"As you see, I am very particular about my paint, for a ship ought to
keep up her beauty and look as young as she can. But I have an ice-mark
around my breast which is usually taken for a proof of experience, and
as a philosopher I say that all waters are tolerable enough if one
carries the talisman."

"But can a ship be beautiful?" and "What is the talisman?" asked the
Italian and the _Nubian_ together.

"One at a time, please. My dear," she addressed the Italian,
"the point is, that men, whom we serve, think us beautiful indeed.
It seems strange to us, who carry the thought of the forests we have
left; and on warm days, when the sap awakes in us and tries to climb
again, forgetting its weakness, we miss the green boughs and the moss at
our feet and the birds overhead. But I have studied my reflection often
enough in calm weather, and begin to see what men have in mind when they
admire us."

"And the talisman?" asked the _Nubian_ again.

"The talisman? There is no one cure for useless regret, but each must
choose his own. With me it is the thought of the child after whom I was
christened. The day they launched me was her first birthday, and she a
small thing held in the crook of her mother's arm: when the bottle swung
against my stem the wine spurted, and some drops of it fell on her face.
The mother did not see me take the water--she was too busy wiping the
drops away. But it was a successful launch, and I have brought the
family luck, while she has brought them happiness. Because of it, and
because our names are alike, her parents think of us together; and
sometimes, when one begins to talk of 'Thekla,' the other will not know