st awake; and Reyburn, looking at
them, saw it too. Perhaps the tears dimmed her sight a little, and
gave Lilian a sort of glorified look to her, standing still a moment
with the light of the late rising moon on her face; but then as her
gaze fell again on Reyburn, on his lofty form and kingly manner, his
proud face, his bold bright eye, it seemed to her as if it were
Lucifer tempting an angel; and all at once she had resolved what she
would do to save Lilian, to save her brother. She could do it well,
she said, well and safely--she who already hated the man. Courage came
with the resolution, courage and strength: she began to laugh and
scatter jests across the grave conversation of John and her father;
presently she was humming a gay Spanish air.

"That is right, Helen," said her brother. "Sing something to us. My
father says your voice would fill the Tacon theatre."

And at that she sang--not the air of the little bolero again, but a
low, melancholy song that began with a sigh, but swelled ever clearer
and higher, till, like the bursting of a flower, it opened and
deepened into one breath of passionate sweetness and triumph. The rich
voice rose to all the meaning of the music, and, though they could not
understand the words, they thrilled before the singer, Late into the
midnight she sang--the bunch of blossoms that was in her hand as she
came on board still shedding its pungent odors round her as the
blossoms died--strange wild songs that she had learned in the two
years of her tropic life; ancient and plaintive Spanish airs; Moorish
songs whose savage tunes were sweet as the honey of the rocks; wild
and mournful Indian airs that the Spaniards might have heard in those
Caribbean islands when first they burst upon their peaceful seas; and
by and by a sleepy nocturne that seemed to lull the wind, to charm the
ship, and hold the great moon hovering overhead; and as they rocked
from wave to wave of the glimmering water, and that pure voice rose
and poured out its melody, the soft vast southern night itself seemed
to pause and listen.

Helen did not appear on the deck next day till the sunset came again,
for Lilian was ill, and she remained with her; nor did Reyburn see
her. But as the heat of the day passed, and the sails, that had been
hanging idle ever since the night-breeze fell, began to fill again,
Helen ascended.

"You come with the stars," said Reyburn, giving her his hand at the
last step; but she merely put