melted away) heard. To wit:--

"Oh!" in a feminine and tremulous pitch.

"Forgive me," said the Tyro hoarsely. "That was for good-bye."

Was it a detaining hand that went forth in the darkness? If so, it
failed of its purpose, for the Tyro had gone.

Then and there Little Miss Grouch proceeded to pervert a proverb.

"Man proposes," she observed to herself, philosophically. "Maybe not
always, though. But, anyway, woman disposes. _I_ don't think that was
_really_ good-bye."

Behold now a complete reversal of conditions from the initial night of
the voyage. For now it was the Tyro who went to bed, miserable and at
odds with a hostile world; whereas Little Miss Grouch dreamed of a
morrow, new, glorious, and irradiated with a more splendid
adventurousness than her slave had ever previsioned.

LAND HO!

Land Ho!

A fool for luck went
a-fishing in the Atlantic
with his heart for bait--and
caught the
Goddess of the Realm of Dreams.

I have sailed out of the
Port of Chance, across
the Ocean of Golden hopes,
straight into the Haven
of All-Joy--

And so, Journey's End
in the good old way--

SMITH'S LOG.

Blue-gray out of pearl-gray mist rose the shores of old England. Long
before the sun, the Tyro was up and on deck, looking with all his eyes,
a little awed, a little thrilled, as every man of the true American
blood who honors his country must be at first sight of the Motherland.
Slowly, through an increasing glow that lighted land and water alike,
the leviathan of the deep made her ponderous progress to the
hill-encircled harbor. A step that halted at the Tyro's elbow detached
his attention.

"What do you think of it?" asked Lord Guenn.

The eyes of Alexander Forsyth Smith rested for a moment on a toy
lighthouse and passed to the trim shore, where a plaything locomotive
was pulling a train of midget box-cars with the minimum of noise and
effort.

"It's like Fairyland," he said, in a voice unconsciously modulated to
the peace of the scene. "So tiny and neatly beautiful."

"Yes; it hasn't the overwhelming magnificence of New York Harbor. But
it's England."

"And you're gladder to get back to it than you'd confess, for shame of
sentimentalizing," said the other shrewdly, having marked the note of
deep content in that "it's England."

"One doesn't climb the rail and sing 'Rule, Britannia.'"

"It's