man with a patriarchal beard--softened at once, asked them into
his own cabin aft, and even brought out a camp-stool for Travis,
brushing it with his sleeve before setting it down.

While Condy was interviewing the old fellow, Travis was examining,
with the interest of a child, the details of the cabin: the rack-
like bunk, the washstand, ingeniously constructed so as to shut
into the bulkhead when not in use, the alarm-clock screwed to the
wall, and the array of photographs thrust into the mirror between
frame and glass. One, an old daguerreotype, particularly caught
her fancy. It was the portrait of a very beautiful girl, wearing
the old-fashioned side curls and high comb of a half-century
previous. The old mate noticed the attention she paid to it, and,
as soon as he had done giving information to Condy, turned and
nodded to Travis, and said quietly: "She was pretty, wasn't she?"

"Oh, very! answered Travis, without looking away.

There was a silence. Then the mate, his eyes wide and thoughtful,
said with a long breath:

"And she was just about your age, miss, when I saw her; and you
favor her, too."

Condy and Travis held their breaths in attention. There in the
cabin of that curious nondescript whaleback they had come suddenly
to the edge of a romance--a romance that had been lived through
before they were born. Then Travis said in a low voice, and
sweetly