rnoon following his return to Chance Along. The singer was
sitting up in a chair by the fire, wrapped about in her own silk
dressing-gown, which had been brought ashore from the wreck, and in an
eiderdown quilt. Her plentiful, soft, brown hair was arranged in a
manner new to Chance Along, and stuck through with a wonderful comb of
amber shell and gold, and a pin with a jewelled hilt. The ornaments for
the hair had been supplied by Mother Nolan, who had possessed them for
the past thirty years, hidden away in the bottom of a nunney-bag. Her
own son, the late skipper, had salvaged them from a wreck. Flora had her
own rings on her tapering fingers. There was color in her flawless
cheeks, her wonderful eyes were bright and clear, and her lips were red.
She smiled at the skipper when Mother Nolan ushered him into the room.

"It was very, very kind of you to take my letter all the way to the
post-office with your own hand," she said. Her bell-like voice was
generous and sincere. "I wish I could reward you for all you have done
for me, Mr. Nolan. But how can I--except in my heart? You are so rich
and proud, I am afraid to offer you money." Here there was a playful
note in her voice which the skipper detected. So she was making fun of
his wealth and his pride. His dark face flushed with several disturbing
emotions. To be addressed by the title of "mister" added to his
discomfort. There were no misters in Chance Along--or anywhere on the
coast, except the Methodist preacher in Bay Bulls, away to the north. He
was skipper--or just Denny Nolan. He was skipper of Chance Along--not a
preacher and not the mate of a foreign-going ship.

"Sure, it bain't no great trip to Witless Bay an' back agin," he
mumbled, staring at the girl in the big chair. The light that entered
the room from the gray afternoon, by way of the small window, was more
of a shadow than an illumination. The red fire in the wide chimney
warmed a little of it, painted the low ceiling and touched the girl's
eyes with a sunset tint. The skipper shuffled his feet on a rag mat and
crumpled his cap between his big hands. He felt like a slave--aye, and
something of a rogue--here in his own house. But he tried to brace
himself with the thought that he was master of the situation.

"Please sit down and talk to me, Mr. Nolan," said Flora.

The skipper glanced around the room. Mother Nolan had gone, leaving the
door ajar behind her. A small wooden stool stood near the fire, d