After three days’ hard fishing, they cleaned up the fish on their first “berth,” and when it “thinned out” they hoisted sail and anchor and shifted to the northward. Every day was not a good fishing day. Sometimes they got a mere handful of cod or haddock, and there were other days when the April fogs were so dense that Captain Nickerson had to keep the dories aboard, in spite of his desire to get “a trip of fish” quickly. These were the days when Donald experienced the grey terror of the Banks—the soaking, impenetrable fog which would steal up apparently from nowhere and settle over the sea in a heavy pall of finely atomized mist which defied sight and played strange tricks with sound. The fishermen hated fog, and well they might. McKenzie got an idea of their antipathy one day when a huge New York liner almost “got” them as she whirled past them in the vapor. So close was she, that they had to let the main-boom run to the end of the sheet or the steamer would have struck it as it lay in the crotch. All hands were frightened, and standing on the rolling schooner’s deck, they shook their fists at the receding liner and howled picturesque oaths. “Half-speed on the telegraph, half speed in the log, but the engines turning up their maximum revolutions,” growled the skipper, and Donald thought of how his father had to drive his ship through these foggy wastes and possibly just escape destroying a schooner as this steamer had narrowly missed sending the West Wind to the bottom. During thick weather, while at anchor on the Banks, in daytime, they kept the bell tolling and fired a shot-gun when steamers were heard blowing in the vicinity. At night, they kept torches alight. When under way, they relied on sharp ears and eyes and a mechanical fog-horn, which emitted a sound a trifle more audible than the buzz of a bee.

Fog, however, did not always keep the fishermen aboard. If it was thin, or if there were signs that it would dissipate shortly, the dories went over the rail, and the fishermen pulled into the mist with only a kerosene torch, a tin trumpet or a conch-shell, rudely cut at the end of the spiral to make a bugle-like blast when blown, to protect them. Donald had only been a week at sea on a fisherman when he learned of what calibre these Banksmen were. He saw them pull off in their frail dories in mists; in sharp March and April snow-squalls, and in moderately heavy breezes, when the seas were cresting and the spring rains were pelting down. They went over the rail in the dark of early morning, with brooding sky and a hint of storm in the air, and with torches aflare on their dory gunnels, they set and hauled their gear, until the wind and sea decreed that it was dangerous to defy it longer. Were it not for their skipper’s signal to come aboard, they would have fished until the most timid of their gang buoyed the gear and pulled for the schooner, but there were no timid men in the West Wind’s crowd.

They fished hard on the West Wind, harder than they would have ordinarily, but there was a bet to be won, and it was safe to assume that Ira Burton on the Annie Brown, was working “double-tides” and “wetting his salt” as fast as he could. Captain Nickerson kept his men at it, and he did not spare himself. He worked harder than any of them, and called up all his sea-lore and fish-lore to bring the finny spoils aboard. At odd intervals, he produced blue-books and pamphlets on icthyological subjects from his bunk shelf and studied the migrations of fish and the distribution of plankton and the various other marine minutiÆ upon which the cod, haddock and other demersal species are supposed to feed. Two or three times a day, he lashed a thermometer to the lead-line and recorded bottom temperatures. Temperatures and salinity of the surface waters were taken by him regularly and recorded in his private log. Donald attempted to assist him in this work, and the two of them pored over the scientific literature and incidentally cursed the writers for recording their researches in language beyond their common school educational understanding.

The men looked upon this scientific work with scorn. “A blame’ thermometer ain’t agoin’ to tell him whar’ th’ fish are,” they said. “Let him fix a camerar to that there lead an’ photygraft th’ bottom to tell us whar’ th’ fish an’ th’ rough spots are. That’s th’ ticket. Ira Burton don’t fish thataway. No, siree! That guy hez th’ mind of a cod, an’ they say he jest picks one up aout o’ th’ pen an’ he goes below with it an’ talks to it, an’ he’ll come up a while after an’ say: ‘We’ll fish araound here some more. They’re thick on th’ bottom in this here spot!’ That’s Burton’s way.” And some joker would raise a laugh by picking up a big codfish in his arms and asking it the whereabouts of the main body of its family.

