lower_ was beginning to clack like the polished floor of a
ball-room, and the rich smell of a tavern was filling the atmosphere
about the boat. Dolores, who could resist the call of all that gayety no
longer, started to climb the ladder, kicking out at every rung at the
crowd of pestering "cats" who gathered round for one look at the ankles
of the pretty girl as she went higher. The Rector's wife knew that her
real element was up there where there was so much man around, where her
charms would be certain of voracious admiration as she stamped about on
boards that belonged to her--every inch of them--and where the women
down below, especially Rosario--she would be green with envy--could get
a good look at her success.

Pascualo, meanwhile, was with his mother. On that solemn occasion, which
meant so much to him, which he had looked forward to for so long, he
felt a strange return of his affection for the poor old woman. He forgot
his beautiful wife and even Pascualet--the rogue was as busy as could be
with the cinnamon balls, up on deck--to give all his attention to _sina_
Tona.

"A full-fledged master, outfitter, owner of a boat--my own boat!" And he
kissed and hugged the old mother who was weeping streams from her puffy
eyes. Tona's thoughts indeed were running back over long, long years of
widowhood and loneliness and ostracism and over the memory of that mad
adventure with the guardsman, to a similar christening she had witnessed
in her youth. _Tio_ Pascualo rose before her memory, strong, young,
handsome, as she had known him in the days of their courtship. And his
departure from life became as bitterly sorrowful as if he had vanished
but the day before. "My boy, my boy--_fill meu, fill meu_!" she sobbed,
throwing her arms about the sturdy neck of the Rector, who at that
moment seemed to be the resurrection of his father's very self.

And Pascualo, in truth, was the honor of the family, the boy whose hard
work had redeemed her lost station, her lost importance, in that
community. Her tears now were not of sorrow only but of remorse. She had
never loved the boy enough, not half so much as he deserved. Her
affection was overflowing now--she must make up for all the past. Then,
she was afraid, yes, sir, afraid, that her Pascualet, her poor little
Rector, would go the way his father went; and as the words hung
tremulously upon her lips, she looked off toward the tavern-boat, just
visible from the _Mayflower's_ splendi