up airily at the heavens. "Sort of a kill-time. Lovely mornin', ain't it?"
"You bad old man," laughed the girl, threatening with a graceful finger. "‘I have heard of your paintings, too.' Every time you paint, Father Captain, there's something up, is n't there?— What are you fretting about now?"
"Oh, nothin'," repeated the mariner, like a schoolboy. With great artfulness he inquired, "What's that book under your arm, Joyce? More fiddlesticks, I s'pose?"
His big, tattooed thumbs split open the stubborn pages.
"Humph! Verses," he commented. "Tell by the way they 're printed,—loose ends all to sta'board. What's this?"
"It's about a great sailor," said Joyce.
He read aloud:—
"‘I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.'
"Why, that's true!" cried the old man. This, his tone implied, was the last thing to
