turned
about to retrace his steps. Shivering and rather miserable she watched
him idly, and now the surprise was her own.

He returned and still without speaking, yet with an almost painful flush
on his face, tossed two heavy rugs into her lap and instantly passed on.
She had no chance to thank him, but readily answered a laugh from a
deck-hand near by who had witnessed the little incident and enjoyed it.
The "Bashful Bugler" was Melvin's shipboard nickname and no lad ever
better deserved such. Yet he had been well "raised" and there was
something very appealing to the chivalry of any lad in the look of
Dorothy's just now sad eyes; though commonly their brown depths held
only sunshine.

The sweeper on the deck moved the chairs near her and even her own,
though without her leaving it, the better to clear off the moisture
which the fog had deposited. She had echoed his laugh and he remarked:

"Nice boy, 'Bashful' is; but no more fitted to go round 'mongst
strangers'n a picked chicken."

Both the sailor and Dorothy were glad to speak with anybody, and she
asked:

"Will this fog last long? Is it often so cold right in the summer time?"

"Cold enough to freeze the legs off an iron pot, slathers of times. This
is one of 'em! As for fogs lastin', I reckon, little Miss, there won't
be no more sunshine 'twixt here and Yarmouth harbor. If you're cold out
here though, and don't want to go to your room, you'll find things snug
down yonder in that music-room, or what you call it."

"Oh! is there a place? Under shelter? Will you show me?"

"Sure. If 'tis open yet. Sometimes it's shut overnight but likely not
now. I'll take them rugs for you, Sissy, if you like."

"Thank you. Thank you so much. How nice everybody is on a steamship! Is
it living all the time on the water makes you kind, I wonder?"

"Give it up!" answered this able seaman, not a little flattered by
Dorothy's appreciation of his service, and in Molly's own frequent
manner. With another smile at this memory, Dorothy followed as he walked
ahead, dragging his mop behind him and leaving a shining streak in his
wake.

They found the little saloon, music-room, writing-room, or "what you
call it," closed, but the door opened readily enough, and Dorothy was
delighted to creep within the warmth and comfort of the place. It was
dark inside but the man turned on the electric light, and, doffing his
cap, went out, shut the door behind him, and left her to her solitary