er with him on the long
voyage from which there is no return....

CHAPTER XI

DEEP WATERS

Wild white roses that grew in the sandy stubble above the shore, little
orange-scented roses that straggled through the grass--they called to
something that ran in Columbine's blood, they spoke to her of the South.
She was sure that she would find those roses all about her feet when she
came to the end of the long voyage. She would see their golden hearts
wide open to the sun. For their fragrance haunted her day by day as she
floated down the long glassy stretches and rocked on the waveless
swells.

Sometimes she had a curious fancy that she was lying dead, and they had
strewn the sweet flowers all about her. She hoped that they might not be
buried with her; they were too beautiful for that.

At other times she thought of them as a bridal wreath, purer than the
purest orange-blossom that ever decked a bride. Once, too--this was when
she was nearing the end of the voyage--there came to her a magic whiff
of wet bog-myrtle that made her fancy that she must be a bride indeed.

At last, just when it seemed to her that her boat was gently grounding
upon the sand where the little white roses grew, she opened her eyes
widely, wonderingly, and realised that the voyage was over.

She was lying in her own little room at The Ship, and Mrs. Peck, with
motherly kindness writ large on her comely, plump face, was bending over
her with a cup of steaming broth in her hand.

Columbine gazed at her with a bewildered sense of having slept too long.

Mrs. Peck nodded at her cheerily. "There, my dear! You're better, I can
see. A fine time you've given us. I thought as I should never see your
bright eyes again."

Columbine put forth a trembling hand with a curious feeling that it did
not belong to her at all. "Have I been ill?" she said.

Mrs. Peck nodded again cheerily. "Why, it's more than a week you've been
lying here, and how I have worrited about you! Prostration following
severe shock was what the doctor called it, but it looked to me more
like a touch of brain fever. But there, you're better! Drink this like a
good girl, and you'll feel better still!"

Meekly, with the docility of great weakness, Columbine swallowed the
proffered nourishment. She wanted to recall all that had happened, but
her brain felt too clogged to serve her. She could only lie and gaze and
gaze at a little vase of wild white roses that faced her upon the