They were doing very well, however, and when an ugly easterly sprung up, they took advantage of the break in the weather to run into port and secure more bait. On the run-in, the men caught up on sleep, and the skipper and Donald sailed the vessel the fifty or sixty miles to port under a reefed mains’l and through a spiteful wind and sea. They only remained long enough to secure bait and some supplies, and shot out again on the last of the easterly blow.

Working the grounds around Sable Island, they swung off for Eastville Harbor with over a thousand quintals of fish in salt below, and arrived in the home port on May 10th, after nearly two months’ absence. Ira Burton had been in and was gone again, and nobody knew how much he had landed. The fish had been weighed by his own men, and the tally was kept a secret. It was a good “jag” gossipers averred, and various estimates were given—none of which could be credited.

“We’ll git aour fish aout, salt an’ supplies aboard, an’ we’ll skin aout too,” said the skipper. “An’ we’ll see what’s what at the end of the season.”

It was early morning when they arrived in Eastville Harbor, and the skipper and Donald surprised the Nickerson family by stamping into the house before a soul was stirring. The first one downstairs was Ruth, who greeted them both warmly, and asked excited questions about the West Wind’s catch. “Will you beat Captain Burton, Juddy?” she cried. “He’s landed his spring trip and people say it was a record one—” She broke off and turned to Donald. “And how do you like the fishing, Mr. McKenzie?” she enquired interestedly. “I suppose you’re glad to get back. Are you going to stick at it?”

McKenzie answered enthusiastically, “I surely do like the fishing life and I intend to stick at it. I’ve enjoyed myself immensely. Of course, I’m glad to get back for a spell—”

“It ain’t agoin’ to be a long spell though,” interrupted Judson, who was worrying about Ira Burton. It was not the chance of losing five hundred dollars that caused him anxiety, but rather the blow to his prestige—the horror of losing and being called a “windy bluff.” Masterful men of the Nickerson type cannot stand ridicule. “We’ll skip aout again to-morrow morning, I cal’late.”

The girl’s face fell at his announcement. “Why do you want to run away like this, Juddy, dear,” she asked plaintively. “Surely one day won’t make much difference between now and September?”

Her brother laughed. “Won’t it?” He patted her on the shoulder. “It might put us in the hole. A pile o’ fish can be salted down in one day, Ruthie. No, no, Sis, we can’t stay longer—much as we’d like to.” Donald, feasting his eyes on Ruth’s pretty face and lithe figure, mentally echoed her desire and anathematized Ira Burton and his wager. He regretted for a moment his fertile imagination in suggesting such a scheme to Judson.

When the skipper left to go upstairs to see his parents, Donald sat and chatted with Ruth, who was engaged in laying the table for breakfast. “You’ll be interested to know that Miss Stuart is staying with us just now,” said the girl. “I left her in bed fast asleep—”

“No you didn’t, Ruth,” came a laughing voice from the stair. “Here I am wide-awake.” And Helena came down into the room and greeted McKenzie cordially. “This is indeed a pleasant surprise. Did Captain Nickerson win his bet?” Donald explained to her that the wager would not be decided until the end of the season in September.

It was very pleasant sitting in the sun-flooded dining room and chatting with two pretty girls—very pleasant indeed. After weeks in the intimate society of hairy-chested men, whose conversation was red-blooded and direct, it was distinctly refreshing to be talking “nice” and listening to soft musical voices. Donald’s artistic eye appreciated the soft hair, clear skins and sweetly moulded figures of the two young women, and when he gazed at Ruth there was a light in his eyes which told of the loveflame kindling in his heart. It was spring, and through the windows and the open door, the sunshine was streaming in and the birds were singing and chirping in all the joyousness of the season’s warmth. The trees were breaking into leaf and the grass was bright green and goodly to look upon by eyes weary with the monotony of eternal leagues of sea. The sky stretched faultlessly blue overhead and the waters of the harbor gleamed gold in the sun, while the air was as clear as a bell and redolent of warm earth and the scent of balsam and spruce. When old mother earth breaks from the thraldom of winter, the heart grows light and fancies turn to love.

