"I suppose you know what is best, Davy, and I want you to succeed more than anything else in the world. Duty is a queer thing anyhow. The Cochrans think I ought to stay ashore and go to school. But I know better. There never was a wiser teacher than grandfather, and he needs me, and school must wait. And you and I could study together, Davy. Think of the months and months at sea."
"But it all comes down to this, Margaret. Answer me yes or no. Which course do you want me to take? The one I ought to steer, or the one I want to follow? There's the whole thing in a nutshell."
She thought it cruel of him to pin her down to this kind of an answer, but she met his questions as squarely as Captain John would have done.
"The course you ought to steer, if you have to take one or the other," was her verdict.
"Then I go back to the Roanoke," declared David. "I've been veering this way and that in my mind, but the things I've learned about duty in the last year kind of help me to make a good finish of it. I must stick it out as I started. We sail in the morning, Margaret, and we may pass you going out. I can read any signals you set, and I'll know they are meant for me."
"'Don't forget your dearest folks,' will be what I'm saying to you, David," she answered, very softly.
David moved toward the companion-way. He saw how hard it was for Margaret to keep back her tears, now that the parting was so near.
"Don't forget me, little sister," he said, and his voice faltered. "I'll be waiting for you, forever and ever, amen."
He meant more than was in his words, for the "little sister" was dearer to him in this moment than she had ever been before. But he could not tell her what was in his heart. They went on deck as Captain Bracewell called out cheerily: