Part 8

“It's beautiful,” he told her.

“Isn't it good philosophy?”

“Yes,” he admitted, not daring to doubt the high priestess of the new cult to which he had been commandeered.

“It saves all this foolish worry. Most of the folks I know are always talking about the bad things which have happened to them or are peering forward and hoping that good things will happen, and they never once look down and admire a golden moment which Fate has dropped into their hands. You see, I'm poetical this morning. Why shouldn't I be? We love each other.”

“I don't know how to talk,” he stammered. “I'm only a sailor. I never said a word about love to any girl in my life.”

“Are you sure you have never loved anybody? Remember, we must tell each other our secrets.”

“Never,” he declared with convincing firmness.

She surveyed him, showing the satisfaction a gold-seeker would exhibit in appraising a nugget of virgin ore. “But you are so big and fine! And you must have met so many pretty girls!”

He was not restive under this quizzing. “I have told you the truth, Miss Marston.”

“For shame, big boy! 'Miss Marston,' indeed! I am Alma--Alma to you. Say it! Say it nicely!”

He flushed. He stole a shamefaced glance at the-wheelsman and made a quick and apprehensive survey of the sacred regions aft.

“Are you afraid, after all I have said to you?”

“No, but it seems--I can hardly believe--”

“Say it.”

“Alma,” he gulped. “Alma, I love you.”

“You need some lessons, big boy. You are so awkward I think you are telling me the truth about the other girls.”

He did not dare to ask her whether she had loved any one else. With all the passionate jealousy of his soul he wanted to ask her. She, who was so sure that she could instruct him, must have loved somebody. He tried to comfort himself by the thought that her knowledge arose from the efforts either men had made to win her.

“We have our To-day,” she murmured. “Golden hours till the moon comes up--and then perhaps a few silver ones! I don't care what Arthur guesses. My father is too busy talking money with those men to guess. I'm going to be with you all I can. I can arrange it. I'm studying navigation.”

She snuggled against the rail, luxuriating in the sunshine.

“Who are you?” she asked, bluntly.

That question, coming after the pledging of their affection, astonished him like the loom of a ledge in mid-channel.

“It's enough for me that you are just as you are, boy! But you're not a prince in disguise, are you?”

“I'm only a Yankee sailor,” he told her. “But if you won't think that I'm trying to trade on what my folks have been before me, I'll say that my grandfather was Gamaliel Mayo of Mayoport.”

“That sounds good, but I never heard of him. With all my philosophy, I'm a poor student of history, sweetheart.” Her tone and the name she gave him took the sting out of her confession.

“I don't believe he played a great part in history. But he built sixteen ships in his day, and our house flag circled the world many times. Sixteen big ships, and the last one was the Harvest Home, the China clipper that paid for herself three times before an Indian Ocean monsoon swallowed her.”

“Well, if he made all that money, are you going to sea for the fun of it?”

“There are no more Yankee wooden ships on the sea. My poor father thought he was wise when the wooden ships were crowded off. He put his money into railroads--and you know what has happened to most of the folks who have put their money into new railroads.”

“I'm afraid I don't know much about business.”