Ruth had finished laying the table. “Now, Helena,” she said, “you can go in the kitchen and fry up some eggs and bacon and make some coffee. When Juddy comes downstairs he’ll help you. I want to show Mr. McKenzie the dear little bird’s nest we found yesterday.” And turning to Donald, she continued, “There are four beautiful little eggs in it. Come on, Mr. Fisherman!” And nothing loath, Donald followed her out into the sunshine, feeling favored and happy. This was a girl for his heart! A girl who appreciated Nature in all her loveliness, and when she pointed out the hidden nest in a hushed voice there was a tenderness in her tones which betrayed affections, deep, true, and worth winning.

At the breakfast table, he spent a happy hour. Ruth waited upon him assiduously, and in thinking about her, he gave vague answers to old Mr. and Mrs. Nickerson’s questionings regarding his fishing experiences. What Ruth was doing for him, Helena was doing for Judson, and when he glanced at the smiling, laughing, joking skipper, McKenzie blessed the day that saw him a member of the Kelvinhaugh’s ship’s company under such a man. In those days he little dreamed of such present hours.

When Donald had finished his fourth cup of coffee, Ruth jumped to her feet with an exclamation. “Oh! I almost forgot. Here’s a letter that came for you while you were away. I must apologize for not giving it to you before. We’ll excuse you while you go and read it.”

It was from his mother, and it was a long epistle full of loving expressions and scarcely veiled fears. She was appalled at his experiences aboard the Kelvinhaugh, and extremely nervous about his voyage in the Helen Starbuck, and when his letters came from Halifax and Eastville announcing his safe arrival, a great load had been lifted from her heart. “You know, dear laddie, you are all I have now, and if anything happened to you I would not care to live,” it read. “And, oh, my bonny, but I’m lonesome for you and longing for the day when we’ll be together again.... I’m so pleased you have found such a friend in Captain Nickerson. I’m sure he is a splendid gentleman, and I hope your step in going into the Canadian fisheries will be successful and promising. I am longing for the time when I shall come out to Nova Scotia and make a home for you there. Your remittance of $150 came to hand safely, but I am sorry to confess, dear, that I had to break into it. Your uncle wrote me the enclosed letter, telling me of your death by drowning—which, of course, I knew was not true, as you explained the circumstances in your letter from British Columbia—but shortly afterwards I was dismissed from the Hydropathic for some unknown reason, and I feel sure David McKenzie was at the bottom of it. I found some little difficulty in getting another place, and it was during this period that I had to use the money you sent me. Now, do not worry about me. I have since secured a position as night matron in the Davidson Home for the Aged and Infirm—a lovely place just outside of Glasgow—and I am very comfortable here.” The letter concluded with those affectionate paragraphs which only mothers can write.

He turned his attention to the enclosed letter from his uncle. It was typical of the man—abrupt in phraseology and entirely lacking in courtesy or sympathy.

“Dear Madam,” it ran, “the master of the Kelvinhaugh advises me that your son, Donald McKenzie, was drowned while fishing in Vancouver harbor on the evening of Sept. 30th, 189—. His body was not recovered. Yours truly, David McKenzie & Co., per D. McK.”

Donald smiled bitterly. “Short, sweet and utterly damnable!” he muttered, and he crushed it savagely in his strong fingers. He opened his mother’s letter again and perused it thoughtfully, trying to read between the lines. There was a lot left unsaid in that letter, and he knew his mother was hard put to it when she was forced to use the passage-money. David McKenzie was apparently as vindictive as ever, he ruminated grimly. The beast! Curtly announcing Donald’s death to his mother and then having her discharged. How had she fared after leaving the Hydro? His imagination pictured fearful things and he stared out of the window unseeing and unconsciously gritted his teeth. Put him before David McKenzie again and let the swine treat his mother as he did before and he would tear the heart out of the hound with his bare hands! The perspiration broke out on his forehead in excess of silent rage as the old fury of Highland blood boiled within him thirsting for revenge....

