"Are you very, very sorry you took me with you?" she asked, earnestly.

"Not very, very."

"But—you wish you hadn't?"

I shook my head decidedly.

"Of what use am I to you?" she asked.

"Women were never made to be of use," I answered. "They are like bouquets, meant to fill the atmosphere with beauty and fragrance."

"And—do I do that—for you?"

I kissed the fingers she placed in mine. The smile came to her face at last.

"I shall be ready to begin the typewriting to-morrow," she said. "I understand the machine now, I think, well enough." (She had practiced on it in her cabin on the Madiana, several days, for some hours.) "I shall be glad when I am doing a little to earn the salary you pay me."

I made a grimace. The confounded record of my family's descent was far from interesting me at that moment.