 DRAMATIS PERSONI OF CURRIDGE NERRORATOR, READBY, ARIN WHITE. CURRIDGE, READBY, ELSI SELLONE. FATHER, READBY, LIJAH FISHER. MARRY DUFF, READBY, TONE. BIG BOB, READBY, CAMBELL SHELT. LARRY, READBY, LARRY WILSON. JOHN, READBY, JOSH KIBBY. IRISHMAN, READBY, CHOT HORNER. CELIA FAXTER, READBY, ELIAN YAL. BRUCE, READBY, LIJAH FISHER. MAN, READBY, BUVYA. MISS JULIA, READBY, VETH TOMAS. SILVIA, READBY, LIKE MANY WATERS. CAPTAIN, READBY, BUVYA. DICK, READBY, LIJAH FISHER. BOY, READBY, WOLUME WHITE. GENTLEMAN, DAVID, MR. EVERET, READBY. TRISHA G. MISS EVERET, READBY, NIDA SLOMA MARTINAS. BIG GIRL, READBY. EVY MARIA. SMALL GIRL, READBY. ZOLI TRYING. END OF DRAMATIST PERSONI. CHAPTER ONE OF CURRGE. THIS IS A LIBERVOX RECORDING. ALL LIBERVOX RECORDINGS ARE IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN. FOR MORE INFORMATION OR TO VOLUNTEER, PLEASE VISIT LIBERVOX.ORG. CURRGE BY RUTH AUGDEN. CHAPTER ONE. NAME AT LAST. IF ONE HAS A FAIRY TALE IN MIND, WHY THEN OF COURSE THE MORE MYSTERY THE BETTER. BUT WHEN YOU HAVE A STORY TO TELL ABOUT PEOPLE WHO CANNOT FLY FROM HILLTOP TO HILLTOP, AND WHO TO LIVE AT ALL MUST HAVE FOOD MORE SUBSTANCIAL THAN ROSE LEAVES AND HONEYDUE. WHY THEN, SAY I, THE LESS MYSTERY THE BETTER. THEREFORE LET ME TELL YOU AT ONCE THAT THE CURRGE OF THIS STORY IS NOT AT ALL THE SORT OF THING YOU MIGHT AT FIRST IMAGINE. AWBURN HAIRD, BROWN EYEED AND ROSY CHEAKED WAS THIS PARTICULAR CURRGE. IN POINT OF FACT, AS CHARMING A LITTLE MAIDEN AS YOU WOULD MEET ON A LONG DAYS JOURNEY AND WITH CURRGE FOR HER NAME. In odd name, no doubt you think it. Courage herself did not like it. But the sons of half a dozen summers and winters had risen for the little lady in question before she could so much as lay claim to any name whatsoever. All that while she was simply known as Baby Masterson. Her father, Hugh Masterson, was foreman in a machine shop over on the west side of the city, and a very queer man, people said. Probably they were right about it. He was unquestionably a very clever man, and queerness and cleverness seemed to go hand in hand the world over. He was the author of at least three successful inventions. But as often happens others made more money out of them than he. Hugh nevertheless did not seem inclined to grumble at this state of affairs. Having a wife whom he loved devotedly and a comfortable home of his own, he felt thoroughly contented and happy. Then, when, one bright June morning, Hugh found himself the father of a lovely baby daughter, Happy was no name for it, and he was quite beside himself with joy. But sadly enough the joy was soon over, for scarcely three months after the baby life came into the little home the mother life went out of it. And then it seemed to pour Hugh as though his heart would break. He hired a kind-hearted woman named Mary Duff to care for his baby, and plunged harder than ever into his work, hoping by delving away at all sorts of difficult problems to grow less mindful of his great sorrow. But do what he would, there was always a sense of irreparable loss hanging over him. However between his work and his sorrow he did often succeed in altogether forgetting his baby. Still the little daughter grew and flourished, apparently none the worse for this neglect. Mary Duff was love and tenderness itself, and it were well for the children if every mother in name were just such a mother at heart. But at last there came a time when Hugh Masterson could no longer fail to notice his baby's charms. She had taken it into a wise little head to grow prettier and prettier, and more and more cunning with every day, till there was no more forgetting of her possible. And the first thing her father knew he found himself thinking of her right in the midst of his work, and then hurrying home through the crowds of laboring people at night fairly longing for a sight of her. And so it happened that the little girl grew to fill a larger and still larger place in his life. Till on her sixth birthday he decided that she really ought to have a name, that little woman beginning strongly to resent the fact that she was known only as baby Masterson to the small world in which she lived. So when Sunday came Hugh carried her in his arms up to St. Paul's to be christened. But the name that he gave her, well it was not in the least like the other little girl's names as you know. No wonder Mary Duff who was standing godmother was more than surprised when she heard it, having simply taken for granted that baby would be named for her mother. Baby herself was naturally greatly mystified at the whole proceeding. What did you say I had been Papa? She asked, as with her hand held fast in his, she trudged home beside him. I said you had been christened darling. Christened? She repeated softly, wondering just what the word might mean. And did you say I had a name now Papa? Yes dear, and you think it was time, don't you? I have wanted one for a very long while. She said, with a little half sigh. But did you say my name was Courage? Yes, Courage. It's a pretty name, isn't it? I don't know. Rather doubtfully. Do other little girls have it? No, I believe not. But probably they don't deserve it. I would have liked to have been named Arabella. She replied, somewhat aggrieved. Why did you not let me choose Papa? Why, I never thought of that baby. Besides, it is in customary to consult children about what names they shall have. Is it Mary? Turning to Mary Duff, who because of the narrow flagging was walking just behind them. No, I believe not, Mr. Masterson. Said Mary. But then, sir, no more is it customary to delay a naming of them till they're old enough to be consulted. Well, I reckon Mary's right about that, baby. And perhaps I had to have talked matters over with you. But I can tell you one thing. I never should have consented to Arabella. Never in this world. I should say Arabella was a regular doll name, and not at all suited to a sturdy, limbed little girl like you. But there are other beautiful names, Papa, Edith, and Ethel, and Helen. I love Helen. Then, suddenly coming to a standstill, and eagerly looking up to her father's face, she exclaimed, Papa, if we hide back, perhaps the minister could uncristen me. Proud to have remembered the proper word, and evidently comprehending that the right was a binding one. No, I fear not. Laughed her father. But take my word for it. You'll like courage after a while. It's just the name for you. Does it mean something, Papa? Yes, something fine. Why, when you grew up, baby, for the new name was quite too new for use, you'll discover that there's nothing finer than courage. Is courage something that people have? Have I got it? Some people, dear, and I hope that you have it. But why am I named it if you are not sure, Papa? Because then perhaps the name may help you to get it. But the best reason of all is this, that the sight of you, darling, always puts new courage into me. And although she did not in the least understand it, baby felt somehow that that was a beautiful reason. And as her father lifted her up in his arms, gave him a tight little hug, and was perfectly satisfied. How do you like my new name? She said, looking over her father's shoulder at Mary. Faith, darling, said Mary, taking hold of her little extended hand. I thought it's some queer at the first, but now that I've learned a reason, I think it's an elegant name. It may be that you do not agree with Mary Duff in this, and yet you must know that it was just because courage proved to be so well named that there is this little story to tell about her. End of Chapter 1 Chapter 2 of Courage This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Courage by Ruth Ogden. Chapter 2 On The Watch At the time of the commencement of our story Courage was twelve years old. To be sure she was only six over in that little first chapter. But to be quite honest, that wasn't a first chapter at all. It was simply what is termed an introduction, but we did not dare to mention the fact, because if you will believe it, that is something many people cannot be persuaded to read. So the real story commences with a twelve-year-old Courage standing one May morning on the edge of a wharf at the foot of a west side street. The wind was tossing her auburn hair and winding her little plaid skirt close about her, but was not strong enough by half to blow a sad, wistful look from her brown eyes. Morning after morning she had taken her position at exactly the same spot, and there had sat or stood for hours at a time. The men who worked on the wharf had come to know her, and some of them to wish her a cheery good morning as she tripped by. It was evident that she was watching for somebody, and that the somebody did not come. After a while they began to feel sorry for her, and finally one of them, Big Bob they called him, resolved to stroll out to where she was standing that breezy May morning, and have a word with her. Be is watching for someone, miss? He said. Yes. Answered Courage. I've been watching a great many days. That's what the men was noticing, miss. Is it for your father you're looking? No, not for him. There was a sadness in her voice, which even the big burly Scotchman was not slow to detect. May happy of no longer a right to be looking for him on any of these world's waters, said the man, gazing down sympathetically over the ledge of his great folded arms. Courage bit her lip, and the tears sprang into her eyes, but she managed to answer. My father died two weeks ago, sir. Just two weeks ago today. While the man looked, the sympathy he could not speak. That is why I'm watching for Larry. Courage added. For Larry. He exclaimed. Is it for Larry Star you're watching? Why, yes. Said Courage, as though she thought anyone should have known that. Do you know him? Of course I do. Every longshoreman knows Larry. Have you seen him lately? Very eagerly. No, not for a twelve month, but come to think of it, he often ties up at this very wharf. Yes, often. Said Courage. But it's two months now since he's been here, and he never stays away so long as that. You don't think— She paused for a moment, as though afraid to give words to her fears. You don't think, do you, that he can have died too, somewhere? Poor little Courage, with her mother dead since her babyhood, and her father lately gone from her. No wonder she felt it more than possible that Larry would never come back. Oh no, miss. Said the man reassuringly. He'd never have died without our hearing of it. Still, it's some old he's a-getting as Larry. He's a good strong man yet, though. Courage replied, not willing to admit the possibility of waning powers in her hero. Faith, and I know he's a good man, miss, and no doubt too, but his strength will be as his day. But you don't know anything about where he is now? Courage asked rather hopelessly. No, not for this twelve-month as I was a telonie, but like as not some of the men has heard some word on him, getting back with me, and we'll spare him a question or two. Whereupon he extended his hand, which Courage took rather reluctantly. It was such a powerful-looking hand, but there proved to be nothing rough in the way it closed over the small brown hand she placed in it. So, side by side, in this friendly fashion, they walked up the dock to where the men were unloading a southern steamer. Has any one of you heard a word of Larry Starrelate? Called Big Bob, but in a tone so different from the one in which he had spoken to Courage, that she gave a little start of surprise, and then hoped he had not seen it. Most of the men shook their heads in the negative. Never a word. Answered in old Irishman, indeed only one of the number made no reply whatsoever, so that Courage thought he could not have heard. It was his place to free the huge iron hook from the bales after they had been landed on the wharf, and he seemed all absorbed in his work. Fortunately, however, he had heard, and as he stood watching the hook as it slowly swung back aboard of the vessel, he called out. Yes, I have some word on him, Bob. Anybody inquiring for him? Of course there is. Just a very little edit what I've here by the hand. If you had asked worth the name, John, you'd seen her for this. Oh, is it you, Miss? said