"
she complained. "And so far!--via this, via that, via every other
stupid old port in the world! Why, it will be months and months before
we ever reach Melbourne! And of course on every steamer," she began
to monotone, "of course on every steamer there'll be some one with a
mixed-up collection of shells or coins--and that will take all my
mornings. And of course on every steamer there'll be somebody
struggling with the Chinese alphabet or the Burmese accents--and that
will take all my afternoons. But in the evenings when people are just
having fun," she kindled again, "and nobody wants me for anything,
why, then you see I could steal 'way up in the bow--where you're not
allowed to go--and think about my beautiful attic. It's pretty
lonesome," she whispered, "all snuggled up there alone with the night,
and the spray and the sailors' shouts, if you haven't got anything at
all to think about except just 'What's ahead?--What's ahead?--What's
ahead?' And even that belongs to God," she sighed a bit ruefully.

With a quick jerk she edged herself even closer to Barton and sat
staring up at him with her tousled head cocked on one side like an
eager terrier.

"So if you just--could, Mr. Barton!" she began all over again. "And
oh, I know it couldn't be any real bother to you!" she hastened to
reassure him. "Because after Saturday, you know, I'll probably
never--never be in America again!"

"Then what satisfaction," laughed Barton, "could you possibly get in
filling up an attic with things that you will never see again?"

"What satisfaction?" repeated little Eve Edgarton perplexedly. "What
satisfaction?" Between her placid brows a very black frown deepened.
"Why, just the satisfaction," she said, "of knowing before you die,
that you had definitely diverted to your own personality that much
specific treasure out of the--out of the--world's chaotic maelstrom of
generalities."

"Eh?" said Barton. "What? For Heaven's sake say it again!"

"Why--just the satisfaction--" began Eve Edgarton. Then abruptly the
sullen lines grayed down again around her mouth.

"It seems funny to me, Mr. Barton," she almost whined, "that anybody
as big as you are--shouldn't be able to understand anybody as little
as--I am. But if I only had an attic!" she cried out with apparent
irrelevance. "Oh, if just once in my whole life I could have even so
much as an atticful of home! Oh, please--please--please, Mr. Barton!"
she pleaded. "Oh, please!"

Prec