presently began to sing in a muffled voice:
A Yankee ship came down the river,
Blow, boys, blow!
Her masts did bend and her sails did shiver,
Blow, my bully boys, blow!
If ever there was an incongruous picture, here it was! This unkempt Ingram, cross-legged beneath the stars on the deck of a native boat moored in the wilds of a Kechiang creek, singing to sleep a Chinese baby with the strains of a sail-setting chantey! The aunts, the dear little gray aunts, could they have seen or even imagined it, would have raised their hands and swooned. Mark, deeply absorbed in his occupation, never thought of the absurdity of it. If he had, he would have roared with mighty laughter.
What do you think they had for dinner?
Blow, boys, blow!
Sea-water soup, but somewhat thinner!
Blow, my bully boys, blow!
So crooned Mark's baritone, leashed in to a murmur. Ping-Pong's small golden fist clutched his lapel; her head slipped lower and lower upon his shoulder; her long black eye-
