ll," she sympathized.

"Yes; I'd started to go upstairs," I said, "and not to turn into your
father's bed. I'm afraid I've ruined the door."

Came another series of great rolls. I sat down on the bed and held on.
Miss West, secure in the doorway, began gurgling again, while beyond,
across the cabin carpet, the steward shot past, embracing a small writing-
desk that had evidently carried away from its fastenings when he seized
hold of it for support. More seas smashed and crashed against the
for'ard wall of the cabin; and the steward, failing of lodgment, shot
back across the carpet, still holding the desk from harm.

Taking advantage of favouring spells, I managed to effect my exit and
gain the newel-post ere the next series of rolls came. And as I clung on
and waited, I could not forget what I had just seen. Vividly under my
eyelids burned the picture of Miss West's sleep-laden eyes, her hair, and
all the softness of her. _A woman and desirable_ kept drumming in my
brain.

But I forgot all this, when, nearly at the top, I was thrown up the hill
of the stairs as if it had suddenly become downhill. My feet flew from
stair to stair to escape falling, and I flew, or fell, apparently upward,
until, at the top, I hung on for dear life while the stern of the
_Elsinore_ flung skyward on some mighty surge.

Such antics of so huge a ship! The old stereotyped "toy" describes her;
for toy she was, the sheerest splinter of a plaything in the grip of the
elements. And yet, despite this overwhelming sensation of microscopic
helplessness, I was aware of a sense of surety. There was the Samurai.
Informed with his will and wisdom, the _Elsinore_ was no cat's-paw.
Everything was ordered, controlled. She was doing what he ordained her
to do, and, no matter what storm-Titans bellowed about her and buffeted
her, she would continue to do what he ordained her to do.

I glanced into the chart-room. There he sat, leaned back in a
screw-chair, his sea-booted legs, wedged against the settee, holding him
in place in the most violent rolls. His black oilskin coat glistened in
the lamplight with a myriad drops of ocean that advertised a recent
return from deck. His sou'wester, black and glistening, was like the
helmet of some legendary hero. He was smoking a cigar, and he smiled and
greeted me. But he seemed very tired and very old--old with wisdom,
however, not weakness. The flesh of his face, the pink pigment quite
washed an