so much could be so serious in his love and withal so boyish in his confidences and child-like in his fears. Eighteen is early to talk of love, yet at seventeen and eighteen love is blossoming into flower and the newly-opened buds are often more beautiful than the mature bloom. Besides, this lad had outgrown youth. He was a man. When most lads of his age were still callow youths, with youthful thoughts and actions, he was doing a man’s work, living with men and thinking with men and earning a man’s pay. His life for the past two years had been fraught with experiences which men of maturer years in shore occupations would consider as adventures sufficiently notable to be classed as outstanding events in a lifetime. The sea may keep the heart young, but it ages mind and body, and the sailor of eighteen is the equal in confidence, initiative and ability of land-living males twice older in years. The midshipman of sixteen is often in command of men in hazardous expeditions, and many a sailor youth in his teens has sailed and navigated ships to all parts of the globe. Thus Helena reasoned, and she regarded Donald’s confidences as being the heart secrets of a clear-minded, upright man, and not as the love-sick fears and fancies of a susceptible boy.

When mother and son left the Stuart home for the Eastville packet steamer, Helena whispered to Don in parting, “We are charmed with your mother. She is a most delightful lady and you must take good care of her, and ... keep up your attentions to our mutual friend. ‘Faint heart’ ... you know. Au revoir!”

Eastville greeted the McKenzies next morning in most auspicious weather, with a blue sky, smooth sea, and clear autumn sunshine, and as they passed inside the Capes, Donald pointed out the various landmarks. “And there’s the spot, Mater, where we’ll build our house later on ... in that hollow among the spruce trees just back of the head-land. You get a magnificent view of the sea and harbor from there, and the hollow faces the south and is sheltered from the cold winds. The sun shines there all day long ... it’s a lovely spot.” And he rambled on, until at last they were on the wharf and shaking hands with Judson Nickerson.

“Come along up to the house, Mrs. McKenzie,” he said cordially. “We’ll have breakfast there. Your trunks will be sent up to your own place—don’t worry about them. I’m glad to see you both safely landed here.” And he chattered away in an effort to make both feel that they were at home and among friends.

Breakfast at the Nickerson home that morning was an event, and Janet McKenzie was most cordially received. The old ship-builder’s voice boomed in welcome, and his keen eyes beamed hospitably through his steel-rimmed glasses, and Mrs. Nickerson and Ruth charmed the mother with their courtesy and kindness. They had been up to the cottage the day before and had fixed it all ready for occupancy, and Jud had piled the wood-shed with kindling and stove-wood. And the breakfast itself was a thing to be remembered. Corn meal porridge and hot corn cake, fried fresh mackerel and bacon strips and hash brown potatoes, new-baked biscuits, honey, stewed blueberries and delicious coffee—a typical Down-east matutinal meal! Mrs. McKenzie was delighted with everything, and with a heart aglow with happiness, confided to her son, “I’m sure I’ll love this place. Your friends are so kind. What lovely people they are. I’m very, very happy, Donald-laddie, now that I have a home and you!”

And when he took his mother up to the cottage on the hill—Shelter Harbor—that was a joyous occasion. “This is our little place, Mater,” he said proudly as they walked, arm in arm, up the front path. “It’s small, but it’s cosy.” He opened the door and ushered her in, and when she surveyed the clean and homey interior, he waited, almost breathlessly for her comments. From room to room they went, and when every part of the place had been examined, Mrs. McKenzie sat down in a chair and with eyes glowing, said with excess of happiness in her voice, “My! ... it’s just lovely, Donny-dear! Just perfect!” And Donald felt, with her pronouncement, that life was indeed sweet and everything was worth while. “Of course, Mater, it isn’t anything like our old villa in Glasgow, but it’s not too bad,” he went on. “Here’s the stove for heating the place—you’ll have to get used to these Canadian heaters—and the pump is just at the kitchen door. It’ll be a little hard for you here while I’m at sea, as you’ll have to get your wood out of the shed and your water from the pump—”

The mother laughed. “And you think that is a hardship? Why, my dear child, I was brought up on a farm and I had to do a great deal harder work than that. I cleaned stables, planted and pulled potatoes in the fields, milked cows, and gathered hay and oats and stacked them. I was born a poor country girl and know what work is. Don’t you worry about me in this cosy little place. It’s paradise compared with what I’ve had to do.” By these admissions, Janet McKenzie showed that she had profited by misfortune and the old arrogance and “high-falutin’” ideas of palmier days had passed away. She, too, had gone through the mill and come out ground!

The Nickersons had invited them to stay with them for a day or two, but Janet courteously declined. She was eager to get into her own home, and within a half-hour of her entry, she had the kitchen stove alight, the kettle on, and a dinner under way, and Donald busied himself stacking up fire-wood in the wood-box behind the stove. “We must have some chickens,” observed the mother as she peeled potatoes, “and next spring I’ll plant a vegetable garden so that we can have our own potatoes, onions, cabbages and such. Maybe, later on, we can buy a cow, and I’ll make butter and I’ll be able to give you real cream, and butter made with my own hands.”

