rightened at the sound of words of his own
tongue. I believe that to him they were a tiny glimpse of something
well-beloved and of memories that refused to grow dim. For a moment he
stood at the door, beaming upon me. A small boy came out, very grimy of
face and hands and with a head covered with yellow curls. He was chiefly
clad in an old woollen jersey repaired with yarn of many hues, that
nearly reached his toes.

"_Papa Yves_!" he cried, leaping up joyfully, quite heedless of Frenchy's
dripping oilskins.

The sailor lifted up the child and kissed him, whereupon he grasped the
man's flaring ears as they projected from the huge tangled beard, and
with a burst of happy laughter kissed him on both cheeks, under the eyes,
in the only bare places.

We hurried on and soon reached one of the few houses distinguished from
others by a coat of paint. By this time the evening was near at hand, yet
the darkness would not have justified as yet a thrifty Newfoundland
housewife in burning valuable kerosene. But from the windows of this
place poured forth abundant light showing recklessness as to expense.
Upon the porch were a few feeble geraniums, and some nasturtiums and
bachelor's buttons twined themselves hopefully on strings disposed for
them.

At the sound of our footsteps the door was quickly opened. A young woman
appeared but the light was behind her and her features were not very
distinct.

"Couldn't you get him?" she cried, in sore disappointment.

"Yes, ma'am. That's what I went for," said Sammy. "I telled yer I'd sure
bring him, and here he be."

I had come nearer, and then, I am afraid, I somewhat forgot my manners
and stared at her.

CHAPTER IV

_From Miss Helen Jelliffe to Miss Jane Van Zandt_

_Dearest Aunt Jennie_:

I did try so hard to get you to come on this cruise with us. You said you
preferred remaining in Newport to sharing in a wild journey to places one
has never heard of, and now I am compelled to recognize your superior
wisdom. I wish we had never heard of this dreadful hole. I am now reduced
to the condition of a weepful Niobe, utterly helpless to contend against
the sad trend of events. I know how much you disapprove of lingering,
being such an active little body, and so I will tell you the worst at
once. Poor dear Daddy has just broken his leg, and, of all places, in the
most forsaken hole and corner of this dreary island of Newfoundland.

Daddy has always boasted of his persever