John, looking for the first time toward Courage, and at once recognizing the little girl who had been so long on the watch. Well, then I can tell you he'll be at this wharf this day week certain. The Ladybirds do here on Friday or Saturday, and Larry's under contract to carry part of her cargo down to the stores Monday morning. It's a pity Miss you hadn't asked me before, I could have told you the same any day back for a fortnight. But run down bright and early next Monday morning, and take my word for it, you'll find Larry's light is swinging up to this wharf as sure as my name's Jack Armstrong. Courage, meantime, had grown radiant. Oh, he'll come sooner than that! She exclaimed exultingly, He'll tie up Saturday night and spend Sunday with us. He always does that when he has work at this pier for Monday. Then, looking up to Big Bob, she said gratefully, Thank you very much for finding out for me. I will run right home now and tell Mary Duff. And, suiting the action to the word, Courage was at the wharf's end, and up the street and out of sight before the slow moving longshoreman had fairly settled to work again. Now that Courage was sure that Larry was coming, as sure as though it had been flashed across the blue-may sky in letters of silver, all the hours of weary foreboding and waiting were quite forgotten. So true is it, as Celia Thaxter sings in that peerless song of hers, as brave as any bird-note and as sweet. Dark skies must clear, and when the clouds are past, One golden day redeems a weary year. CHAPTER III Larry Comes Strange as it may still appear to you that a little girl should have Courage for her name, yet true it is that she was no sooner named herself than she had a namesake. It was none of your little baby namesakes, either, but a staunch and well-built boat, and one that was generally admitted to be the finest craft of her class in the harbour. The Courage Masterson was what is commonly known as a lighter, and to whom, of course, did she belong but to Larry Starr, Hugh Masterson's best friend. But she was no common lighter, I can assure you. Larry had given his whole mind to her building, and it was unlike any of the other lighters that make their way up and down the river or out on the bay with their great cumbersome loads. She had a fine little cabin of her own, a cosy, comfortable cabin, with two staterooms if you can give them so fine a title, opening out of it and a tiny kitchen beyond lighted by a small sky window. All this, as anyone knows, was very luxurious, but Larry had put the savings of many years into that boat, and he meant to have it as he liked it. To be sure, the cabin occupying as it did some twenty square feet greatly lessened her carrying capacity, for one square foot on the deck of a lighter stands for innumerable square feet of merchandise, which may be piled to almost any height upon it. Larry was quite willing, however, to lose something from the profits of every trip for the sake of the added comfort. But it was six years now since the lighter had been launched, and so it had happened that all that time, while a little girl Courage had been having a variety of experiences on land, the big boat Courage had been sailing under fair skies and fowl on the water, and safely transporting many a cargo that netted a comfortable living for Larry. And now, Saturday afternoon had come, and Courage was down in her old place at the dock's end, with happy certainty in her eyes, and yet with a sorrowful look overshadowing it, for there was such sad news to be told when at last Larry should come, and at last he came. Courage first thought she'd discovered a familiar boat away down the river, and then in a moment there was no longer a doubt of it. The lighter, with her one broad sail spread to the wind, came slowly nearer and nearer, and Courage, in her eagerness, stood way out on the farthest corner of the dock, so that Larry caught sight of her long before she put her two hands to her mouth trumpet fashion, and called, Hello there, Larry! at the top of her strong little lungs. Hello there, Courage! rang back Larry's cheery answer, as leaning hard against the tiller he swung his boat into place with a skill of a long-time sailor. I knew you'd find out somehow that I was coming, he called, and then in another second he was ashore and had Courage's two hands held fast in his and was gazing gladly into her face. But instantly the look of greeting in her eyes faded out of them. She could find no words for the sad news she had to tell. Well, Larry was quick to see her trouble, and his voice trembled as he asked. Why, Courage, child, what has happened? And then he drew her to a seat beside him on the great beam that flanked the wharf. It was easier to speak, now that she could look away from Larry's expressive face, and she said slowly, The saddest thing that could happen, Larry! Papa! And then she could go no further. You don't mean that your father is— But neither could Larry bring himself to voice the fatal, four-lettered little word. Yes. Said Courage, knowing well enough that he understood her. Nearly three weeks ago he had typhoid fever, and he tried very hard to get well, and we all tried so hard, Larry, the doctor and Mary Doff and me, but the fever was the kind that wouldn't break. And then one day Papa just said, But it isn't any use, darling. I'm going to give up the fight and go to your blessed mother, but you need have never a fear Courage while Larry's star is in the world. Did he say that, really? Asked Larry, tears of which he was not ashamed rolling down his bronzed face. Yes, said Courage solemnly. But, oh, Larry, I've been waiting here for so many days that I began to think perhaps she would never come. And if you hadn't come, Larry— And then the recollection of all these hours of watching proved quite too much for her overwrought little frame, and bearing her face in her hands on Larry's knee, she cried very bitterly. It is best, thought Larry, do let her have her cry out. Besides, he was not sure enough of his own voice to try to comfort her, so he just stroked the auburn hair gently with his strong hand and said not a word. Meanwhile another old friend had come upon the scene and stood staring at Larry and Courage with a world of questioning in his eyes. He seemed to have his doubts at first as to the advisability of coming nearer. He discovered it was evident that there was trouble in the air, that he was greatly interested and fully expected to be confided in sooner or later, was also evident from the beseeching way in which he would put his head on one side and then on the other, looking up to Larry as much as to say, When are you going to tell me what it is all about? But never a word from Larry, and never a glance from Courage till it last such ignominious treatment was no longer to be born, and walking slowly up, he also laid his head upon Larry's knee. Courage felt something cold against her cheek and started up to find a pair of wonderfully expressive eyes raised beseechingly to hers. Oh, Bruce, old fellow! she cried. I forgot all about you. And then, flinging her arms about his neck, she literally dried her tears on his beautiful silky coat. But Bruce would not long be content with mere passive acceptance of affection, and in another second rather rudely shook himself free from her grasp, and began springing upon her so that she had to jump to her feet and cry, Down, Bruce! Three or four times before he would mind her. But Bruce was satisfied. Things could not have come to such a terrible pass if it took no more than that to make Courage seem her old self again, and finally concluding that she really said, Down, Bruce! Quite as though she meant it, he decided to give his long legs a good run, and call on an old Collie friend of his who picked up a living on Pier 17. Never, however, had visit of sympathetic friend proved as timely as this call of Bruce's. With what infinite tact had he first sympathized with, and then tried to cheer his little friend, and he had succeeded for both Larry and Courage now found themselves able to talk calmly of all that had happened and of what had best be done. So you would like to come out on the lighter with me for the summer? Said Larry somewhat doubtfully after they had been conferring for some time together, and yet with his old face brightening at the thought. Courage simply nodded her head in the affirmative, but her eyes said, Oh, wouldn't I, Larry? As plainly as words. And Mary Duff thinks it would be all right too? The very best thing for the summer, Larry. Well then, bless your heart, you shall come. But how about next winter? Why, then, I suppose I shall have to send you away to a school somewhere. Courage shrugged her shoulders rather ruefully. Perhaps, she said, But next winter's a long way off. That's so, said Larry. Every wit is glad of the fact as was Courage herself. And you said, he continued, That Mary Duff is going to care for that little lame Joe of John Osborne's. Yes. Courage answered. Though Mr. Osborne can't afford to pay her anything as Papa did for me, but she says she doesn't mind, if she only has her home and her board she can manage, and that it's just her life to care for motherless little children that need her. But that Mary Duff's a good woman, said Larry, and Courage mutely shook her head from side to side, as though it were quite hopeless to so much as attempt to tell how very good she was. After a while, Larry went down to the boat to give some directions to his cabin-boy Dick, and Courage went with him. When that was completed a long shrill whistle brought Bruce bounding from some mysterious quarter, and the three started up the dock. The longshoremen were just quitting work as they neared them, and Larry paused to have a word with Big Bob and the other men whom he knew, Courage keeping fast hold of his hand all the while. Now she's got him. She don't mean to let him go, said one of the men as they passed on. I'd like to be in Larry's shoes, then, muttered Big Bob, who led a rather lonely life of it, and would have been only too glad to have had such a little girl as Courage confided to his keeping. End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 of Courage This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Courage by Ruth Ogden Chapter 4 Miss Julia It was high noon in New York, as our English cousins say, but in a wider sense than our English cousins use it. Not only was it twelve by the clock, with the sun high in the heavens flooding the streets with brilliant sunshine, but the whole city apparently was in the highest spirits. The sidewalks were alive, with gaily dressed people, gaily liveried carriages rolled up and down the avenue, violets and lilacs were for sale at the flower stands, and children were out in crowds for an airing. Here a little group of them, with unspeakable longing in their hearts, surrounded a grimy man who had snow-white puppies for sale. There another and larger group watched a wonderful ship in a glass case riding angular green waves, which rose and fell with the regularity of a pendulum, and some of them furtively glanced up now and then with eyes full of astonished admiration to the gray-bearded man who claims the honour of the invention. But notwithstanding it was Saturday, with half the world bent on a holiday and schools as a rule at a discount, there was one school over on the west side that threw open its doors to an eager company of scholars. It was a school where the children came because they loved to come, and no wonder. You had only to see the teachers to understand it. They were lovely-looking girls with their bright, wide-awake faces and becoming well-fitting dresses, enthusiastic, earnest girls, thoroughly abreast of the times, interested in everything and fond of all that is high and ennobling, working in the sewing school this afternoon, attractive matinees notwithstanding, and talking it over in some bright circle this evening. Girls the very sight of whom must somehow have done good to the very dullest little maids upon their roll-books. But Queen, among even this peerless company, reigned Miss Julia, the superintendent, or whatever the proper name may be for the head