s in
England, too; she was going back to him. And before very long she would
never go away from him again.

Her place on deck had been wisely chosen, and, defended by the row of
cabins at her back, she could watch in a dry windlessness the jovial
riot of the seas. Now the steamer would stagger to some cross-blow of
the waves; now, making a friend of them, swerved into a trough of
opalescent green, and emerged again to take, like some fine-spirited
horse, the liquid fence, flecked with bubbles, that lay in its course.
The wind that had raised this gale still blew from the westward, and on
the undefended deck great parcels of water, cut off from their seas,
fell in solid lumps that resolved themselves into hissing streams.

And Daisy--Daisy occupied no small portion of her thoughts. A year ago
she was on the threshold of womanhood, and at such critical periods Aunt
Jeannie knew well that a year may confirm existing tendencies or
completely alter them, bringing to light strands of character that had
been woven below the surface. For many reasons she had a peculiar
tenderness towards this dear niece. For seven rather dreadful years
Daisy had lived with her, and during these Jeannie had never remitted
her efforts to conceal from her that which had darkened her own life.

She believed (quietly, under her breath) that those efforts had been
successful; she hoped anyhow that Daisy did not know of, did not even
guess at, the underlying tragedy. For Daisy, all these years, had been
in the seedtime of her life, and Mrs. Halton, rightly or wrongly, quite
firmly believed that the young years of those who are to become men and
women are best spent if during them they can be brought to learn the joy
of life, while its possible tragedies are kept as far from them as may
be. For, in general, the habit of joy is the best weapon with which to
fight sorrow when sorrow comes. To expect the best of everything and
everybody, and to go on doing so, is the best antidote for
disappointments. To expect the worst, to think that disappointment is
the usual outcome, is to be already unnerved for it. Life is best
encountered with a sanguine heart.

Such, at any rate, was the creed of her who sat now on the deck of this
labouring steamer as it ploughed its passage home, where were her
friends and her lover. The tarpaulin had proved unnecessary, for she was
sheltered by the deck-buildings from spray. Her book was also
unnecessary, for she was more