Peace was on the ship; you could hear what the Fourth in his white ducks said to the quartermaster in his blue denims; you could count the strokes of the electric bell in the wheel-house; peace was on the ship as she pushed on, an ever-venturing, double-funneled impertinence, through the sands of the ages.

My eyes wandered along a plank-line in the deck till they were arrested by a petticoat I knew, when they returned of their own accord.

I seemed to be always seeing that petticoat.
'I think,' resumed Mrs.Morgan, whose glance had wandered in the same direction, 'that Cecily is a very fine type of our English girls.
With those dark grey eyes, a LITTLE prominent possibly, and that good colour--it's rather high now perhaps, but she will lose quite enough of it in India--and those regular features, she would make a splendid Britannia.

Do you know, I fancy she must have a great deal of character.
Has she ?' 'Any amount.

And all of it good,' I responded, with private dejection.
'No faults at all ?' chaffed Mrs.Morgan.
I shook my head.