teacher. She was lovely to look at, and lovely in spirit, and beyond that it is useless to attempt description so impossible is it to put into words the indefinable charm that won every one to her. But with the bright May Saturday about which we are riding, the afternoon for closing the school had come, and there was a wistful expression on the faces of many of the children. Not that they were exactly anxious to stitch on and on through the springtime, when every healthy little body loves out-of-door life and lots of it. But no sewing school met no Miss Julia, so with reason they looked less glad than sorry. Miss Julia, as was her custom, had started in abundance of time from her old-fashioned home in Washington Square, but not too early it seemed to find at a corner near the chapel where the school was held half a dozen little girls already on the lookout. As soon as they spied her they flocked down the street to meet her, and then, with her in their midst, flocked back again. Presently in twos and threes the young teachers began to arrive, and soon it was time to open the school and to settle down to the last day's lesson. Courage, Masterson, happened to be in Miss Julia's own class, and was ordinarily a most apt little scholar, but on this particular Saturday her thoughts seemed to be everywhere rather than on her work. Indeed she had to rip out almost every stitch taken until Miss Julia wondered what could have happened. Afterward, when the children had said their goodbyes and gone home, and the teachers, with the exception of Miss Julia, had all left the building, Courage, who had been standing unnoticed in one corner, rushed up to her, burying her red-brown curls in the folds of her dress and sobbing fit to break her heart. Why courage, dear, what is the matter? And Miss Julia, sitting down on one of the benches, drew Courage into her lap. I was afraid all the lesson that something had gone wrong, poor child. Have you some new sorrow to bear? No, Miss Julia. I am going to do just what I want to do most. I am going to live on a boat, but I can't bear to go away from you and Mary Duff. Going away? And to live on a boat? Why, how is that, Courage? And then, as Courage explained all the plans and how she was to spend the whole summer out on the bay with— Larry, the goodest man there ever was! Her sad little face gradually grew bright again. Look here, said Miss Julia, after they had been talking a long while together. I am sure. And then she paused, and looked Courage over quite carefully. Yes, I am sure I have something that will be just the thing for you, now that you are to be so much on the water. Wait here for a moment. And going into a little room that opened from the chapel, she immediately returned with something in her hands that made Courage open her eyes for wonder. It was a beautiful, astrican-trimmed blue coat, with a wide-brimmed hat to match. They belonged to a little niece of Miss Julia's, a little niece who no longer had need for any earth-made garment, and so here they were in Miss Julia's hands, awaiting some new child ownership. She had already thought of Courage Masterson as one to whom they would prove not only useful, but becoming, and yet had feared to excite the envy of the other children. But if Courage was going away, that settled it. She should have them, for in that case her less fortunate little sisters need never be the wiser. So Miss Julia gladly held them up to view, for she dearly loved little Courage, while Courage incredulous exclaimed, For me? Oh, Miss Julia! and proceeded to don the coat and hat with the alacrity of a little maid appreciative of their special prettiness. Then what did the little witch do but run post-haste to the rear of the chapel, mount the high and slippery organ-bench, and have a peep into the mirror above it? Miss Julia could not keep from smiling, but said as she came running back, it does look nicely on you Courage, but you must not let it make you vain, darling. Was it vain to want to see how it looked? No Courage, I don't believe it was. I'm glad I did see just once, though, because Miss Julia, I guess it will not do for me to have it. And Courage reluctantly began to unfathom the pretty buttons. Not do for you to have it? Why Courage dear, what do you mean? It is so bright-looking, Miss Julia. Even this curly black stuff doesn't darken it much. Admiringly smoothing the astrican trimming with both little hands. And one of the girls said to-day in the class that orphans as had any heart always wore black. At any rate, she said she shouldn't think, if I had loved my father very much, I'd wear a gay ribbon like this in my hair. Whereupon Courage produced a crumpled red bow from the recesses of a pocket to which it had been summarily banished. So, of course, Miss Julia would be dreadful to wear a blue coat like this. It's clear Mary Duff never told me about orphans wearing black always. But they do not always wear it, Courage. It seems sad to me to see a child in black, and I think Mary Duff did just right in not putting you into mourning. Into mourning? Quirried Courage? Yes, into black dresses, I mean, because someone had died. Courage looked critically at Miss Julia, noticing for the first time that her dress was black, and that even the little pin at her throat was black, too. Why, Miss Julia? She said, her voice fairly trembling with the surprise of the discovery. You are in mourning. Yes, Courage. And did somebody die, Miss Julia? Someone I loved very much. Long ago? And Courage came close to the low bench, and lovingly laid her hand upon Miss Julia's shoulder. Yes, very long ago. Not your father or mother, was it? No, darling. And do you mind still? Rooffully shaking her head from side to side. Yes, Courage, I shall always mind, as you call it. But I am no longer miserable and unhappy, that is, not very often. And one reason is that all you little girls here in the school have grown so dear to me. But about the coat, you must surely keep it. I scarcely believe your father would like to have seen his little girl all in black. And besides, black does not seem to belong with that brave little name of yours. Courage stood gazing into Miss Julia's face, with a puzzled look in her eyes, as though facing the troublesome question. Then, suddenly diving again into her spacious pocket, a feature to be relied upon in connection with Mary Duff's dressmaking, and evidently discovering what she thought, she said eagerly, Miss Julia, will you wait here a moment? Certainly, dear, but what are you up to? Courage, however, had no time to explain, and with the blue coat flying out behind her, darted from the chapel across the street into a little thread in Needle's store, and was back again in a flash, carrying a thin flimsy package. Hastily unwrapping it, she disclosed a yard of black ribbon, which she thrust into Miss Julia's hands. What is this for, Courage? In her excitement, Courage simply extended her left arm with a— Tie it round, please. Indicating the place with her right hand. Miss Julia wanderingly did as she was bid. You tie a lovely bow. Said Courage, twisting her neck to get a look at it. You know why I have it, don't you? Miss Julia looked doubtful. It's my morning for Papa. I have seen soldiers with something black tied round their arms, because some other soldier had died, haven't you? Oh, that is it. Said Miss Julia, very tenderly. Yes, that is it, and now you see I don't mind how bright the coat is. The little bow tells how I miss him. Will you just take a stitch in it, please, so that it will stay on all summer? So Miss Julia reopened her little sewing-bag, and the stitches were taken, and a few moments later Courage was on her way home, proud enough of the beautiful coat and hat and eager to show them to Mary Duff. And yet sad at heart, too, for she had said good-bye to— Miss Julia. End of Chapter 4 Chapter 5 There had been a week of active preparation, and now everything was ready, and Mary Duff and Courage seated on a new little rope-bound trunk were waiting for Larry to come. The house looked sadly forlorn and empty, for Mary had sold most of the furniture that the money it brought might be put in the bank for Courage, and the only thing yet to be done was to hand over the keys to the new tenant expecting to take possession on the morrow. Mary had intentionally arranged matters in just this fashion. It was not going to be an easy thing to say good-bye to the little girl she had so lovingly cared for since her babyhood, and she knew well enough that to come back alone to the old home would half-break her heart. Therefore, she had wisely planned that it should be— Good-bye. to Courage, and— How do you do? to little lame Joe in as nearly the same breath as possible. At last there came a knock at the door, and Courage bounded to open it. Bruce, unmanorly fellow, crowded in first and after Bruce, Larry, and after Larry, What? Who? A most remarkable looking object, with tight curling hair braided fine as a rope into six funny little pigtails, with skin but a shade lighter than her cold black eyes, and with a stiffly starched pink calico skirt standing out at much the same angle as the pigtails. Mary Duff apparently was not in the least surprised at the separation, but Courage stared in wide-eyed wonder. Oh, isn't she funny? Were the words that sprang to her lips, but too considerate to give them utterance, she simply asked. Who is she, Larry? This is Sylvia, said Larry. Sylvia, this is Miss Courage, whereupon Sylvia gave a little backward kick with one foot, which she meant to have rank as a bow. And who is Sylvia? In a friendly voice that went straight to Sylvia's heart. She used to be company for you on the lighter Courage, and a little maid of all work besides. Especially as to wash up. Sylvia volunteered, beaming from ear to ear. What do you mean? Asked Courage with considerable dignity, seeming to realize at a bound the relation of mistress and maid. Meant it on boats, there's allers heaps and heaps to wash up. Pots and kittles and dishes and land knows what. And at least the one that's going to do it, a washen of themselves, is all the washen that's expected of those little lily-watt hands, Miss Courage. Cost a captain, say so. Didn't your captain? Whereupon Sylvia gave a marvelous little pirouette on one foot, that made pigtails and skirt describe a larger circle than ever. Yes, that's what I said. Answered Larry, rather taken aback by his performance, and wondering if he had gotten more than he had bargained for in this sable little specimen, chosen somewhat at random from the half-dozen presented for his inspection at an asylum the day before. But Courage had no fears, and saw an anticipation delightful opportunities for no end of fun, and when it should be needed for a little patronizing discipline. Meanwhile Bruce, who seemed unquestionably worried as to what sort of a move was pending, had made his way out of doors, and taken up his stand near the boy who stood in waiting with a hand-cart, ready to carry the trunk to the boat. When it last the trunk was in the cart, with Sylvia's bundle atop of it, and it became evident that the little party were actually on their way to the lighter, his delight knew no bounds, and he flew round and round after his tail as a relief to his exuberant feelings. Courage kept tight hold of Mary Duff's hand all the way. Of course it was going to be lovely out on the water all summer, and with Larry, but oh how she wished Mary was to be there too! But that always seemed to be the way somehow, something very nice, and something very sad along with it. Glancing ahead to Sylvia, who, with a jolly little swing of her own, was trotting along at the side of the cart, steadying her bundle with a very black hand, Courage wondered if she had found it so too, and resolved some day to ask her. The good-byes were said rather hurriedly at the last. Mary Duff went first down into the cabin with Courage, and helped to unpack her trunk. Then when finally there was nothing more for her to do, there was just a good hard hug, and two or three very hard kisses, and then you might have seen a familiar figure disappearing around the nearest corner of the dock, and Mary Duff was