'No, just the fiddle.'
'Oh, that will do. It is tuned the same. Thanks, not the bow, only my fingers.'
The child's voice was very beautiful, and almost sad were the songs she sang.
The skipper beckoned to the steward and pointed to the empty tumblers. Then he threw back his head in his easy-chair and shut his eyes.
'Sing again, my sweet,' he said.
Lotty did, and once more too.
And the ship swayed and swung in rhythm, while Mrs Skipper, though her eyes were on her work, forgot to knit.
'Maggie, lass,' said the captain as a song was ended, 'Maggie, dear wife, I feel sure, quite sure, I saw a tear drop down upon your wool. There! I was sure of it. Your eyelashes are wet.'
Well, maybe—who knows?—this kindly, homely skipper's wife had a bit of romance buried away back in her past.
But that evening was a happy one to all, and so were many more that followed.