shaking the tiny gold rings in
his ears till they sparkled in the faint light. He had a girl
himself in Portygee Town, at Big Wreck Cove.

The creaking of the hawsers and the "heave hos" of the crew as they
warped the _Seamew_ in to the wharf awoke the girl passenger in the
cabin. There was little fancy about the schooner's after house, but
it was comfortable.

There was a tarry smell about the place that rather pleased the
girl. The lamp over the round table vibrated in its gimbals, but did
not swing. There were several prints upon the walls of the cabin,
prints which showed the rather exceptional taste of the _Seamew's_
master, for they had been tacked up since she had come into Tunis
Latham's possession.

There was, too, a somewhat faded photograph on a background of
purple velvet, boxed in with glass, screwed to the forward
stanchion. It was the photograph of an overhealthy-looking young
woman, with scallops of hair pasted to her forehead undoubtedly
with quince-seed pomatum, her basque wrinkled across her bust
because of the high-shouldered cut of it. But it had been in the
extreme mode when it was made and worn, in the eighties.

The brooch which fastened the lace collar had been painted yellow by
the "artist photographer" of that day, and even the earrings she
wore had been touched up, or perhaps painted on with the air brush.

This was Tunis Latham's mother, the girl who had seemed so promising
an addition to the family in the opinion of Medway Latham, the
builder of "Latham's Folly." The rather blowzy prettiness of Captain
Randall Latham's young wife had been translated into real beauty in
her son; for Tunis had got his physique and open, bold physiognomy
from his mother.

The girl lying in an upper berth, a close cap tied over her neatly
braided hair, parted the cretonne curtains to look at these
ornaments hung about the cabin. She realized that the photograph, so
strangely contrasting with the prints of some of the world's
masterpieces, was a sort of shrine to Tunis Latham. He revered the
mother whom he had told the girl he could not remember of ever
having seen. His love and admiration for that unknown mother had
helped make the captain of the _Seamew_ what he was.

He was a good man, a safe man for any girl to trust. And yet he was
lending himself to a species of masquerade which, if ever it became
known, would bring upon his head both derision and scorn. He risked
this contumely cheerfully and wi