Chester went on deck again, somewhat in wonder at his own conduct. He was not in the habit of interfering in other people's business, and never mixed with drunken affairs. But this surely was different. No man would have refused that appeal for help. Yes; he was sure she had pleaded with her eyes. Perhaps he ought to go back and receive her thanks, but he resisted that impulse. He walked to the extreme rear of the boat and stood looking at the broad white path which the ship was making in the green sea. He stood gazing for some time, then turned, and there sitting on a coil of rope was the girl who had been in his mind. She saw his confusion and smiled at it.
"I—I came to thank you," she said; "but I did not like to disturb your meditations, so I sat down to rest."
"The sea has used you up quite badly, hasn't it?"
"O no; I was dreadfully ill before I came aboard. This trip is to make me well, so papa says."
"I hope so." There was a pause, during which Chester found a seat on a bit of ship furniture. This girl's voice was like an echo from far-away Utah and Piney Ridge Cottage. And there was something about the shapely head now framed in wind-blown hair and the face itself that reminded him of someone else. Just how the resemblance came in he could not tell, but there it was. Perhaps, after all, it was just the look in her eyes and the spirit that accompanied her actions and words that moved him.
"Is that man a friend of yours?" she asked.
"You mean that drunken fool? No; I've never met him before."
"That was just a ruse then—that invitation to drink."
"I had to do something, and that came first to me."