done, they had time to talk of the future. Francis Horatio was for
work--he was going to make a name for himself. Glory did not see it quite
in that light. A name, yes, and lots of triumphal processions, but she
was for travel--there were such lots of things people could see if they
didn't waste so much time working.

"What a girl you are!" he said derisively; whereupon she bit her lip, for
she didn't quite like it. But they were nearly half an hour out before he
spoiled himself utterly. He had brought his dog, a she-terrier, and he
began to call her by her kennel name and to say what a fine little thing
she was, and what a deal of money they would make by her pups. That was
too much for Glory. She couldn't think of eloping with a person who used
such low expressions.

"What a girl you are!" he said again; but she did not mind it in the
least. With a sweep of her bare arm she had put the tiller hard aport,
intending to tack back to Peel, but the wind had freshened and the sea
was rising, and by the swift leap of the boat the boom was snapped, and
the helpless sail came napping down upon the mast. Then they tumbled into
the trough, and Glory had not strength to pull them out of it, and the
boy was of no more use than a tripper. She was in her white muslin dress,
and he was nursing his dog, and the night was closing down on them, and
they were wobbling about under a pole and a tattered rag. But all at once
a great black yacht came heaving up in the darkness, and a grown-up voice
cried, "Trust yourself to me, dear."

It was John Storm. He had already awakened the young girl in her, and
thereafter he awakened the young woman as well. She clung to him like a
child that night, and during the four years following she seemed always
to be doing the same. He was her big brother, her master, her lord, her