penciling feverish circles upon the green-topped table to keep his hands
steady.

Mary Elliston's name was fourth on the program, and came immediately
after McEwan's, who was down for a "recitation." Stefan managed to sit
through the piano-solo and a song by a seedy little English baritone
about "the rolling deep." But when the Scot began to blare out, with
tremendous vehemence, what purported to be a poem by Sir Walter Scott,
Stefan, his forehead and hands damp with horror, could endure no more,
and fled, pushing his way through the crowd at the door. He climbed to
the deck and waited there, listening apprehensively. When the scattered
applause warned him that the time for Mary's song had come, he found
himself utterly unable to face the saloon again. Fortunately the main
companionway gave on a well opening directly over the saloon; and it was
from the railing of this well that Stefan saw Mary, just as the piano
sounded the opening bars.

She stood full under the brilliant lights in a gown of white chiffon, low
in the neck, which drooped and swayed about her in flowing lines of
grace. Her hair gleamed; her arms showed slim, white, but strong. And
"Oh, my golden girl!" his heart cried to her, leaping. Her lips parted,
and quite easily, in full, clear tones that struck the very center of the
notes, she began to sing. "Good girl, _good girl!"_ he thought. For
what she sang was neither sophisticated nor obvious--was indeed the only
thing that could at once have satisfied him and pleased her audience.
"Under the greenwood tree--" the notes came gay and sweet. Then, "Fear no
more the heat o' the sun--" and the tones darkened. Again, "Oh, mistress
mine--" they pulsed with happy love. Three times Mary sang--the immortal
ballads of Shakespeare--simply, but with sure art and feeling. As the
last notes ceased, "Love's a stuff will not endure," and the applause