A hand was placed on his shoulder and a girl’s voice roused him. “I hope you had good news from home, Mr. McKenzie?” It was Ruth, and she was looking at him with an expression of concern in her deep blue eyes.

“We-e-ell, yes,” he answered cheerfully—the old passion dying instantly at the sound of her voice. “It is not bad news. Mother is well and happy.”

She smiled. “I was afraid by the look on your face when you read your letter that something unpleasant was troubling you.” Donald laughed and crumpled the letter into his pocket.

“Are you going to be here this evening?” asked Helena, coming over. “If you are, we might have some music and a little dance. What do you say, Ruth?”

“Surely, surely,” answered the other, “and I’m going to ask Mr. McKenzie to look over some of my recent daubs in the painting line. And, now, coming down from the sublime to the ridiculous, Helena, come and help me clear the table.”

Lolling on the window-seat, McKenzie’s thoughts flew back to his mother in the Glasgow Home. He was anxious to see her again and to have her with him. She must be lonely—very lonely. He was deeply immersed in thought when Ruth, on her way to the kitchen with a pile of dishes, stumbled over a rag mat and sent the crockery crashing to the floor. Donald was on his feet in a second. “I’m so sorry,” he said apologetically. “I should have given you a hand to clear the things away. I’m forgetting my manners. Allow me to pick the pieces up!” He dropped to the floor while the girl regarded him with shining eyes. Such chivalry in domestic mishaps was unusual.

He collected the broken dishes and carried them into the kitchen, and when Ruth rolled her sleeves up to wash the breakfast things, he smiled and held out his hand. “Give me the dish-rag, Miss Nickerson, and I will wash up. You can dry the things.” When she demurred, he added, “Oh, I’m an old hand at this work. I used to do it for mother many a time.” And he took the dish-cloth gently away from her, while she mentally remarked on his courtesy with something of regret. “This delightful boy—a fisherman! Wasting his fragrance on the desert air ... it’s too bad.” Fishing, as an occupation did not stand very high in Ruth’s estimation. She was of a romantic turn of mind and longed to be a modern Una, but the thought of choosing her knight from among sea-roving fish-killers did not appeal to her imagination. She rather fancied this stalwart, dark-eyed, confident, cultured youth, but his profession...? It was the fly in the ointment!

The others had vanished for the time being, and together in the kitchen, Ruth and Donald washed and dried, chatting, teasing and laughing until Judson stuck his head around the door. “Oh, there you are,” he cried. “Washin’ dishes? Well, well! I cal’late, Ruthie, you’ll have to let your galley-help come along with me. We have a lot to do an’ darn small time to do it in. Come on, Don!” Donald regretfully relinquished the dish-cloth and wiped his hands, while Ruth voiced her indignation. “That’s you, Judson Nickerson!” she scolded jocularly. “Always spoiling a pleasant little party by dragging my visitor off. You may boss him, but, thank goodness, you can’t boss me!”

Her brother looked humorously at her—pulling pensively at his mustache. “No, by Jupiter, Ruthie-girl,” he said, edging towards the door as he spoke, “I could boss a whole shipload of roughnecks, but I wouldn’t attempt to boss a little spitfire like you.”

As he passed through the door after Judson, McKenzie whispered, “This is the first time I have really enjoyed dish-washing. I’ll help you to-night, if I may.” And with the sparkling glance from her laughing eyes envisioned in his memory, he strode down to the wharf with a heart as light and care-free as though trouble never existed.

Down at the wharf they tallied the fish out, and kept the score secret. Then supplies were hustled aboard, and Donald and the skipper worked until afternoon sending up the West Wind’s fore-topmast and bending the balloon jib. They dined on the vessel, and when tea-time came, she was ready for the long summer trip with salt, fresh victuals, and water aboard. “We’ll get under way at six in the morning,” said the skipper finally, and he and Don went up to the house.

