"Yes, I know," explained little Eve Edgarton just a bit impatiently.
"But the high seas are so dull, Mr. Barton. And then we sail so long!"
she complained. "And so far!--via this, via that, via every other
stupid old port in the world! Why, it will be months and months before
we ever reach Melbourne! And of course on every steamer," she began
to monotone, "of course on every steamer there'll be some one with a
mixed-up collection of shells or coins--and that will take all my
mornings. And of course on every steamer there'll be somebody
struggling with the Chinese alphabet or the Burmese accents--and that
will take all my afternoons. But in the evenings when people are just
having fun," she kindled again, "and nobody wants me for anything,
why, then you see I could steal 'way up in the bow--where you're not
allowed to go--and think about my beautiful attic. It's pretty
lonesome," she whispered, "all snuggled up there alone with the night,
and the spray and the sailors' shouts, if you haven't got anything at
all to think about except just 'What's ahead?--What's ahead?--What's
ahead?' And even that belongs to God," she sighed a bit ruefully.

With a quick jerk she edged herself even closer to Barton and sat
staring up at him with her tousled head cocked on one side like an
eager terrier.

"So if you just--could, Mr. Barton!" she began all over again. "And
oh, I know it couldn't be any real bother to you!" she hastened to
reassure him. "Because after Saturday, you know, I'll probably
never--never be in America again!"

"Then what satisfaction," laughed Barton, "could you possibly get in
filling up an attic with things that you will never see again?"