To Mary and her father Skipper Libe had with seamanlike courtesy abandoned the tiny cabin. The child was lying in the skipper's own berth—warmly covered, comfortably tucked in, provided with a book to read by the light of the swinging lamp.
"Are you happy, dear?" her father asked.
"Oh, yes!"
The man took the child's hand. "I'm sometimes sorry," he said, "that we didn't wait for the mail-boat. The Fish Killer is a pretty tough craft for a little girl to be aboard."
"Sorry?" was the instant response, made with a little smile. "I'm not. I'm glad. Isn't Cape Grief close to leeward? Well, then, father, we're half way home. Think of it! We're—half—way—home!"
The father laughed.
"And we might have been waiting at St. John's," the child continued, her blue eyes shining. "Oh, father, I'd rather be aboard the Fish Killer off Grief Head than in the very best room of the Crosbie Hotel. Half way home!" she repeated. "Half way home!"
"Half way is a long way."
"But it's half way!"
"On this coast," the father sighed, "no man is home until he gets there."