Donald had been worrying considerably about his mother, and he confided his troubles to the skipper. “I want to bring her out here, captain,” he said, “but I don’t know if I can afford to keep her on my wages. I am getting thirty dollars a month as spare hand on the West Wind, and I own that is good money for a chap my age, but could I keep mother on that out here?”

The other thought for a moment. “I’m afraid not, Don,” he said. “You’d need to earn at least forty-five dollars monthly to keep a home an’ your mother anyways comfortable. However, son, you jest plug along this summer an’ get on to the fishin’ so’s you kin go in a dory—then you’ll earn more money. This fall, I’m goin’ to go master of a big schooner running fish an’ lumber to th’ West Indies, an’ I hope to take you along as second mate. You’ll get fifty a month then, an’ next spring you’ll go in the dory as a fisherman, and ef we strike it right there’s no reason why you shouldn’t make six to eight hundred dollars for the season’s work. Fishin’ summers an’ makin’ West Indie voyages in the winter ought to keep you pretty comfortable for a while. But I hope in a year or two to see you skipper of your own vessel. With your brains an’ ability, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t.”

Donald smiled. “That’s what I hope, Skipper,” he said, “but I want to write mother to-night and give her something definite. I am thinking of shipping over to Glasgow and bringing her out when we get back. Can I do it?” “No reason why you can’t,” replied the other. “It’ll only take you a month to make the trip. S’pose you leave in October, you can be back in time to sail with me in December. You should have a couple of hundred dollars to draw come September. You’ll be in good trim then. That’ll more than pay her passage out an’ yours too.” The lad laughed happily. “That’s right, Captain!” he exclaimed, “I’m just longing to bring her out here. I love this country, and the people, and I’ve never regretted going fishing. The past two months have been a revelation to me, and I’ve enjoyed every bit of it. The work is hard when it comes, but there are lots of slack spells to make up for the hard drags; the living is first class, and there is an element of hazard and gamble in this fishing game which seems to have got me in a spell—”

Judson slapped him affectionately on the shoulder. “You’ve said it there, Don! That’s it! The gamble of it all; the hard work for hard dollars, and the harder you work—the more you make. We have good times, good quarters and good grub, and, better’n all, you sail in able craft an’ with able men. That’s why I chucked up the other game. I was fed up mucking about in lime-juicers an’ tryin’ to get work done with the no-sailors an’ sojers that go in them nowadays. I rushed them, cursed them, and even banged them at times, but I didn’t do that for the fun of it. I did it—played the bucko—because I had to, that’s why! Your lazy lime-juice shell-backs give Yankee and Bluenose ships a hard name. Why? Because in aour ships a man had to be what he signed for. If he was an A.B., he had to do A.B.’s work. If he couldn’t, God help him! We wouldn’t put up with sojerin’ or slack lip in aour ships, an’ that’s why we had the smartest wooden wind-jammers in the world. Where did you find your best British seamen? In American and Canadian ships—where they were appreciated and well-fed. No Yankee or Bluenose officer ever man-handled a good seaman. It was the bums, the hoodlums, an’ the Paddy Westers who tried to run the ship, that we booted an’ belaying-pinned, for that was the only language they understood and respected. I was long enough in British ships to have been soured on them. I’ve seen sails blown away an’ gear destroyed simply because the crew shirked their duty and the officers—good enough men—couldn’t make them do it for fear of bein’ hailed afore a British Consul on the charge of misdemeanors against the Merchant Shipping Act.” He paused and spat disgustedly. Continuing, he said, “Naow, take yourself! You maybe thought I was a mite severe with you on th’ Kelvinhaugh? I never ill-used you, though I made you hustle. Why? Because I saw you had the makings of a sailor in you an’ I wanted to instill smartness in you. You’ll never forget my lessons, Don, and I’ll guarantee when you get a command of your own, you’ll want your crew to skip araound lively an’ work, and ef they don’t, you’ll know haow to handle ’em!”

