gayest he had ever known. Yet he
was conscious of a heavy feeling inside himself in spite of the
laughter and the talk, and sat quietly staring at the rosy firelight
that flowed up Becky's white apron and starched fichu to her hot,
flushed face and kind blue eyes. The reflection of the sparks went
even higher to gild the twenty-four roses and twelve waving black
plumes, and when they passed on, found a kindred spark in the large
contented eyes of his friend Amos. Ned Cilley was going through the
usual formula of pretending that he should not stay to supper, and
that even if he did, he had no appetite at all.

"Ah now, Master Cilley," coaxed Becky, her hands on her hips and the
soup ladle she still held standing out at right angles, "you will fade
away into a wraith, my good man, so you will! Do you not eat a morsel
nor a mouthful, and die in the night, how shall I bear to live with my
conscience thereafter, tell me that?"

Ned Cilley, seated at the table near the Water Street windows, his
legs sprawled out and his rough hands folded over his round little
paunch, twiddled his thumbs and wagged his head in a doleful manner,
drawing the corners of his mouth down, though it was plain that this
was an effort.

"Eh, lack-a-day!" he sighed. "The life of a sailor, 'tis that
hard--is't not, me boys?" He wagged his head again. "The vittles is
hard on a stummick as delikit nor what mine be--"

[Illustration]

Amos put his hand over his mouth to stifle some sound that broke
through in spite of him. Ned gave him a reproving glance. "Or else, me
innards is ruint by that galley cook of ours." He sighed and nodded in
reminiscent sorrow. "Ah, sweet Boozer, were you to sample but a
spoonful of what us pore sailors must face week after week, and month
after month, and us on the high seas--you bein' such a delikit cook,
so to speak--your heart's blood would curdle on the instant, that it
would, by my cap and buttons!"

Tears of pity streamed down Becky Boozer's face, and pulling out a
bandanna handkerchief from her apron pocket she blew her nose with a
honk that would have blown a less sturdy man than Ned Cilley off his
chair.

[Illustration]

"Deary me, the saints preserve and defend us!" she cried. "I must do
all in my poor weak woman's power to tempt you as best I may. Draw up,
lads, for here it comes!" she announced without ceremony, and the
three watching her needed no second invitation.

Then such a feast as was heaped