over the rail, he stretched both arms forth, and in a
voice that none recognized, broken and passionate, he took up the
song. It was but for a minute, while the mate recovered his outraged
senses, but it was enough. The voice ashore had ceased.

"What the blank blank!" roared the mate, as he dragged the Dago
across the deck. "What d'ye mean by it, eh? Get hold o' that rope, or
I'll--."

"Yais, sir."

A moment later he turned to Dan, and in the already deepening gloom
his smile gleamed white in his face.

"Ah, my frien'!" he said. "Dere was no dream. T'ree years, all bad,
all hard, all sad dat was de dream. Now I wake up. Only one t'ing
true in all de t'ree years de friend I make yais."

"Hark!" said Dan. "Hear it? There's boats comin' off to us."

"Yais!" The smile gleamed again. "For me. It is no dream. Dey hear my
voice when I sing. By'm by you hear dem callin', 'Felipe!' Dat's my
name."

"Listen, then," said Dan in a whisper.

The water trickled alongside; they were coming up to their berth. The
bells from the church ashore were still. Across the bay there came
the clack of oars in rowlocks, pulled briskly, and voices.

"Felipe!" they called. "Felipe!"

The Dago's hand found Dan's.

III

WOOD-LADIES

The pine trees of the wood joined their branches into a dome of
intricate groinings over the floor of ferns where the children sat
sunk to the neck in a foam of tender green. The sunbeams that slanted
in made shivering patches of gold about them. Joyce, the elder of the
pair, was trying to explain why she had wished to come here from the
glooms of the lesser wood beyond.

"I wasn't 'zactly frightened," she said. "I knew there wasn't any
lions or robbers, or anything like that. But--"

"Tramps?" suggested Joan.

"No! You know I don't mind tramps, Joan. But as we was going along
under all those dark bushes where it was so quiet, I kept feeling as
if there was something behind me. I looked round and there wasn't
anything, but well, it felt as if there was."

Joyce's small face was knit and intent with the effort to convey her
meaning. She was a slim, erect child, as near seven years of age as
made no matter, with eyes that were going to be grey but had not yet
ceased to be blue. Joan, who was a bare five, a mere huge baby, was
trying to root up a fern that grew between her feet.

"I know," she said, tugging mightily. The fern gave suddenly, and
Joan fell over on her back, with her stout legs sti