gone. As soon as she was out of sight she stopped a moment, and wiped the tears from her eyes with a corner of her shawl, for they were fairly blinding her, and then hurried right on to the little cripple, to whom her coming was to prove the very most blessed thing that had ever happened. As for Courage, she went to her own little room, and had a good cry there, and though neither of them knew of the other's tears, the skies soon looked clearer to them both. But there was one pair of eyes in which tears were not for a moment to be thought of. Tears, with a great orphan asylum left behind, and all the delights of life on that beautiful boat opening out before her, no indeed. Let Miss Courage have her little cry out if she must, but for Sylvia a face wreathed in smiles so broad as to develop not unfrequently into an audible chuckle. And so, while Courage was trying to get herself in hand, for she did not want Larry to know how badly she felt, Sylvia, acting under orders, was as busy as could be, setting the table in the cabin, and making supper ready in the tiny kitchen. When Courage again came on deck, the lighter had cleared the wharf, and was well out upon the river. Larry was at the helm, and she made her way straight to him, and slipped her hand in his, as much as to say, I'm yours now, you know Larry, and Larry gave it a tight little squeeze, as much as to say, yes I know you are dear, and they understood each other perfectly, though not a word was spoken. Don't you think I had better call you uncle or something instead of just Larry? Said Courage, after she had stood silently at a side for ever so many minutes. Why? Asked Larry, amused the suggestion. Oh, because it doesn't seem right for a child like me to call you by your first name. I should have thought they would have taught me different. Oh bless your heart Courage. Nobody taught you what to call me. You just took up Larry of yourself in the cutest sort of a way, and before you could say half a dozen words to your name, and now to tack an uncle onto it after all these years would sound mighty queer, and I shouldn't like it. Well then, we'll just let it be Larry always. And indeed Courage herself was more than willing to have things remain as they were. As for Sylvia, she soon decided that her one form of address for Larry should be my captain. For was he not in varied truth her captain, by grace of his choice of her, from among all the other little-colored orphans whom he might have taken? Indeed Sylvia fairly seemed to revel in the two-lettered personal pronoun, for if there is a Saxon word for which the average institution child has comparatively little use, it is that word, my. Where children are cared for by the hundreds, my, and me, and mine, and all that savers of the individual, are almost perforce lost sight of. No wonder then when Sylvia said, my captain, it was in a tone implying a most happy sense of ownership, as though it stood for the my father, and my mother, and all the other mys of more fortunate little children. It last Sylvia's supper was ready, and before announcing the fact she stood a moment, arms a Kimbo taking a critical survey of her labours, then convinced that nothing had been forgotten, she cleared the cabin stairs at a bound, and beckoning to Larry in Courage, cold out excitedly, Larry, who had many misgivings as to the result of his protege's first efforts, was greatly surprised on reaching the cabin to find the most tempting little table spread out before them, but it was hard to tell whether surprise or indignation gained the mastery in the eyes of astonished Courage, that the table looked most attractive no one could for a moment deny, but what most largely contributed there too was a glorious bunch of scarlet geraniums, to compass which Sylvia had literally stripped a double row of plants standing in the cabin window of every flower. These plants had been Mary Duff's special pride for several seasons, and she herself had carefully superintended their transportation in a wheelbarrow to the lighter the day before. Who could marvel then, that the tears came unbidden, as Courage at one glance took in the whole situation the elaborate decorations, the sadly despoiled plants? Oh Sylvia, how could you? Was all she found words to say. Poor Sylvia, never more surprised in her life, stood aghast for a moment, looking most beseechingly to Larry, then a possibility dawned upon her. Amid them posies, Miss Courage? And the question let the light in on Larry's bewildered mind. Of course I mean the flowers, said Courage, laying one hand caressingly on a poor little dismantled plant. You have not left a single one, and I wouldn't have had you pick them for all the world. But I was obliged to, Miss Courage. With all the aplomb of a conscientious performance of duty. Obliged to? And then it seemed to occur simultaneously to Larry and Courage that they had possibly secured the services of a veritable little lunatic. Yes, Miss Courage, have you never heard tell of a kitchen garden? Never. said Courage, and now she and Larry exchanged glances as to the certainty of Sylvia's mental condition. Well, I was a kitchen garden graduate. Sylvia announced with no little pride. Bless my stars, if you're not a stark little idiot. Muttered Larry under his breath, but fortunately Sylvia was too absorbed to hear him. Well, there ain't much you can tell a kitchen garden graduate. She continued complacently. About certain tables and such like. There's questions and answers about everything you know, and when Miss Sylvester says, what must you have in the middle of the table? The answer is fruit or flowers, so as there wasn't no fruit, why? And Sylvia, pausing abruptly, gave a little shrug of her shoulders, and with a grand eloquent gesture, pointed to the geraniums, as though further words were superfluous. Oh, I didn't understand, said Courage, for both she and Larry were beginning to comprehend the situation, and a little later on, when they had had time to realise more fully the careful arrangement of the table, to say nothing of the tempting dishes themselves, they were ready to pronounce the little lunatic of a few moments previous, a veritable treasure. The ham was done to a turn, the fried potatoes were deliciously crisp, dainty little biscuits fairly melted in your mouth, the coffee was perfection, and Sylvia sat beaming and radiant, for there was no lack of openly expressed appreciation. What did you say you were, Sylvia? Asked Courage during the progress of the meal. Oh, I didn't say I was nothing tall. Nervously fearing that in some unconscious way she might again have offended her new little mistress. Yes, you did, don't you know? Pretending not to notice the nervousness. It was something nice to be, it began with kitchen. Oh, yes, said Sylvia, much relieved. A kitchen-garden graduate, want to see my diploma? Including both Larry and Courage in one glance as she spoke. Holy mystified as to what the article might be, both of course nodded yes, whereupon Sylvia, plunging one little black fist down the neck of her dress, vainly endeavoured to bring something to the surface. It kind of stuck. She explained confidentially, but in another second a shining metal attached to a blue ribbon came flying out with appalling momentum. Dare now! She said, giving a backward dive through the encircling ribbon. That's what I got for learning all there was to learn. Courage took the metal and examined it. It was made of some bright metal and was stamped with a figure of a girl with a broom in her hand. Across the top were the words, kitchen-garden, and on a little scroll at the bottom the name Sylvia Sylvester. Why do they call it a kitchen-garden? Asked Courage, passing the metal on for Larry's inspection. It's an awfully funny name. Glory knows. Ain't no sense in that, I reckon. And that metal? Added Courage. Was a sort of prize for doing things better than the others, wasn't it? No, Miss Courage, that's a regular diploma. All the children's into school had them when they graduated. Courage looked appealingly toward Larry. To see if he knew what she meant. And Larry looked just as appealingly to Courage. The truth was Sylvia had the best of them both. To be sure she used a pronunciation of her own, but it was near enough to the original to have suggested graduate and diploma to minds in any wise familiar with the articles. And did they teach you to cook in the kitchen-garden? Courage asked, feeling that she must remain quite hopelessly in the dark regarding the words in question. No, that was an extray. One of the lady-managers, Miss Caxton, teached us the cooking. She was a lovely lady, such a kind face and such daisy gray heart, and all is so jolly. She came twice a week, because she was that fond of cooking and liked chillens. She says black skins didn't make no difference. One of these days I was going to write down for you all the dishes what she teached how to cook. And so the first meal aboard the lighter fared on, and before it was over Larry made up his mind that as soon as he could afford it he would send five dollars to the orphan asylum, and a letter besides, in which he would warmly express his approval of an institution that sent its little waifs out into the world so well equipped for rendering valuable service. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Courage by Ruth Ogden Chapter 6 Abored the Lighter It took such a very little while for Courage to feel perfectly contented and at home on the boat, that she was more than half inclined to take herself to task for a state of things which would seem to imply disloyalty to Mary Duff. As for Sylvia, she felt at home from the very first minute and was constantly brimming over with delight. Nor was Larry far below the general level of happiness for work seemed almost play with Courage at his side. As for Larry's boy, Dick, of a naturally mournful turn of mind, he too seemed carried along, quite in spite of himself, on the tide of prevailing high spirits. On more than one occasion he was known to laugh outright at some of Sylvia's remarkable performances, though always it must be confessed in deprecatory fashion, as though conscious of a perceptible loss of dignity. And who would not have been happy in that free, independent life they were leading? To be sure there were discomforts. Sometimes when the lighter was tied to a steaming wharf all day, the sun would beat mercilessly down upon them. But then they could always look forward to the cool evening out upon the water, and so happily it seemed to be in everything a hundred delights to offset each discomfort. Even for Larry and Dick, when work was hardest and weather warmest, there was a sure prospect of the yellow pitcher of iced tea, which Courage never failed to bring midway in the long morning, and then at the end of the day the leisurely comfortable dinner, for they were quite aristocratic in their tastes, this little boat's company. No noon dinner for them, with Larry and workaday clothes, and the stove in the tiny kitchen piping its hottest at precisely the hour when its services could best be dispensed with, but a leisurely seven o'clock dinner, with a lighter anchored off the shore, and when, as a rule, Dick also had had time to tidy up and could share the meal with them. And in this, you see, they were not aristocratic at all. Even little black Sylvia had a seat at one side of the table, which she occupied as continuously as her culinary duties would admit. One night, when Larry stood talking to a friend on the wharf, Sylvia and Courage overheard him say, There are darned competent little fare, I can tell you. Now, of course, this was rather questionable English for a respectable old man like Larry, but he intended it for the highest sort of praise, and the children could hardly help being pleased. Larry oughtn't to use such words, said Courage. But din I specs he only mean, that we just knows how to do things, said Sylvia apologetically, and as that was exactly what Larry did mean, we must forgive him the over-expressive word. Besides, they were, in point of fact, the most competent pair imaginable. Early every morning, when near the city, Dick would bring the lighter