with demonstrations of respect that provoked scornful tittering at the
other end of the boat. An old soldier, inured to toil and hardship,
gave up his place on the bench to the newcomer, and seated himself on
the edge of the vessel, keeping his balance by planting his feet
against one of those traverse beams, like the backbone of a fish, that
hold the planks of a boat together. A young mother, who bore her baby
in her arms, and seemed to belong to the working class in Ostend,
moved aside to make room for the stranger. There was neither servility
nor scorn in her manner of doing this; it was a simple sign of the
goodwill by which the poor, who know by long experience the value of a
service and the warmth that fellowship brings, give expression to the
open-heartedness and the natural impulses of their souls; so artlessly
do they reveal their good qualities and their defects. The stranger
thanked her by a gesture full of gracious dignity, and took his place
between the young mother and the old soldier. Immediately behind him
sat a peasant and his son, a boy ten years of age. A beggar woman,
old, wrinkled, and clad in rags, was crouching, with her almost empty
wallet, on a great coil of rope that lay in the prow. One of the
rowers, an old sailor, who had known her in the days of her beauty and
prosperity, had let her come in "for the love of God," in the
beautiful phrase that the common people use.

"Thank you kindly, Thomas," the old woman had said. "I will say two
/Paters/ and two /Aves/ for you in my prayers to-night."

The skipper blew his horn for the last time, looked along the silent
shore, flung off the chain, ran along the side of the boat, and took
up his position at the helm. He looked at the sky, and as soon as they
were out in the open sea, he shouted to the men: "Pull away, pull with
all your might! The sea is smiling at a squall, the witch! I can feel