Donald made a negative gesture. “That’s very nice, Mater, but a cow means hard work for you. I don’t want you to slave—”

His mother gave a sniff of pretended indignation. “What have I got to do in this little place when you are away? Do you think I can’t do the work. I’m not going to act the lady and sit with my hands in my lap all the time, Donny-dear! We’ll get the chickens, the garden and the cow, and I’ll show you I know all about milking and butter-making. I used to be a dairy-maid, and a good dairy-maid, too. My butter won a prize at a fair one year.” And she smiled happily, when Donald said, “Alright, Mater, you’ll have your chickens, your garden and your cow, and I’ll be able to judge if your butter is all that you say it’ll be.”

Judson came up in the afternoon. He was in working clothes and sat down in the kitchen. “I don’t want to rush you, Don, but I guess you want to git to work and earn some money. I’m going skipper of that little brig down to the wharf there loading dried fish and lumber for Havana, and I want to git her sails bent and her gear overhauled. I’m holding the second mate’s berth open for you. D’ye s’pose you can start right in naow and bear a hand? You might as well be doing something and earn a dollar. What d’ye say?”

“I’ll be with you in ten minutes, Skipper,” answered Don eagerly. “I’m anxious to get to work. A brig you say? I’ll have to remember my square-rig sailorizing for her. Bye-the-bye, did you know the Kelvinhaugh is gone? Here’s the newspaper report.”

Judson read it and there was no surprise on his face. “I knew it,” he said. “She was too heavily sparred and unwieldy for such a small crew, and I cal’late she got caught in a squall with her kites up and rolled over. I guess old Muirhead was full, too.... Oh, well, I’m not sorry I skipped aout of her. She was a barge if there ever was one, and I’m sorry for the poor devils that shipped in her.” And with that, he dismissed the matter.

The brig was a Nova Scotia product of about three hundred and fifty tons, and called the Queen’s County. She was a smart little craft and by the lines of her, promised to be a fast sailer. Her hull was painted white, also the houses and the insides of the bulwarks. The trunk cabin aft contained comfortable rooms for three officers and a cook-steward, and for’ard, a house was built partly into a short topgallant forecastle, and this contained accommodations for eight hands. The second mate was supposed to act as boatswain also, and this was to be Donald’s job.

She had two masts, both square-rigged, and carried double-topsail yards, single topgallants and royals. The masts and yards were of wood and scraped and greased. The blocks, mast-heads, yard-arms and trucks were painted white, and her cleanliness, bright wood, and white paint proclaimed her a typical “Bluenose” packet—a lazy sailor’s nightmare.

“I see where there’s a lot of sand-and-canvas work aboard this little craft,” remarked Donald. “I hope we get a crew worth while.”

“Oh, they’ll all be home fellers,” said the skipper. “You and I and the mate and McGlashan will live aft, but the grub’ll be the same for all hands. There’ll be ten of us to handle her, and that’s a good crowd for this hooker in any weather.”

The Queen’s County was partly owned by an old Eastville captain who only went to sea in the summer, and she plied almost exclusively in the West Indian trade between Eastville and the Island ports. Dried fish and lumber out, and molasses to Halifax, home, constituted her cargoes. It was an ideal trade for winter, and Donald looked forward to voyaging in the little brig with a great deal of pleasure.

While he was aloft on the main-royal yard tieing the rovings which lash the head of the sail to the jack-stay, he saw Ruth and Walter Moodey on the wharf below talking to the skipper. His heart gave a queer little jump at the sight, and something of a depressed feeling seized him when he saw Moodey helping her up the gang-plank, but he went on with his work. He was on wages and had no right to knock-off for social receptions unless his commander gave him permission. From his perch, a hundred and forty feet aloft, he saw Judson pilot the two about the brig’s decks, and from the corner of his eye he could see Ruth looking up at him, but he made no sign that he had seen her. Finally, they went into the cabin.

From bending the sail, he commenced to overhaul the furling gear and was reeving the bunt-lines through the leads when Judson’s voice came rolling up from below, “R’yal yard there! Lay down from aloft!” He was standing on the poop with his sister and Moodey, and they were chatting and joking. McKenzie took the short cut to the deck by sliding down the royal backstay and when he stepped on the poop, he whipped off his cap and bowed to Ruth and extended a tarry hand to Walter with a “Hullo, Moodey, how are you?”

The other shook hands cordially and there was no resentment in his expression at the dropping of the “Mister.” If it had been anybody else whose station in life was similar to McKenzie’s, Moodey would have had something to say on the omission. Ruth took Donald by the arm and walked him over to the rail. “You wouldn’t look at me when I came down,” she pouted prettily. “I’ve been getting a crick in my neck looking up at you and trying to catch your eye, but you went on playing with your strings and cords and refused to look at me.”

