without help from any apparent chaperonage whatsoever. Left in
possession of the field, Weldon made the most of his chances. The
acknowledged attendant of Ethel, his jovial ministrations overflowed
to Mrs. Scott, until the sedate colonel's wife admitted to herself
that no such pleasant voyage had fallen to her lot since the days
when she had started for India on her wedding journey. Weldon had
the consummate tact to keep the taint of the filial from his
chivalry. His attentions to Mrs. Scott and Ethel differed in degree,
but not in kind, and Mrs. Scott adored him accordingly. One by one,
the languid days dropped into the past. Neptune had duly escorted
them over the Line, to the boredom of the first-class passengers and
the strident mirth of the rest of the ship's colony. Winter was
already behind them, and the late December days took on more and
more of the guise of summer, as the log marked their passing to the
southward. To many on board, the idle passage was a winter holiday;
but to Weldon and Carew and a dozen more stalwart fellows, those
quiet days were the hush before the breaking of the storm. Home,
school, the university were behind them; before them lay the crash
of war. And afterwards? Glory, or death. Their healthy, boyish
optimism could see no third alternative.

For ten long days, Miss Ophelia Arthur lay prone in her berth. Her
hymnal and her Imitation lay beside her; but she read less than she
pondered, and she invariably pondered with her eyes closed and her
mouth ajar. On the eleventh day, however, she gathered herself
together and went on deck. With anxious care Weldon tucked the rugs
about her elderly frame. Then he exchanged a glance with Ethel and
together they sought the shelter of the ventilating shaft.

Nothing shows the temperature more surely than the tint of the gray