“The finest tales in the world are like that,” said Black Duncan.
She sat on the edge of a bunk and swung a little drab jean shoe.
The glamour of Black Duncan’s stories fled for Gilian before this presence like mist before a morning wind. So healthy, so ruddy, so abrupt, she was so much in the actual world that for him to be dreaming of others seemed a child’s weakness.
“I was in the town with uncle,” she said, “and I heard you were sailing away to-morrow, and I thought I would come and say good-bye.”
She spoke as prettily in her Gaelic as in her English.
“Ah, mo run,” said the seaman, putting out his arms as to embrace her, “am not I pleased that you should have Black Duncan in your mind so much as to come and say ‘fair wind to your sail’?”
“And you’ll bring me the beads next time?” she said hastily.
“That will I,” said he, smiling; “but you must sing me a song now or I might forget them.”
“Oh, I’ll sing if——.” She paused and looked doubtfully at Gilian, who was still open-mouthed at her breezy vehemence.
“Never mind the boy,” said the seaman, stretching himself to enjoy the music at his ease; “if you make it ‘The Rover’ he will understand.”