Donald laughed. “Well, you know, Ruth, I’m on the ship’s books now and I can’t do as I like. I thought you might not care to have a dirty-looking sailor hailing you from the mast. I humbly apologize for my neglect.”

“My friends are all gentlemen no matter what their garb or their work,” answered the girl, “and you are a friend of mine.” Mentally, the youth wished he could be more than a friend, and with that wish in his heart he could not frame a suitable answer. Instead he asked, “What do you think of our little ship?”

They chatted for a while until Moodey, who was talking with the skipper, cried out, “Will we go along now, Ruth?” There was a proprietory tone in his voice which Donald was quick to note, and it pleased him when Miss Nickerson replied, “I’ll be with you in a minute!” And to McKenzie she said, “Will you come over to-night? Bring your mother with you. You know, I’m going to Halifax on Monday to study music and painting, and I’ll be staying with the Stuarts until the spring. You’ll come—won’t you?”

Donald promised readily and when she went off with her escort he watched her slim figure walking gracefully up the wharf with a feeling of mixed admiration and regret in his breast. Moodey’s presence disturbed him and the thought of her being in Halifax all winter—which meant being in the too-near proximity of Walter—did not make him feel happy. It was very easy for a girl to forget the absent one. He turned to make his way aloft again, when the skipper remarked, “Y’know, Don, I can’t cotton to that blighter somehow. He’s chock-full of bazoo about himself, and he’s forever hitching at his tie or scrapin’ his nails or patting his hair. He’s got a notion that he’s hell’n-all ’raound here and that he’s patronizing us Nickersons by paying attentions to my sister. I said so to her last night, but she gave me an earfull and told me to mind my own business so I have to be nice, for Ruth’s sake, to that pink-faced, powdered, manicured, scented pup!”

“You’re too hard on him,” grinned McKenzie. “That’s only his manner. I’ll bet he’s alright at heart, or Ruth wouldn’t tolerate him. I was a bit of a namby-pamby kid myself one time, until I went to sea and got it all knocked out of me—and you did some of the knocking out yourself, Judson.”

The other growled, “Oh, shucks, Don, you were different. I hustled you araound to make a sailor out of you, but you had the stuff in you even though you were a mammy’s boy. But that feller? I’ll bet he’s got a yeller streak in him a yard wide. I can tell! I’m a judge of men, and some day you’ll see.... Naow, Don, we’ll go through the bos’n’s locker and see what we need for the voyage.”

For the next two days, Donald saw Ruth each evening. Of course Moodey was there, but it seemed as if the girl favored McKenzie more than the Halifax youth. Dressed in clothes which enabled him to feel at home in her company, the young fisherman felt that only Moodey’s presence prevented him from cultivating the intimacy he yearned for. The Monday morning came all too quick for Donald, though Moodey felt no regret. McKenzie was bound “to the south’ard” and would not see her again for possibly two or three months. Moodey, in Halifax, could visit her whenever she permitted. McKenzie squirmed when he thought about it, and pictured his rival wooing Ruth with a free rein and no opposition. He would have to do something to keep his memory green, mused Donald, and when she was about to drive away in the team to catch the Halifax train at the station ten miles away, he managed to secure a few minutes’ talk with her À la solitaire and screwed his courage up to ask if he might write to her in Halifax.

With a sweet smile, she said, “Most certainly, Don. I shall be delighted if you will. Write and let me know all about Havana and the places you visit. We’re pals, aren’t we? Write me a nice chummy letter, and if you come to Halifax during the winter telephone me first thing, so’s we can have an evening together.” And with her merry blue eyes and pretty face photographed on his mind and her farewell greetings ringing in his ears, he turned from thoughts of love and wooing to more mundane and sterner things.

On a cold November morning, the Queen’s County, with a hold packed with drums and casks of dried cod-fish and a deck-load of spruce lumber filling the space between fo’c’sle head and poop-break, towed out of Eastville Harbor and to sea. A couple of miles offshore, the tug cast them off and the brig swung south for warmer climes, with her crew crowding the canvas on her. It was a very happy Donald that paced her weather alley that night, smoking and musing. As Mister McKenzie, second mate of a beautiful little clipper brig, he was standing his watch in charge of the ship, and he kept an eye on the weather-leach of the straining t’gallan’s’ls, and thought of his mother, his home on the hill, and Ruth.

“Eighteen years of age and keeping a home of my own, and with the dear old Mater comfortably settled in it, and me, second mate of this fine little packet! Donald Percival McKenzie—you’re a very lucky boy! And, maybe, if you watch yourself, and play your cards right, you’ll win the dearest and loveliest.... Um-um!” He smiled happily to himself and sensing a flap aloft of the t’gallan’s’l leach, he turned to shout to the wheelsman, “No higher, Jack! You’re shaking her!”