alongside a wharf, and Courage and Sylvia would set off for the nearest market, Sylvia carrying a basket and always wearing a square of bright plaid gingham knotted round her head. There was no remembrance for her of father or of mother, or of much that would have proved dear to her warm little heart, but tucked away in a corner of her memory were faint recollections of a southern fish market, with the red snapper sparkling in the morning sunlight and the old mammies in bandana turbans busy about their master's marketing, and as though to make the best of this shadowy recollection, Sylvia insisted upon the turban accompaniment to the basket. Then, after the marketing came the early breakfast, and after that, for Courage, the many nameless duties of every housekeeper, whether big or little, and for Sylvia, the homelier tasks of daily recurrence. But fortunately she did not deem them homely. Why should she, when pretty Miss Sylvester as perfect a lady as could be, herself had taught her how to do them every one? Nor was this work so dignified by manner and method of teaching performed in silence. Every household task had its appropriate little song, and the occasions were rare on which Sylvia did not make use of them. Washing dishes, washing dishes, suds are hot, suds are hot, work away briskly, work away briskly, do not stop, do not stop. Was the refrain that would greet the ear first thing after breakfast, followed by, First the glasses, rinse them well, rinse them well, if you do them nicely, all can tell, all can tell, and so on add infinitum. Then, after everything had been gotten into ship-shaped condition came the mending, of which there seemed to be an unending supply. Larry and Dick were certainly very hard on their clothes, and when, once a week, Dick brought all the heaping basketful aboard from the washerwoman, who lived at the battery, Courage and Sylvia knew that needles and thimbles would need to be brought into active requisition. Then, in odd hours there was studying and reading, and whenever they could manage it a little visit to be paid upon Mary Duff. In addition to all this Courage had taken upon herself one other duty, for big fifteen-year-old Dick did not so much as know his letters. He one day blushingly confessed the fact to Courage, who indeed had long suspected it, with tears in his honest blue eyes. Dick's mother, for that is what she was, though most unworthy of the name, had shoved him out of the place he called home, when he was just a mere slip of a lad, and since then it had been all he could manage simply to make a living for himself with never a moment for schooling. But a happier day had dawned. No sooner was Courage assured of his benighted condition than she won his everlasting gratitude by setting about to mend it. Their first need of course was a primer, and they immediately found one ready to the hand, or rather to the eye, for it could not be treated after the fashion of ordinary primers. There were only seven letters in it, five capitals and two small ones, and the large letters were fully ten feet high. It did not even commence with an A, but C came first, and then R, and then another R, followed by a little O, and a little F, and after that a large N, and a large J. Indeed, C-R-R of N-J was all that there was to it, for the letters were painted on a depot roof that happened to be in full sight on the evening when Dick commenced his lessons. And so Dick finally mastered the entire alphabet by the aid of the great signs in the harbour, and do you think they ever rendered half such worthy service? This then was the story of the uneventful days as they dawned one after the other, until at last May yielding place to June and June to July, Saturday, the first day of August, came in by the calendar, ran through its mid-summer hours, and then sank to rest in the cradle of a wonderful sunset. It was such a sunset as sometimes glorifies the bay and the river, and will not be overlooked. Long rays of gold and crimson shot a thwart even the narrowest and darkest cross-streets of the city, compelling everyone who had eyes to see and feet to walk upon to come out and enjoy its beauty, while a blaze of light falling full upon the myriad windows of Brooklyn Heights suggested the marvellous golden city of the revelation. Full in the wake of all this glory and just to the southeast of Bedlow's Island, Larry had moored the lighter. It was a favour to anchorage with all the little boat's company. The Statue of Liberty, standing out so grandly against the western sky and with the light of her torch shining down all night upon them, seemed always a veritable friend and protector. Tomorrow, perhaps, they would touch at Staten Island, and locking the cabin all hands repair to a little church they loved well at New Brighton. Or, should it prove a very warm day, they might have a little service of their own on board instead, sailing quite past the church and as far down the bay as the Belle Bowie. But for the present there was nothing to be done but watch the sun set. So they sat together in the lee of the cabin, silently thinking their own thoughts as the sun went down. Courage had on the blue coat and hat, and from the wistful look in her eyes might easily have been thinking of Miss Julia. Larry sat looking at Courage more perhaps than at the sunset, and his face was grave and sad. Courage had noticed that it had often been so of late, and wondered what could be the trouble. After a while Larry slowly strolled off by himself to the bow of the boat, and Courage gazed anxiously after him. Then, turning to Dick, she said with a sigh, We had better have a lesson now, Dick. I, I, answered Dick, always glad of the chance. It's too dark for a book, Courage added. But there's a good sign. Whereupon Dick set himself to master two large lettered words over on the Jersey shore, one of which looked rather formidable. Begin with the last word, Dick. You've had it before. D-O-C-K. Doc, of course. Now the first word. Try to make it out yourself. Dick shrugged his shoulders, for it was rather a jump to a word of three syllables, but success at last crowned his efforts. National Docs. He exclaimed, with a delight of unaided discovery, feeling as though the attainment had added a good square inch to his height. Then came another sign, with the one word storage, but that was easy, for— Prentice Stores. Had been achieved the day before off the Brooklyn warehouses, and it was only a step from one word to the other. Finally, when there were no new signs to conquer, Courage began a sort of review from memory of all they had been over. In the midst of it, Sylvia suddenly ran to the side of the boat, arched one black hand over her eyes that she might see the more clearly, and then flew back again. Dead hard statue, boys, coming. She cried excitedly. I thought it looked like him, and if once he gets a foot on this boat he keep coming, he will. I knowed him. I don't see that you can help it, though. Laughed Courage. You can't tell and then we just don't want to have anything to do with him. Sylvia looked perplexed, but only for a moment, then indulging in one of those remarkable pirouettes with which she was accustomed to announce the advent of a happy thought, she ran back again to the boat's edge. Meanwhile every dip of the oars was bringing the objectionable boy nearer, and a horrid boy he was, if one may be permitted to speak quite honestly. Dick and Sylvia had made his undesirable acquaintance one evening when Larry had sent them to the island to learn the right time. He was the son of one of the men employed to care for the statue, and was, alas, every wit as disagreeable in manners as in looks, which is not to put the case mildly. Hello, Miss Woollyhead! He called, bringing his boat to the lighter side and tossing a rope aboard, which Miss Woollyhead was supposed to catch, but didn't, so that the boat veered off again. What's the name of your little missus? Called the boy, apparently not in the least non-plus by his rather chilling reception. The knowledge that Sylvia had a little missus had been obtained by means of several leading questions, which had characterized the young gentleman's first interview with Sylvia and Dick, and which they had regarded as the very epitome of rudeness. This year Lighter is called for my missus, said Sylvia, so you can just read her name-dare on the dough-plate, pointing to the lettering at the bow of the boat, and then again, maybe you can't. She chuckled. It looked as though the statue-boy couldn't, for he did not so much as glance toward the bow, as he added, Well, it's your missus I want to see, and not you, you little black pick-and-nanny. That's all right, sir. And Sylvia folded her arms aggressively. But you can't see her. Ain't she in? Yes, she's in, but she begs to be excused. This lasts in the most impressive manner possible. Dick and Courage, who were sitting just out of sight, looked at each other and almost laughed out right. What remarkable phrases Sylvia seemed always to have at her tongue's end. Indeed, Dick did not know at all what was meant by the fine phrase, but fortunately the statue-boy did. That is, after a moment or two of reflection. So, she don't want to see me. He said, sullenly adjusting his oars with considerable more noise than was necessary. Well, no more than do I want to see her. I ain't no mind to stay where I ain't wanted, but I reckon it's the last time. You'll be allowed to anchor your old scout over the line about there being a row about it. And with this particular rejoinder, there would be call or beat a welcome retreat. Oh Sylvia, how did you happen to think to say that? Laughed Courage. Why, that's what you must allers say when anybody calls. They teached it in a game in the kitchen garden. We all stood up in a ring, and a girl came and knocked on your back and axed. Is Miss Brown to home? Then you turn round and say, Miss Brown are to home, but she begs to be excused, and then it was your turn to be to call her and knock on some other girl's back. But Sylvia, if Mrs. Brown wanted to see the caller, what would you say? I don't prosactually recommend her. I mostly laxed excused one to best. Meanwhile, Dick made his way to Larry. Did you know we were anchored inside the line? He said. Larry stood up to take his bearings. Why, so we are. With evident annoyance, for Larry prided himself on his observance of harbour rules. And I guess we've done it before, added Dick. The boy from the island there said it would be the last time we'd be allowed to do it. And it ought to be. For Larry was thoroughly out of patience with himself. We'll show him we meant to obey orders anyway. Let go her anchor, Dick. And then, in a moment, the big sail that had been furled for the night was spread to the wind once more, and the courage Masterson was running out upon the bay, that she might swing in again and anchor at the proper distance from the island. What's up, I wonder? Said Sylvia, starting to her feet when she felt the lighter in motion. Oh, I know. Dick's told Larry we were anchored too near. And she settled down again in the most comfortable position imaginable, on the rug beside courage. Tell me, Sylvia. What is your other name? Courage asked after a little pause. I've been meaning to ask you this ever so long. I think it was on the metal, but I do not remember it. Sylvester. Said Sylvia complacently, smoothing out her gingham apron. Sylvie Sylvester. Those two names hitched together pretty tonnable, don't they, Miss Courage? Yes, they go beautifully together. That's why your name Sylvia, of course. Sylvia shook her head. No, that's why I was named Sylvester. Courage looked puzzled. I was named Dr. Miss Sylvester, one of the kitchen garden ladies. But Sylvia, children can only have their first names given to them. They're born to their last names. This child wasn't Miss Courage. Least ways nobody did know at DeSylum what name I was born to, except Jess Sylvie. So I picked mine out myself. One day I went to Miss Sylvester and says, kind of mischievous, how do you like your namesake? Ain't got none, Sylvie says she. Yes, you have, I done told her. It's ten-year-old and it's black, but I hope you don't