THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
of what? God, how that hurt! … To go away with these two old codgers into the deserts—the Irish soul of him rose to this thought as a trout rises to the May-fly. But in through the port, out of the starry October night, there seemed to drift a plaint.
No. He had tied a burden to his shoulders, of his own volition, and he could not in honor lay it down simply because his heart ached. He stared through the port. What was she thinking of? What was she doing? Was she awake?
Yes, she was awake. The cabin was dark save for the bar of light that came in obliquely from the dock lamp. She was sitting up in bed. The bar of light fell upon her lap; and idly through her fingers trickled a stream of pearls. Over and over she gathered them up and poured them down, without, however, so much as a glance at them.
She could hear the regular breathing of the two spinsters who shared the cabin with her. Life! To some, great canvases; to others, slender little pastels that one tucked away in the corner as pretty but innocuous. Had these withered little old sisters ever been stirred, quickened, tempted? Had anything ever happened (aside from this wonderful voyage) beyond their garden gate?
By and by she put the pearls back into the chamois bag, tied the strings about her neck, and lay back, her eyes still open.
Camden stirred uneasily as the sunshine blazed into the port. He licked his parched lips several
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