They were on the verandah of the Nickerson home by now, and were greeted by Helena and Ruth. “Don’t you believe all Juddy tells you, Mr. McKenzie,” said Ruth, smiling. “He’d make one believe he was a terrible man at sea. I don’t believe he would hurt a fly!” Donald laughed heartily. His memory flashed back to Kelvinhaugh days and he recalled some incidents in “brother Juddy’s” career which rather belied his sister’s opinion. The skipper himself grinned foolishly, and glanced from Donald to Helena Stuart. “How did he treat you on that Scotch ship, Mr. McKenzie?” enquired Ruth. “Was he kind to you?”

“He was my best friend,” said Donald seriously, “and did a great deal more for me than I can ever repay. Your brother, in my humble opinion, is the most capable and the best-hearted man that I ever knew and—” “Belay! belay!” cried the skipper, reddening somewhat as he saw Helena’s dark eyes staring at him. “These compliments are liable to unship a fellow’s modesty.” And he caught his sister by the arm and led her into the house, while Helena and Donald remained seated on the veranda steps.

“Tell me,” said the girl after an exchange of small talk. “What sort of a man is Captain Nickerson at sea? You seem to have a great admiration for him.”

“I have,” replied Donald enthusiastically. “He is the ablest man I have ever known outside of my own father. He is fearless, but not reckless. He has wonderful endurance and a cultivated mind, and he has a heart as big as his body. He is a man’s man all through!”

Helena made a mental addition, “but evidently not a woman’s man.” Aloud, she asked quietly, “Has he—er—do you know if he is anything of a ladies’ man?” There was a curious note in her voice which caused Donald to glance at her with a quizzical expression.

The youth replied slowly, “Well, now, I don’t believe he is.”

“How comes it that he has escaped marriage?” she enquired. “They marry young down here, and he seems to be a fine sort of a man. He must be around thirty-five now.”

“He’s thirty-three, I believe,” answered Donald. “From what he has mentioned at odd times, I gather that he was engaged to a girl once and she jilted him. That’s all I know.”

Murmuring “Too bad, poor man!” Helena changed the subject and they talked for a space on other topics, until Mrs. Nickerson called them in for supper.

After the meal, the young people went into the parlor, and Donald and Helena played and sang. This did not suit Ruth, who got rather tired of seeing Mr. McKenzie monopolized by her friend, and as Mrs. Asa was unable to come over and play for them that evening, she suggested a walk in lieu of dancing.

“Let us stroll out by the Eastville Cape,” she said. “It’s a glorious night and there’s a full moon.”

“That’s a good idea,” exclaimed Donald eagerly. “I’ve almost forgotten how to walk after two months on shipboard.” The skipper, clean-shaven, and looking bronzed and handsome in his shore clothes, murmured approval and stood awkwardly to one side as the girls passed out. Donald and Helena went on to the gallery, and Ruth turned to her brother. “Go on, now, you big calf,” she said quickly. “Go and take Helena. Don’t be hanging back like a country bumpkin.”

Judson grinned sheepishly. “Haow do I know she wants to go with me? Maybe she prefers Donald.”

His sister made an impatient gesture. “Don’t you like Helena?” she snapped.

The skipper, reddening under his tan, stood irresolute. “Sure I do,” he replied, “but I don’t want to force my company on her!”

“‘Faint heart never won fair lady,’” quoted Ruth sharply. “Go and ask her to walk with you, and when you talk with her, try and say something interesting!” And she pushed him out on the gallery towards the others. Feeling considerably more nervous than he ever felt during a strenuous watch at sea, Judson took the easier course and addressed Donald. “Will you walk with Ruth, Don? She’s tired of me an’ I’m afraid of her! She’s got an awful tongue!” Donald was only too pleased to make the exchange, and they sauntered down the road towards the headland.