mind, cause it's me, and she didn't mind a bit, just as I know she wouldn't. And she says some beautiful things, that as I must allers be an honor to the name. And after that she gimme two books, with Sylvie Sylvester wrote into them. From her everlasting friend and well-wisher, Mary Sylvester, You done see those two books on my table, Miss Courage, once called. But the sentence was not finished. Something happened just then, that made both children spring to their feet and hold their breath for fear of what was coming. A few minutes before they had noticed, that one of the large sandy hook boats seemed to be bearing down upon them, and that to all appearances they were directly in her track, but their faith in Larry was supreme, he would surely manage to get out of the way in time. But alas! they were mistaken, for the great boat came looming up like a mountain beside them, and in another second there was a deafening, hot, sickening crash and splintering of timbers. Sylvie gave one piercing terrified scream, while she and Courage clung as for their lives to the copping of the cabin roof, and indeed it was a terrible moment. The force of the collision sent the lighter careening so much to one side, that it seemed for an instant hopeless that she could possibly write herself, and oh, how frightful to go down, down into that cruel dark water. But then in another instant she swung violently to the other side, and they knew that the danger of capsizing was over, though the boat was still rocking like a cradle. Then they saw the captain of the St. John's come hurrying to the deck rail, and heard him angrily call out, Man alive there, are you drunk? No, I am not drunk. Larry answered, from where he stood, pale and trembling, leaning heavily against the tiller. Not drunk? Then you're too green a hand to be minding a helm in salt water. Only for our reversed engines you would not have a shingle under you. Larry made no reply. Courage, still holding Sylvie by the hand, looked daggers at the man, to think of anyone daring to speak like that to good old Larry. Of course he was not the one to blame, and but that the two boats were fast drifting apart, she would then and there have told the St. John's captain what she thought of him. Just at this moment Courage noticed a lady and gentleman on the rear deck of the steamer. She saw the lady give a start of surprise, and speak hurriedly to the gentleman, who immediately called out in as loud a voice as he could command. What is your name, little girl? Tell me quickly. He meant Courage, and Courage knew that he did, but Sylvie, not so understanding it, a confusion of sounds smote the air, of which a shrill little, Syl, was all that could by any chance be distinguished. Then in a second they were all hopelessly out of hearing of each other, and the big boat steamed on to her pier, none the worse for the encounter, save for a great ugly scar on her white painted bow. But alas for Larry's lighter, although she was still sound as a nut below the water's edge, above it she looked as though a cyclone had struck her. And so it was a subdued, though a thankful little company, that stowed themselves away in their berths, in hour or so later, after the boat had again been brought to anchor, and they had had time to talk everything over. But there was one pillow that lay unpressed that night. With his mind full of anxiety, bed was out of the question for Larry, and for hours he slowly paced the deck. At least it seemed hours to courage as she lay awake in her little state room, counting his steps as he went up and down, until she knew precisely at just what number he would turn. She had first tried very hard to go to sleep. She had listened to the water quietly lapping the boat's side, imagining it a lullaby. But the lullaby proved ineffectual. At last she pulled back the curtain from the little window over her berth, so that the light from the statue might stream in upon her, entertaining a childish notion that she might perhaps sort of blink herself to sleep, but all in vain. Finally she heard Larry come into the cabin, and apparently stopped there. Why didn't he go into his state room, she wondered? When she could stand it no longer, she put on her wrapper and slippers, and stole out into the cabin. The little room, lighted by Liberty's torch, was bright as her own, and Larry sat at the table, his head bowed upon his folded arms. Courage went close to him, and putting out one little hand, began softly to stroke his gray hair. Larry did not start as she touched him, so she knew he must have hurt her coming. Do you feel so very sorry about the lighter, Larry? She asked anxiously. Will it take such a great lot of money to mend it? Larry did not raise his head, but it seemed to Courage that a sob, as real as any child's, shook his strong frame. Please, Larry, speak to me! Courage pleaded, and feeling her two hands against his face, Larry suffered her to lift it up. Yes, there were tears in his eyes. Courage saw them, and looked right away, even to the child there was something sacred in a strong man's tears. But she slipped onto his knee, nestled her head on his shoulder, and then said, in the tenderest little voice, It isn't just the accident, is it, Larry? Something's been troubling you this long while. Please tell me what it is. Don't forget about my name being Courage, and that perhaps I can help you. The words fell very sweetly upon Larry's ear, and he drew her closer to him. But she could feel him slowly move his head from side to side, as though it were hopeless to look for help from any quarter. Suddenly a dreadful possibility flashed itself across her mind, and sitting upright, she said excitedly, You're not going to die, Larry. Say it isn't that. Quick, Larry! No, darling. It isn't that. Larry hastened to answer, deeply touched by the agony in her voice. But it's almost worse than dying. I'm going... And then the word failed him, and he passed his hand significantly across his eyes. Not blind, Larry. Yet instantly recalling, as she spoke, many a little incident that confirmed her fears. Yes, blind Courage. That's the way it happened tonight. It was all my fault. I couldn't rightly see. But Larry hardly anyone could see. It was getting so dark. Courage, darling. Larry said tenderly, It's been getting dark for me for a year. I shall never sail a boat again. They told me in the spring that I wasn't fit for it, but then I found you had set your heart on being on the water with me, and so with Dick's eyes to help, I thought I could manage just for the summer. But it's all over now, and it's plain enough that I've got to give in. And so Larry has done all this for her. At first Courage cannot speak, but at last she contrives to say, in a tearful trembling voice, Try not to mind, Larry. If you only let me take care of you, it won't matter at all whether we live on the water or not. I can be happy anywhere with you. And Larry is in no small degree comforted. How could it be otherwise with that loyal child heart standing up to him so bravely in his trial? And finally he tells Courage of a plan that is common to his mind, to spend the remainder of the summer in the queerest little place that ever was heard of, and he proceeds to describe the little place to her. Courage is delighted with the scheme, and they talk quietly about it for ever so long, till, after a while, right in the midst of a sentence, Courage drops asleep on Larry's shoulder. Then, rather than disturb her, Larry sits perfectly motionless. And at last the noble grey head, drooping lower and lower, rests against the red-brown curls, and Larry is also asleep, while across them both slants a band of marvelous light from the torch of the island's statue. End of Chapter 6 Chapter 7 of Courage This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Courage by Ruth Ogden Chapter 7 The Queerest Little Place It's Moses nice as the boat, and ever so much like it. Said Sylvia. Yes, most is nice. Courage conceded. And the next best thing for a man like Larry who has lived all his life with the water. It looks a sight better than when we came, doesn't it? But hush, look Sylvia, isn't that a bite? Have the net ready. And Sylvia had the net ready, and in another second a great sprawling crab was landed in the boat beside them, for you must know that Mistress and Maid are out crabbing on the South Shrewsbury, and are meeting with much better luck than is generally experienced in mid-summer weather. Directly over their heads is the Queer Little Place, that has recently become their home. That chink there is in the floor of Sylvia's carpetless room, and those wisps of straw are sticking through from Bruce's kennel. To be sure you have heard nothing of that young gentleman since the day when Courage dried her tears on his coat, but that is only because there have been more important things to tell about. He has, however, been behaving in the most exemplary manner all the while, and has been, as always, Larry's constant companion. As for the Queer Little Place, you have probably never seen anything at all like it, unless, as is possible, you have chance to see this very little place itself. It is a house, of course, but wholly unlike other houses. It has several rooms, but they are all strung along in a row, and boasts neither attic nor cellar. There is water under it, and water on every side of it. In short, it is on the drawbridge that spans the river between Port Aupack and Town Neck, and is what I presume may be called a draw house. Of the many bridges spanning the inlets threading all that region of seaboard country, this south Shrewsbury bridge is by far the longest, and therefore the most pretentious. The draw to accommodate the channel of the river has been placed near the southern end, while at either end of it, on the main bridge, are gates that swing to for the protection of teams when the draw itself is open. The house also stretches its length along the main bridge toward its southern end. From the day when the ice goes out of the river to the day when it locks it in again, it is David Starr's home, and David is Larry Starr's brother. David's wife has been dead these many years, all his children are married and settled, and David not wishing, as he says, to be beholden to any of them, minds the south Shrewsbury draw. For nine months or thereabouts he stays on the bridge, and then while the river is icebound retreats to a little house on the mainland, living quite by himself all the while. And this is the place to which Larry has come with courage and Sylvia, and lonely old David is glad enough to see them, particularly as Larry proposes to pay a snug little sum weekly by way of board. What they will do when cold weather sets in Larry is not yet decided. He fully expects, however, to send courage to school somewhere in the city, if it takes half his savings to do it, but for Larry himself, alas, the darkness is settling down more and more surely. Meantime courage and Sylvia do all in their power to cheer him, and everybody, Larry included, tries hard not to think of the oncoming blindness. As for Larry's cabin boy Dick, he could not, unfortunately, be included in this new plan, but courage at Larry's dictation wrote him a most promising sort of a reference, and one which succeeded in obtaining him just as promising a situation. And there was one other important matter attended to before they all took final leave of Dick and the dear old Lighter. Larry painted out her name from the bow with the blackest of black paint. He would sell his boat if he must, but the courage masterson never. But while I have been telling you all this, courage and Sylvia, their crabbing concluded, have tied their boat to the shore, and with a well-filled basket swinging between them, are coming down the bridge. Over against the house Larry sits in the sunshine, smoking his pipe, that is now more of a comfort than ever, and with Bruce at his feet. He hears the children and knows their tread almost the instant they set foot on the roadway, his good old ears seeming kindly bent on doing double service. Any luck? He calls out as soon as he reckons them within speaking distance. Yes, twelve big ones. Answers