laughter that was more infectious than influenza came from the
companion-stairs, and immediately in its wake came a girl who made me
think, as I compared her to Miss Edith, of a beautiful yacht alongside a
stately liner. Barbara Herndon was sunshine personified. Laughter went
with her wherever she went, and a pair of Tongans, polishing brasses,
immediately put their molars on view, as if they had understood what
caused the smiles upon her pretty face as she came toward us.

"Oh, you are the new mate?" she cried, as I was introduced. "Mr. Holman
was just telling me about you. He said that you repeated a chapter of
'Pilgrim's Progress' every time you woke up after a sleep."

I blushed as I made a mental resolve that I would punch the head of that
youngster when I had a suitable opportunity, and in between my
stammering explanations I made notes on the differences between the two
girls. Edith was as stately as Juno, with a face that was so sweet and
restful that a glance at it was better than an opiate for a man whose
nerves were all out of tune. She had that kind of repose that you see
sometimes on the face of an Oriental statue, the repose that comes to
women who have met great trials or for whom great trials are waiting.
Barbara was altogether different. She found the world rather an amusing
place, and it seemed as if she took it for granted that her sister was
capable of shouldering the cares of the family, leaving her free to
smile at all the amusing incidents she found in the course of the day.

It appeared to me that I was an amusing incident to her at that moment.
She returned to the fool story that Holman had told, and I couldn't
sidestep her questions.

"But it is true that you were quoting Bunyan on the wharf when Mr.