It was a most entrancing night—a night of dark azure sky brilliant with moonlight and myriad stars—and the waters of the bay glittered like silver in the glow from the moon. The warm southerly wind was perfumed with the scent of budding and flowering herbage and the balmy, resinous odors of spruce and balsam. The frogs in the field ponds were crooning their nightly lullabys, and their continuous croaks served as an orchestral accompaniment to the sweet warbling of the robins and other songsters of the twilight hours. Somewhere in a spruce thicket a whip-poor-will was calling, and over on the rocks of the passage, the gulls sounded weird cries, as if in plaintive greeting to a coasting schooner standing out to sea with the ebb tide. She sailed across the moon-path on the water, and for a moment her hull and sails stood up in silhouette against the silvery background, then she slipped out of the glare and faded into the darkness, with but the red glow of her port light to mark her presence.

“Isn’t this lovely?” exclaimed Ruth softly, as they sat down in a hollow of the Cape and looked over the harbor and passage. “This is a favorite spot of mine, and I love to come here in summer and look at the sea.”

Donald sat on the grass beside her with his arms around his knees. The spring air was inoculating him with its exhilaration, and a strange sensation of pleasant enjoyment of life was taking possession of him. He breathed deep of the warm-scented breeze, and stared at his partner’s pretty features illuminated by the moon-glare. Her face was turned away from him, and her profile, crowned with a luxuriance of dark tresses, looked almost Madonna-like in the silvery glow, and Donald was thinking how delightful it would be to slip his arms around those rounded shoulders and, holding her closely to him, kiss her upon that rosy mouth. “In the spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love!” Donald recalled the famous phrase and sighed. Ruth turned. “What are you thinking of, Mr. McKenzie?” she asked, smiling. For a moment he could not answer, but the “Mr. McKenzie” jarred him. It did not fit in with the night, and he replied boldly, “I was thinking how much nicer it would be—for me, at least—if you would not be so formal. I would like you to call me Don, instead of ‘Mister McKenzie,’ and I would also like to call you Ruth. Ruth is such a pretty name, and should not be masked under the conventional ‘Miss’.” He paused and looked at her with wide dark eyes faintly smiling.

The girl bent her head and picked at the grass. “If you would like me to call you ‘Don,’ I certainly will—Don,” she said with a flash of her eyes.

He gave a little laugh. “And I hope you will permit me to call you ‘Ruth’—Ruth!” With this primary barrier to intimate acquaintanceship broken down, they sat and talked as only young men and women of “sweet seventeen” know how, and they voiced the thoughts which came to mind inspired by the beauty of the night, but Donald dare not give expression to all the ambitions and desires inspired in him by the charming young woman at his side. She was very lovable, he thought, and he knew that his boyish heart was already captivated by her fresh young beauty and the glory of her clear and deep blue eyes. He always adored blue eyes, and Ruth’s reminded him of the sea and sky in the track of the Trades—the fine weather, azure when the sun would be shining, and the flying-fish leaping from the murmuring wave-crests of the tropical sea—the deep, unfathomed blue.

“I wonder where Juddy and Helena went to?” suddenly exclaimed Ruth. Donald laughed and his teeth gleamed white in the moonlight. “Nice teeth!” mentally remarked Ruth.

“I think I can hear him talking on top of the Cape,” he answered. “Listen!” In the quiet of the evening, Judson’s voice floated down to them. He was giving Helena a lesson on the stars, and they could imagine him pointing them out.

“There’s Ursa Majoris! There’s Polaris! Arcturus! Sirius! Andromeda! Cassiopeia!” and so on. Ruth chuckled. “Juddy evidently has scared up something interesting for Helena. She adores that sort of thing. I was afraid he would find nothing to talk about but royal sails and gallant topsails and that sea stuff.”

“You misjudge your brother, Ruth,” said Donald. “He is a well-read man and can converse on many subjects not connected with the sea and ships.”

“He ought to be. He was at school long enough. He had a good education, though, by the way he talks sometimes, you’d think he never saw the inside of a school-room. But I’m very fond of Juddy. I like him the best of all, and I would like to see him married and settled. Don’t you think Helena and he would make a good match?” She watched him curiously when she asked the question.

“I most certainly do,” replied Donald heartily. He thought he detected a faint expression of relief on her face at his answer, and the thought pleased him mightily.

