"The worst--what do you mean?" She now advanced three steps upward, so

that her shoulders were above the cabin door. Almost mechanically she

took my hand.

"The worst just now is nothing worse than an orange with ice, my dear

Mrs. Daniver. And I only wanted you to come out on deck with--Miss

Emory--and see how blue the sea is."

She advanced another step, being fond of an iced orange at

eleven-thirty. But now she paused. "My niece is resting," said she,

feeling her way.

"No, I am not," I heard a voice say. Inadvertently I turned and almost

perforce glanced down the cabin stair. Helena, in a loose morning wrap

of pink, was lying on the couch. She now cast aside the covering of

eider-down, and shaking herself once, sprang up the stairs, so that

her dark hair appeared under Auntie Lucinda's own. Slowly that

obstacle yielded, and both finally stood on the after deck. The soft

wind caught the dark tendrils of Helena's hair. With one hand she

pushed at them. The other caught her loose robe about her softly

outlined figure.

"Helena!" remarked her aunt, frowning.

"I want an orange," remarked Miss Emory, addressing the impartial

universe, and looking about for John.

"And shall have it. But," said I, finding a soft rug at the cabin-top,

"I think perhaps you may find the air cool. Allow me." I handed them

chairs, and with a hand that trembled a bit put the soft covering over

Helena's shoulders. She drew it close about her with one hand, and her

dark hair flowing about her cheeks, found her orange with the other

when John came with his tray.

It was a wondrous morning in early fall. Never had a southern sky been

more blue, never the little curling waves saucier on the Gulf. The air

was mild, just fresh enough for zest. Around us circled many great

white gulls. Across the flats sailed a long slow line of pelicans;

and out yonder, tossing up now and then like a black floating blanket,

I could see a great raft of wild duck, taking their midday rest in

safety. All the world seemed a million miles away. Care did not exist.

And--so intimate and swiftly comprehensive is the human soul,

especially the more primal soul of woman--already and without words,

this young woman seemed to feel the less need of conversation, to

recognize the slackening rein of custom. So that a rug and a

wrapper--granted always also an aunt--seemed to her not amiss as full

equipment for reception of a morning caller.

"A very good orange," said she at last.

"Yes," said her aunt promptly; "I'm sure we ought to thank Mr.

Davidson for them. He was such a good provider."

"Except in waistcoats," I protested, casually indicating his latest

contribution to my wardrobe. "Quantity, yes, I grant that, but as to

quality, never! But why speak ill of the absent, especially regarding

matters of an earlier and bygone day? Yon varlet no longer exists for

us--we no longer exist for him. We have passed, as two ships pass

yonder in the channel. I know not what he may be doing now, unless

carrying roses to Miss Sally Byington. Certainly he can not know that

I, his hated rival, am safe from all pursuit behind the Timbalier

Shoals, and carrying oranges to a young lady in my belief almost as

beautiful as the beautiful Sally."




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