The girl’s face fell at his announcement. “Why do you want to run away like this, Juddy, dear,” she asked plaintively. “Surely one day won’t make much difference between now and September?”
Her brother laughed. “Won’t it?” He patted her on the shoulder. “It might put us in the hole. A pile o’ fish can be salted down in one day, Ruthie. No, no, Sis, we can’t stay longer—much as we’d like to.” Donald, feasting his eyes on Ruth’s pretty face and lithe figure, mentally echoed her desire and anathematized Ira Burton and his wager. He regretted for a moment his fertile imagination in suggesting such a scheme to Judson.
When the skipper left to go upstairs to see his parents, Donald sat and chatted with Ruth, who was engaged in laying the table for breakfast. “You’ll be interested to know that Miss Stuart is staying with us just now,” said the girl. “I left her in bed fast asleep—”
“No you didn’t, Ruth,” came a laughing voice from the stair. “Here I am wide-awake.” And Helena came down into the room and greeted McKenzie cordially. “This is indeed a pleasant surprise. Did Captain Nickerson win his bet?” Donald explained to her that the wager would not be decided until the end of the season in September.
It was very pleasant sitting in the sun-flooded dining room and chatting with two pretty girls—very pleasant indeed. After weeks in the intimate society of hairy-chested men, whose conversation was red-blooded and direct, it was distinctly refreshing to be talking “nice” and listening to soft musical voices. Donald’s artistic eye appreciated the soft hair, clear skins and sweetly moulded figures of the two young women, and when he gazed at Ruth there was a light in his eyes which told of the loveflame kindling in his heart. It was spring, and through the windows and the open door, the sunshine was streaming in and the birds were singing and chirping in all the joyousness of the season’s warmth. The trees were breaking into leaf and the grass was bright green and goodly to look upon by eyes weary with the monotony of eternal leagues of sea. The sky stretched faultlessly blue overhead and the waters of the harbor gleamed gold in the sun, while the air was as clear as a bell and redolent of warm earth and the scent of balsam and spruce. When old mother earth breaks from the thraldom of winter, the heart grows light and fancies turn to love.
Ruth had finished laying the table. “Now, Helena,” she said, “you can go in the kitchen and fry up some eggs and bacon and make some coffee. When Juddy comes downstairs he’ll help you. I want to show Mr. McKenzie the dear little bird’s nest we found yesterday.” And turning to Donald, she continued, “There are four beautiful little eggs in it. Come on, Mr. Fisherman!” And nothing loath, Donald followed her out into the sunshine, feeling favored and happy. This was a girl for his heart! A girl who appreciated Nature in all her loveliness, and when she pointed out the hidden nest in a hushed voice there was a tenderness in her tones which betrayed affections, deep, true, and worth winning.
At the breakfast table, he spent a happy hour. Ruth waited upon him assiduously, and in thinking about her, he gave vague answers to old Mr. and Mrs. Nickerson’s questionings regarding his fishing experiences. What Ruth was doing for him, Helena was doing for Judson, and when he glanced at the smiling, laughing, joking skipper, McKenzie blessed the day that saw him a member of the Kelvinhaugh’s ship’s company under such a man. In those days he little dreamed of such present hours.
When Donald had finished his fourth cup of coffee, Ruth jumped to her feet with an exclamation. “Oh! I almost forgot. Here’s a letter that came for you while you were away. I must apologize for not giving it to you before. We’ll excuse you while you go and read it.”
It was from his mother, and it was a long epistle full of loving expressions and scarcely veiled fears. She was appalled at his experiences aboard the Kelvinhaugh, and extremely nervous about his voyage in the Helen Starbuck, and when his letters came from Halifax and Eastville announcing his safe arrival, a great load had been lifted from her heart. “You know, dear laddie, you are all I have now, and if anything happened to you I would not care to live,” it read. “And, oh, my bonny, but I’m lonesome for you and longing for the day when we’ll be together again.... I’m so pleased you have found such a friend in Captain Nickerson. I’m sure he is a splendid gentleman, and I hope your step in going into the Canadian fisheries will be successful and promising. I am longing for the time when I shall come out to Nova Scotia and make a home for you there. Your remittance of $150 came to hand safely, but I am sorry to confess, dear, that I had to break into it. Your uncle wrote me the enclosed letter, telling me of your death by drowning—which, of course, I knew was not true, as you explained the circumstances in your letter from British Columbia—but shortly afterwards I was dismissed from the Hydropathic for some unknown reason, and I feel sure David McKenzie was at the bottom of it. I found some little difficulty in getting another place, and it was during this period that I had to use the money you sent me. Now, do not worry about me. I have since secured a position as night matron in the Davidson Home for the Aged and Infirm—a lovely place just outside of Glasgow—and I am very comfortable here.” The letter concluded with those affectionate paragraphs which only mothers can write.