“We’d better skip along, folks! There’s a fog rolling in.” It was Judson calling from the hill path. Regretfully, Donald rose and assisted Ruth to her feet, and taking her arm, helped her up the slope. When upon the path again, he evidently labored under the delusion that his partner was short-sighted or unable to walk without assistance, as he failed to withdraw the aiding arm. To his secret delight, the girl made no protest or attempt to withdraw. Upon such trivial actions do we record another knot ahead on the log slate of love!

Back on the verandah of the house, they separated into two groups, and the intimate hour passed all too quick for Donald. The skipper struck a match and looked at his watch. He would have liked to have sat the whole night out with Helena, but he had the old-fashioned notion that half-past ten was a pretty late hour ashore. “I suppose you girls’ll be making for bed naow?” he observed regretfully.

“I guess we must,” said Helena, smiling to herself. Helena was city bred. “What time do you sail, Judson?”

“We’ll go out on the first of the ebb-tide at six, I expect.”

“I’ll be up at five to give you a cup of coffee,” said Ruth. Her brother protested. “No use of your getting up to do that, Sis. Don and I will go right down aboard th’ vessel. McGlashan will have breakfast all ready—”

“And I suppose you prefer your old cook’s coffee to mine!” interrupted Ruth tartly. McKenzie unconsciously voiced her protest. He wanted to see all he could of her.

Judson slipped his arm around his sister’s shoulders. “There, there, naow, Petsy!” he soothed. “She shall get up an’ make her brother an’ Don a cup of coffee. It shall never be said we refused yours for any old cook’s brew of water bewitched. We’ll see you in the morning.” He turned and extended his hand to Helena.

“I guess I’d better bid you good-bye—”

“In the morning,” she answered. “I’ll be up with Ruth. Good-night!”

Donald retired that night feeling indescribably happy. He felt that he was on the high road to winning Ruth Nickerson’s heart and hand. He was in love with her, he admitted. He wanted her for his own, and he felt that she was favorably disposed towards him. This being his first love, he had no precedents to disillusion him or conjure up obstacles. It would take time, he knew. He had to make a home for his mother first and a position for himself. He would work hard and study for master, and when he skippered his own vessel, he would be all right. Then he would build a house in the hollow near the Cape—the place they had visited that evening—and he would ask Ruth to marry him. As he planned, so he dreamed, and everything was plain sailing and fine weather.

“Skin up you an’ loose y’r mizzen r’yal!” came a snarling voice in his ear. Old habit made Donald leap up, rubbing his eyes and wondering if he had committed the crime of sleeping on watch. Judson, lighting the lamp, laughed. “By gum, Don, that fetched you! I’ll bet you thought you were aboard th’ Kelvinhaugh and that I was singin’ aout?”

They went downstairs smiling, and found Ruth scurrying around laying cups on the table. She was in a kimono, and looked, in Donald’s eyes, a picture of feminine loveliness. “Some day,” he mused, “she would be making a snack specially for him when he was going out on an early morning tide.” Alas! his shore hours were too short. He would not see her again until the fall.

Helena came down, and they all drank the coffee as in a mystic farewell rite—a valedictory communion. It is wine and the wafer for the soldier going into battle, but it is coffee and biscuits for the sailor going to sea!

Seamen hate farewells. Make a brave welcome if you must, but let us slip away to sea unobtrusively—between sunset and dawn—with the last ringing laugh in our ears, but do not let us go regretfully, with the memory of a long hand-clasp and hint of tears in an upturned face. These are the usual seamen’s desires—merely to depart with a nonchalant “So long!”, but Donald had no notion of such a curt parting. He wanted to spin the bitter-sweetness of it out, as lovers are fain to do. He gave Ruth’s hand a warm squeeze and held it for a moment. She was looking at him with wide-open blue eyes, with a hint of fear in them. “Good-bye, Ruth,” he said quietly, “I hope to see you when we come back. Good-bye!” She murmured something, and abruptly he swung away.