LITMIR.BIZ

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I see. Still I think you would be better on deck. Baby could play with her shells there.”

      At the word, Gussie held up one in each hand, then laughed aloud and put them to her ears. Her face became rapt as she listened to their murmur.

      “I shall take her to the deck at once, Mem Sahib,” said the ayah, raising herself on her elbow with a look of patient resignation, then sinking back on the pillow.

      “The smells down here are bad for both of you,” said Adeline firmly. She looked about the cabin.

      “Where is the doll?” she asked. “I don’t see it.”

      The bangles rattled on the ayah’s forehead.

      “I put the doll away for safety, Mem Sahib.”

      “Where?”

      “In the box with Baby’s diapers, Mem Sahib.”

      “That was well done. She is too young to appreciate it now. We’ll keep it for her.”

      “Gone,” said Gussie.

      “Did she say something?” asked Adeline.

      “No, Mem Sahib. She cannot yet say one word.”

      As Adeline went back along the passage she met Mrs. Cameron. Still wearing her dolman and bonnet she turned a face heavy with mingled self-pity and reproach toward Adeline.

      “I suppose Mary is off somewhere with those brothers of yours,” she said. “I’ve never seen such a change come over a girl. I used to know exactly where she was. She almost never left my side. But now, half the time, I have no notion of her whereabouts.”

      Adeline’s sympathy, which had been focused on the mother, now veered suddenly to the daughter.

      “Well, after all,” she said, “Mary is very young. She must have a little fun.”

      “Fun!” repeated Mrs. Cameron bitterly. “Fun! If she can bear to have fun — after what we’ve been through!”

      “You cannot expect a child to go on mourning forever.” Adeline spoke rather curtly. She was tired and Mrs. Cameron was altogether too mournful an object, planted there in her black bonnet and dolman. No wonder the girl wanted to be off with other young people.

      “She is nearly sixteen. She’ll soon be a woman. She doesn’t seem to realize it. That’s what I tell her. She’s a regular featherbrain.”

      “I saw her carrying a cup of tea very nicely to you, not so long ago.”

      Mrs. Cameron flared up. “I hope you are not insinuating that I do not appreciate my own child, Mrs. Whiteoak! She is all I have in the world! My mind is always on her! I’d die a thousand deaths rather than a hair of her head should be harmed!”

      “You’d do well to get your mind off her for a bit,” returned Adeline. She was growing tired of Mrs. Cameron.

      The vessel gave a sudden heave. She seemed to have glided down a steep slope and to be now laboriously mounting another. Adeline’s stomach felt suddenly squeamish. Was she going to be sick? She must lie down in her berth for a little.

      Mrs. Cameron had burst into tears.

      Adeline exclaimed — “Oh, I didn’t mean that you are not a perfect mother! I’ll go and find Mary for you this minute. I’ll tell my young brothers to keep away from her. Pray go and lie you down and I’ll send her to you in a jiffy.”

      Mrs. Cameron stumbled back to her cabin. Adeline listened outside the one occupied by Conway and Sholto. There was silence within. She entered.

      There were two portmanteaux standing in the middle of the tiny room. There were odds and ends of things thrown on the lower berth. But what was that on the pillow? She leant over to see it. For some reason her heart quickened its beat.

      It was an envelope pinned to the pillow and addressed to her in Sholto’s best schoolboy handwriting. She was trembling as she opened it, though she did not know what she expected to read. She tore it open. She read: —

      My own dearest Sis,

      Conway is making me write this as he says he is the man of action and I am the man of letters. Be that as it may I feel pretty sick at what I have to disclose. I am writing this in the hotel the night before the ship sails. We shall go with our luggage on board and then, while everything is confused, we shall return to the dock and conceal ourselves in the town till you are gone. Dear Adeline, forgive us for not going with you to Quebec. During the voyage we wished ourselves back in Ireland a thousand times. It seemed too good to be true when the ship turned her bow homeward again, we were that homesick.

       Now this is the part Conway himself should have written but you know what a lazy dog he is. Mary has decided not to go to Canada either. She has decided to remain in Ireland and marry Con. I should hate to be in his shoes when he faces Father with Mary on his arm. Mary tired to write but she cried and messed up the paper outrageously. So, dearest Sis, will you please break the news with great tact and sympathy to Mrs. Cameron. Mary says this will be quite a blow to her but, as Mary’s happiness was always her first consideration, she will be reconciled to it once she thinks it over.

      When you arrive in Quebec will you please put all our belongings (that is of course including Mary’s) on the next east-bound ship and address them very clearly. We don’t want to lose anything, especially as after all the outlay for Con and me, Dad will be an old skinflint for years to come.

       Mary will write a long letter to her mother and send it by the next ship. Conway will also write.

      We all three join in wishing you bon voyage — no storms — no leaks — and a glorious time in Quebec.

       Ever your loving brother,

       Sholto Court

      Adeline stood transfixed when she had finished reading the letter. She had a sense of panic. She felt that she wanted to run to her own berth, get under the covers, draw them over her head and remain so till Quebec was reached. Then disbelief and relief swept over her. It was all a joke! Her brothers were always up to pranks. It could not be true. She would find Patsy O’Flynn and perhaps he would know all about it, know where the three were hiding.

      She sped along the passage and down the steep stairs that led to the steerage. Here in the common room people were settling themselves for the voyage, untying canvas-covered bundles, opening packets of food, drinking out of tin cups which a couple of barefooted cabin boys were filling with tea. In one corner a decent-looking Scotchwoman had gathered her brood of children about her and was putting large buns into their hands. A nursing babe still clung to her breast as she moved among the others.

      Adeline asked her — “Do you know the whereabouts of my man, Patsy O’Flynn, the one with all the clothes on him and eyebrows that stick out?”

      The woman pointed with the bun she held. “Aye, he’s yonder, whaur the hens are. Shall I fetch him to you, ma’am?”

      “No, no, thank you. I’ll go to him.”

      She found Patsy stretched at ease on his greatcoat which he had spread out on the poultry coops. To the accompaniment of crowings and cacklings he munched a slab of bread and cheese. “Heave ho, the winds do blow,” he was singing like a seasoned tar, between mouthfuls, for he wanted to make his bread and cheese last as long as possible. Maggie, the little goat, had somehow loosed her tether and stood at his feet nibbling one of his dangling bootlaces. The pair were a picture of devil-may-care contentment.

      “Oh, Patsy-Joe!” cried Adeline. “Do you know where my brothers are? I can’t find them anywhere on the ship.”

      He leaped to his feet and bolted a large mouthful of bread and cheese.

      “I do not thin, your honour, Miss,” he answered, jerking his head forward for the cheese was still in his throat. “But I’ll

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