Sylvia. But Lord, I don't know nothing about how to cook things what's allowed to start with. David will tell you how to manage. Laughs Larry, and just then a carriage crossing over the bridge comes close upon them. Courage instinctively glances over her shoulder and straightway dropping her end of the basket cries out with what little remaining breath surprises left her. I miss Julia. Why courage dear, where did you come from? And instantly the faton is brought to a standstill and courage bounds into it, and then there is the report of a kiss loud enough to have started any save the most discriminating of ponies on the wildest of gallops. But I thought you were to be on a boat all summer. Exclaims Miss Julia the next minute. Yes, I was, but— And then, feeling that there is something even more important than immediate explanation, courage bounds out of the carriage again that she may lead Larry to Miss Julia, and they, of course, shake hands very heartily, as two people should who have heard so much of each other. Then Larry and Courage between them explain matters, and Miss Julia in turn tells of her summer home, but a mile away on the Rumson Road, and of how very often she drives over the Shrewsbury draw. Meanwhile poor Sylvia has been having an anxious time of it, when Courage so unceremoniously dropped her end of the basket, several of the crabs went scrawling out of it, and, as you know, there is nothing more lively than a hard-shell crab struggling with all its might to regain its native element. But with the aid of Miss Julia's man, wrung down from the rumble to help her, Sylvia does succeed in recapturing four of the runaways, not alas, however, before two beauties have succeeded in gaining the edge of the bridge and in plumping themselves back into the water, with a splash that must have consumed with envy the hearts of their less fortunate fellows. At last it is time for Sylvia to be introduced, and as usual her beaming face expresses her satisfaction, then there is a general chatting for a little while longer in which each bears a hand. And how pretty you have made it all, says Miss Julia, taking up the reins preparatory to driving on. I should never have known the place, with the dainty dimity curtains at the windows, and these starch boxes full of plants along the rail here, such nice old-fashioned plants, too, geraniums and lemon verbena, and that little low plant with the funny name. Oh, yes, I remember. Portulaca. How long has it taken you to work such a transformation courage? Only a week, Miss Julia. We came down last Monday, but then Sylvia and I have worked pretty hard. Of course you have. You are a pair of regular, wonder-working fairies, you and your faithful Sylvia. And now I must say goodbye, but not until Larry promises that you shall come, both of you, and spend the day after to-morrow with me. I shall send John Danview with the ponies bright and early, and we'll have such a day of it. Larry promised. Miss Julia drove on, and the children looked a delight which was, in very truth, unspeakable. End of Chapter 7 Chapter 8 of Courage This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Courage by Ruth Ogden, Chapter 8 Courage Does It Really? I believe it's nicer than being on the boat. Yes, responded Sylvia, with a supreme faith in any assertion that courage might choose to make. But why? Because we had the fun of living out on the water, and Miss Julia besides. Oh, yes, to be sure. Half ashamed to have ventured so obvious a question. Miss Julia besides. No one could imagine what those three little words meant to Courage. It was a delight in itself simply to waken in the morning, and know that before night Miss Julia would probably come riding over on her beautiful wrecks, or driving the gray ponies, or if not today then tomorrow. Whenever she came she would stop for a chat, and more likely than not bring with her some little gift from the wonderful place on the Rumson, a plant from the greenhouse, a golden roll of delicious butter, or just a beautiful flower or two that her own hands had picked in the garden. And so the summer was crowned for Courage by the happy accident of nearness to Miss Julia. And the only sad moments were when, now and then, a great longing for her father surged over her, or when the realization of Larry's ever-increasing blindness pressed heavily down upon even her buoyant spirit. As for life on the draw, the days slipped by as uneventfully as on the light her, though no doubt they were more monotonous. There were no morning trips through the busy streets to market, David had all their supplies sent over from Red Bank, and nothing, of course, of the ever-changing life of the harbour. But the children were more than contented. Sylvia was never so happy as when at work, and somehow or other there always seemed to be plenty of work for the little black hands to do. But it must be confessed. There were times when Courage did find the days rather dull, times when she did not feel quite like reading or studying, and when she could think of nothing that needed to be done. There was one recreation, however, that always served to add a zest to the quietest sort of a day. Every clear afternoon, somewhere between four and six o'clock, she would don the pretty blue hat, and when it was any wise cool enough the blue coat, too, for she loved to wear it, and then go out and perch herself safely somewhere on the top of the bridge rail, and with her back to the sun, should he happen to be shining. Then in a little while some of her friends out for their afternoon drive would be pretty sure to come crossing the bridge, and though possibly lacking the time for a chat would at least exchange a few cheery words as they perforce walked their horses over the draw. I say some of her friends, for already there were many of them, for people could hardly escape noticing the pretty little house, and the kind-faced half-blind old man sitting in the doorway, or failing these the little girl in the handsome blue coat and hat. Some had either guessed or found out the meaning of the black bow on the sleeve, and ever afterwards seemed to regard her with an interest close bordering on downright affection. Indeed in one way and another the household on the draw became known far and wide, and strangers, sometimes driving that way for no other reason than to see the beautiful little girl with a remarkable name, were disappointed enough if they did not chance to come across her, but of this far-reaching notoriety courage fortunately never so much as dreamed. And so the days fared on, much as I have described, until there came an evening when something happened. It was an evening early in October, and our little parties sitting down to their six o'clock supper were every one in a particularly happy frame of mind. The sun had gone down in a blaze of gold and crimson, and the river, which is wide enough below the bridge to be dignified as a bay, lay like a mirror reflecting the marvellous colour. Later, when the twilight was fusing all the varying shades into a fleecy, wondrously tinted grey, a brisk little breeze strode up from the west, and instantly the water rose and myriad tiny waves to meet it, and each wave donned a white cap as in honour of its coming. Low down on the horizon the various thread of a new moon was paying court to the evening star, that was also near its setting, but both shown out with more than common brilliancy through the early evening air. Here, then, was one caused for the generally happy feeling, and another no doubt lay in the all-pervading cheeriness of the little home. Humble and small it was, to be sure, but there was comfort, and plenty of it on every side, comfort in the mere sight of the daintly set table, comfort of a very substantial kind in the contents of the shining teapot, in the scrambled eggs sizzling away in a chafing dish, which Sylvia had cleverly concocted, and above all in the aroma, as well as in the taste of the deliciously browned toast. People who chanced to come driving over glanced in at the cozy lamp-lighted table caught a whiff of the savoury odours, and then, the moment they were off the draw, urged on their horses in elusive hope of finding something as inviting at home. During the progress of the meal, and while Sylvia, who was an inimitable little mimic, was giving a lisping impersonation of one of the teachers at the asylum, a carriage rolled rapidly by, and someone called, Hello there, Courage! quickly recognising the voice, Courage rushed out of doors, almost upsetting the table in her eagerness, but even then Miss Julia was a long way past, having actually trotted her ponies right over the draw itself in most unprecedented fashion. This was a grave offence in David's eyes, and Courage, retaking her seat at the table, wondered what he would have to say about it. Miss Julia must have been in a great hurry! she ventured. Yes, a ten-dollar hurry! growled David. Oh, you won't find her! Courage exclaimed, alarmed at the mere thought of anything so ungracious. She just couldn't have been thinking. Well, then, we'll just teach her how to think. But Sylvia, quite sure that she detected a lack of determination in David's tone, said complacently. Never you fear, Miss Courage. Mr. David done sure enough mean what he says, I reckon. Whereupon Mr. David shook his head as much as to say— Well, he rather guessed he did. But Courage saw with relief that there was really nothing to fear. After supper, Larry and David took a turn on the bridge while the table was being cleared, and then coming back to the little living-room Courage read aloud for an hour from one of Sylvia Sylvester's namesake books. It chanced to be the incomparable story of Alice in Wonderland, and David and Larry were as charmed as the little folk themselves. At nine o'clock the book was laid away, and Larry went directly to bed. Courage and Sylvia hurried into coats and hats for a run in the bracing night air, and David, stopping first to light his pipe, followed them out onto the bridge. All three found to their surprise that the sky had grown suddenly lowering and overcast while the breeze of the twilight was fast stiffening to a vigorous west wind. We're in for a blow, I'm thinkin,' said David, looking down river with the children standing beside him. And bless me, there isn't a star to be seen. Who'da thought it after that sunset? Courage, seeing something in the distance, paid no attention to this last remark. Mr. David, what's that? She exclaimed, pointing in the direction in which she had been gazing. Sure it looks like a sail courage. Can it be that you're wantin' to get through, I wonder? What's a boat out for this time of night, anyhow? Then, for several minutes, all was silent. Listen, said Sylvia at last. Doesn't that sound like Rowan? Yes, it do. Said David, after listening intently, his hand to his ear. I thought it didn't appear just like a sailboat. How some ever, there's a white thing dangling to it that looks. But here David was interrupted by a coarse voice calling out. Hello there. Open the draw, will you? Hello there. David answered. But what will I open it for? You're Rowan, aren't ye? Yes, we're rowing to gain time, but there's a sail to the boat as plain as daylight, isn't there? Now hurry, man alive, and do as you're told. We've sprung a leak. Sprung a leak? Then your fool's not to make straight for the shore. That's our lookout, but for land's sake, open the draw instead of standing there talking all night. And David, realizing that there may be danger for the men in longer parlaying, puts his hand to the lever, hurriedly dispatching the children to close the gates at either end, and away they fly, eager to render a service often required of them when there was need for special expedition. Indeed, one can but wonder how David sometimes managed when alone, and a boat, tacking against the wind, had need to make the draw at precisely the right moment. But tonight it happens that he is in too great haste, and while yet several yards from the gate, courage, with horror, feels the draw beginning to move under her. Wait! She calls back to David, but her voice is weak with fear, and her feet seem weighted. Oh, if