Rice!" He stood regarding Zwinglius, like an aged schoolboy, disgraced, dogged, angry; then swung muttering into the kitchen.
"Hello, Joyce," he said gently. The girl, kneeling before her oven, turned with a smile. His scrutiny was strange, as though he saw in her face some quality never seen there before.
He was silent at dinner; through the afternoon paced the floor, sat figuring on a slate, with the air of a gloomy, patient dunce; but in the yellow glow of the supper table blossomed out so cheerfully with chuckles, laughter, far-fetched jokes, that Joyce's brown eyes were wide and puzzled.
The mingled emotions of that evening she was not soon to forget. As she sat alone by the lamp, the captain—whose heavy steps had creaked across the room above—came slowly downstairs, and paused in the doorway, smiling, with a book in his hand. His voice rang oddly.
"Joyce, I 've got something to give ye, and somethin' I want to say."
