CHAPTER IX.
A Lost Page of Earth When I awakened the sun was streaming through the cabin porthole.
Outside a fresh voice lilted.

I lay on my two chairs and listened.

The song was one with the wholesome sunshine and the breeze blowing stiffly and whipping the curtains.

It was Larry O'Keefe at his matins: The little red lark is shaking his wings, Straight from the breast of his love he springs Larry's voice soared.
His wings and his feathers are sunrise red, He hails the sun and his golden head, Good morning, Doc, you are long abed.
This last was a most irreverent interpolation, I well knew.

I opened my door.