". . . O you A.B. sailor-man,
Wet your whistle while you can,
For the piping of the bugle calls you 'ome!
'Ome--'ome--'ome,
Calls you on to your fo'c'stle 'ome!"

The evening came down, and Guida sat in the kitchen doorway looking out
over the sea, and wondering why Philip had sent her no message. Of
course he would not come himself, he must not: he had promised her. But
how much she would have liked to see him for just one minute, to feel his
arms about her, to hear him say good-bye once more. Yet she loved him
the better for not coming.

By and by she became very restless. She would have been almost happier
if he had gone that day: he was within call of her, still they were not
to see each other.

She walked up and down the garden, Biribi the dog by her side. Sitting
down on the bench beneath the appletree, she recalled every word that
Philip had said to her two days before. Every tone of his voice, every
look he had given her, she went over in her thoughts. There is no
reporting in the world so exact, so perfect, as that in a woman's mind,
of the words, looks, and acts of her lover in the first days of mutual
confession and understanding.

It can come but once, this dream, fantasy, illusion--call it what you
will: it belongs to the birth hour of a new and powerful feeling; it is
the first sunrise of the heart. What comes after may be the calmer joy
of a more truthful, a less ideal emotion, but the transitory glory of the