she cannot reach the end in time to make the main bridge and close the gate, and someone should come driving on in the darkness, never seeing that the draw was open, at last she is at the edge, but only the tenth of a second more and will be too late to jump. Shall she try it? It will be taking a dreadful risk. She may land right against the rail, be thrown back into the water, and no one know in time to hasten to her rescue. She hesitates, no, and then, yes, for an instantly deciding thought has come to her. The draw swings clear of the bridge. The men in the boat grumbling at everything, paddled clumsily through, while over the other gate reached barely in time, Sylvia hangs breathless and trembling. At the same moment with courage, she too felt the draw begin to move, but luckily chanced to be nearer her goal. Meanwhile, where is courage? Not in the water, thank God, but prone upon the bridge, above it, lying down just where she fell, when, as she jumped, the rail of the draw struck her feet and threw her roughly down upon it. She feels terribly jarred and bruised, and tries in vain to lift herself up, but hark! Is that the sound of horses on the road? Yes, surely, and they are coming nearer, and now they are on the bridge, and the gate, the gate is open. With one superhuman effort she struggles to her feet, reaches out for it, and swings it too. Then, leaning heavily against the rail, she udders one shrill in articulate scream. There is another scream, almost a shrill in answer, and instantly a pair of ponies, brought to an alarmingly sudden stand still, rear high in the air beside her, and courage, unable to stand another moment, drops in a limp little heap to the flooring. My darling, darling courage! whispers someone close bending above her. Dear Miss Julia! and a little hand all of a tremble gropes for Miss Julia's face in the darkness. The draw swings back into place, and Sylvia is on it in a flash. Oh, you didn't give us enough time! she cries accusingly to David as she flies past. David instantly divides her meaning, for they both know courage well enough to fear she may have run some terrible danger, and, seizing the lantern, hanging midway in the draw, David follows Sylvia as fast as tottering limbs will carry him. What a sickening sensation sweeps over him as the horses loom up in the darkness, and he sees a group of people crowding about something hung on the bridge. She isn't deaded! she isn't deaded! Sylvia joyfully calls out, and that moment the light from the lantern falls a thwart, a prostrate little figure in the midst of the group. I think I can get up now! are the words that meet David's ear, and an answering God be praised! escapes from his quivering lips. Then someone turns the heads of the quieted horses, and two ladies, one on either side of courage, help her back to the house. Larry, who has heard the commotion, succeeds in getting dressed in out to the door just as the little party reach it. He starts alarmed and surprised at the sight of courage, but fortunately is too blind to see the alarming stains of blood on her little white face. But the moment they enter the light the others are quick to see them. Courage is lifted into David's big rocker, and Larry, groping into his own room, brings a pillow for her back. Sylvia disappears and returns in a trice with a towel and a basin of water. Miss Julia, with shaking hands, measures something into a glass. The other lady, with a little help from courage, removes the dust-begrimed coat and lays it very tenderly over a chair, and now the colour begins to surge back into the little pale face. The cut, under the curls, which is not severe enough to need a surgeon, is tightly bound, and then, at last, they all sit down to get their breath for a moment. The horses, which of course were none other than Miss Julia's grey ponies, are secured to a rail outside, and David brings a strange gentleman into the room. This is my brother, Courage, says Miss Julia. He has often heard me speak of you, and this lady is his wife. Courage smiles in acknowledgement of the introduction, for indeed she does not feel equal to talking yet, and so keeps perfectly quiet, listening to all the others. To David's reiterated self-accusations for forgetting in his haste to make sure that the children were clear of the draw, to Sylvia's excited account of the way she had, just to scrabble, to get over in time. To Miss Julia's explanation of how they had set out at that late hour on a sudden impulse to pay a call down at Elberon, and of how, in her eagerness to spend as little time as possible on the road, she had forgotten to walk her ponies over the draw, and then to her description of her terror when the screams smote her ears, and she reigned in her ponies so suddenly as to almost throw them over backward, until, at last, Courage herself feels inclined to put in a little word of her own. And she didn't hear me call at all, Mr. David? She asked in a low little voice. Never a word, darling, never a word. Oh, it's dreadful to think what might have happened, and I so careless. It's all right now, though, Mr. David. Courage said comfortingly. But it was terrible to have to jump at the last moment like that. I thought I couldn't at first, that no team would be likely to come over so late, and then—oh, it's wonderful how many things you can think just in a moment. I remember that Miss Julia was over the draw, and I thought I must try to do it. And Courage looked toward Miss Julia with eyes that said, There is nothing in the world I would not try to do for you. And then what did Miss Julia herself do but break right down and cry? Oh, why are you crying? asked Courage, greatly troubled. Because I cannot help it, Courage. It was so brave to risk so much, and all for my sake, too. But I was not really brave, Miss Julia, you see, as though fully convinced of the logic of her position. I think I was not going to do it at all till I remembered about you, and if I hadn't, and even if no one had happened to come on the bridge, I should have been ashamed of it, always every time anyone called me Courage. And so you are not going to take the least credit to yourself? Said Mr. Everett, Miss Julia's brother. Well, you certainly are a most unheard of little personage. Courage was not at all sure whether this was complementary or otherwise. But no matter. She had not much thought or heed for anything beyond the fact that Miss Julia was crying, and she very much wished she wouldn't. Meanwhile, Miss Julia's sister sat thinking her own thoughts, with a sad, far away look in her eyes. She knew that little blue coat so well, and this was not the first time she had come across it since months before she had sent it away, expecting never to see it again. Courage. She asked, at last, in what seemed an opportune moment. Were you not on a lighter that was run into by the Saint John's a few weeks ago? Why, yes. Answered Courage, surprised. And were you the Lady and Gentleman? Glancing toward Mr. Everett. Yes, we wanted to learn your name, but you and Sylvia here both answered at once, so we could not make it out. But why did you want to know? Because I thought I recognized the little blue coat you had on, and now that I have seen you again, I feel sure of it. I think it must have been given to you by Miss Julia. Why, yes. Said Courage. And did you know the little girl it used to belong to? It belonged to my own little girl, Courage. To your little girl? Oh, I would love to have seen her wear it. It's such a beautiful coat. Did she mind having it given away? Courage. Said Miss Julia, sadly. Little Bell died last winter, and so there was no longer any need for it. Oh, that's how it was. Said practical Sylvia, who had listened attentively to every word. We've speculated often and over, ain't we, Miss Courage? Why, just as good as new coat was ever give away. Hush, Sylvia. Whispered Courage, feeling instinctively that this commonplace remark was untimely. And then, by grace of the same beautiful intuition, she asked very gently, Did it make you feel very badly to see your little Bell's coat on a strange little girl? It almost frightened me. Courage, for Bell had Auburn curls too, and you seemed so like her as you stood there. Then after a moment, when I had had time to think, I felt pretty sure it must be Bell's own coat that I saw. I am sorry that I happened to have it on. Said Courage. I would not like to have seen anything of my papa's on anybody else. And so I thought. Said Mrs. Everett, wondering that a child should so apparently understand every phase of a great sorrow. But I find I was mistaken. And Mrs. Everett, moving her chair close beside Courage, took her little brown hand in hers, as she added, More than once since that evening it has been on my lips to ask Miss Julia if she knew who was the owner of Bell's coat. And more than once. Said Miss Julia. It has been on my lips to tell without your asking, and then I feared only to start for you some train of sad thoughts. Miss Julia by this time had gotten the best of her tears, and stood behind Courage affectionately stroking the beautiful wavy hair, for both she and Mrs. Everett were longing to give expression to the overpowering sense of gratitude welling up within them. Do you know what the black bow is for? Courage asked of Mrs. Everett. I thought it was mourning for someone perhaps. Yes, it is mourning for my Papa. A little girl told me I ought to wear all black clothes, but Miss Julia thought not. Only she just tied this bow on for me the last day of sewing school, because I wanted to have something that would tell that I was very lonely without him. Soldiers wear mourning like that, you know. All this while, Larry had sat quietly on one side, his dimmed eyes resting proudly on Courage, but now he had something to say on his own account. It was all my fault, sir, he began abruptly, addressing Mr. Everett. That accident on the bay a few weeks back. I was losing my sight, and I was just going to give up my life on the water, when I found that Hugh Masterson had died, and that Courage there had set her heart unspendy the summer with me on the boat. And so I tried for her sake to hold on a while longer. But it wasn't no use. And I'd like to maid an inn to us all that evening. I wish some time when you're bored, the St. John's, you'd have a word with the Captain, and tell him how it all happened, and that Larry Starr has not touched a drop of liquor these twenty years. He thought I was drunk, you know, and no wonder. Indeed I will, Larry, and only too gladly. Mr. Everett promised, drawing closer to Larry's side, that they might talk further about it. Not long after this, Miss Julia made a move to go, not however you may be sure, until she had seen Courage tucked away in her own bed, and dropping off into the soundest sort of asleep the moment her tired little head touched the pillow. But before Miss Julia actually gave the reins to her ponies, for the homeward drive, there was a vigorous handshaking on all sides, for the exciting experiences of the last hour had made them all feel very near to each other. Well, Julia, we must do something for that precious child, said Mrs. Everett, as soon as the ponies struck the dirt road, and it was less of an effort to speak than when their hooves were clattering noisily on the bridge. And what had it best be? asked Miss Julia, and yet with her own mind quite made up on the subject. Nothing less than to have her make her home with us always. Nothing less, said Miss Julia earnestly. Bless her brave heart, nothing less, chimed in Mr. Everett. But what will become of poor Larry? True enough, what would become of poor Larry, and would it be right to ask him to make such a sacrifice? It was not necessary, however, to discuss all the details of the beautiful plan just then, and even Mr. Everett, who had raised the question, had faith to believe that somehow or other everything could be satisfactorily arranged. For the remainder of the drive home, not a word was spoken. People who have just been face to face with a great peril, and realize it, are likely to find thoughts in their hearts quite too deep for utterance, and too solemn. END OF CHAPTER VIII