resources. The sea might give her death or some unexampled joy, and none
would know of it. She was a bride going forth to her husband, a virgin
unknown of men; in her vigor and purity she might be likened to all
beautiful things, for as a ship she had a life of her own.

Indeed if they had not been blessed in their weather, one blue day being
bowled up after another, smooth, round, and flawless. Mrs. Ambrose would
have found it very dull. As it was, she had her embroidery frame set
up on deck, with a little table by her side on which lay open a black
volume of philosophy. She chose a thread from the vari-coloured tangle
that lay in her lap, and sewed red into the bark of a tree, or yellow
into the river torrent. She was working at a great design of a tropical
river running through a tropical forest, where spotted deer would
eventually browse upon masses of fruit, bananas, oranges, and giant
pomegranates, while a troop of naked natives whirled darts into the air.
Between the stitches she looked to one side and read a sentence about
the Reality of Matter, or the Nature of Good. Round her men in blue
jerseys knelt and scrubbed the boards, or leant over the rails and
whistled, and not far off Mr. Pepper sat cutting up roots with a
penknife. The rest were occupied in other parts of the ship: Ridley at
his Greek--he had never found quarters more to his liking; Willoughby at
his documents, for he used a voyage to work of arrears of business; and
Rachel--Helen, between her sentences of philosophy, wondered sometimes
what Rachel _did_ do with herself? She meant vaguely to go and see. They
had scarcely spoken two words to each other since that first evening;
they were polite when they met, but there had been no confidence of any
kind. Rachel seemed to get on very well with her father--much better,
Helen thought, than she ought to--and was as ready to let Helen alone as
Helen was to let her alone.

At that moment Rachel was sitting in her room doing absolutely nothing.
When the ship was full this apartment bore some magnificent title and
was the resort of elderly sea-sick ladies who left the deck to their
youngsters. By virtue of the piano, and a mess of books on the floor,
Rachel considered it her room, and there she would sit for hours playing
very difficult music, reading a little German, or a little English when
the mood took her, and doing--as at this moment--absolutely nothing.

The way she had been educated, joined to a f