There is nothing in the world like the satisfaction and pleasure one
takes in one's daughters,' Mrs. Morgan went on limpidly. 'And one can be
in such CLOSE sympathy with one's girls. I have never regretted having
no sons.'

'Dear me, yes. To watch oneself growing up again--call back the lovely
April of one's prime, etcetera--to read every thought and anticipate
every wish--there is no more golden privilege in life, dear Emily.
Such a direct and natural avenue for affection, such a wide field for
interest!'

I paused, lost in the volume of my admirable sentiments.

'How beautifully you talk, Helena! I wish I had the gift.'

'It doesn't mean very much,' I said truthfully.

'Oh, I think it's everything! And how companionable a girl is! I quite
envy you, this season, having Cecily constantly with you and taking her
about everywhere. Something quite new for you, isn't it?'

'Absolutely,' said I; 'I am looking forward to it immensely. But it
is likely she will make her own friends, don't you think?' I added
anxiously.

'Hardly the first season. My girls didn't. I was practically their only
intimate for months. Don't be afraid; you won't be obliged to go shares
in Cecily with anybody for a good long while,' added Mrs. Morgan kindly.
'I know just how you feel about THAT.'

The muddy water of the Ditch chafed up from under us against its banks
with a smell that enabled me to hide the emotions Mrs. Morgan evoked
behind my handkerchief. The pale desert was pictorial with the drifting,
deepening purple shadows of clouds, and in the midst a blue glimmer of
the Bitter Lakes, with a white sail on them. A little frantic Arab boy
ran alongside keeping pace with the ship. Except for the smell, it was
like a dream, we moved so quietly; on, gently on and on between the
ridgy clay banks and the rows of piles. Peace was on the ship; you could
hear what the Fourth in his white ducks said to the quartermaster in
his blue denims; you could count the strokes of the electric bell in the
wheel-house; peace was on the ship as she pushed on, an ever-venturing,
double-funneled impertinence, through the sands of the ages. My eyes
wandered along a plank-line in the deck till they were arrested by a
petticoat I knew, when they returned of their own accord. I seemed to be
always seeing that petticoat.

'I think,' resumed Mrs. Morgan, whose glance had wandered in the same
direction, 'that Cecily is a very fine type of our English girls.
With th