One, an old daguerreotype, particularly caught
her fancy. It was the portrait of a very beautiful girl, wearing
the old-fashioned side curls and high comb of a half-century
previous. The old mate noticed the attention she paid to it, and,
as soon as he had done giving information to Condy, turned and
nodded to Travis, and said quietly: "She was pretty, wasn't she?"
"Oh, very! answered Travis, without looking away.
There was a silence. Then the mate, his eyes wide and thoughtful,
said with a long breath:
"And she was just about your age, miss, when I saw her; and you
favor her, too."
Condy and Travis held their breaths in attention. There in the
cabin of that curious nondescript whaleback they had come suddenly
to the edge of a romance--a romance that had been lived through
before they were born. Then Travis said in a low voice, and
sweetly
"She died?"
"Before I ever set eyes on her, miss. That is, MAYBE she died. I
sometimes think--fact is, I really believe she's alive yet, and
waiting for me." He hesitated awkwardly. "I dunno," he said
pulling his beard. "I don't usually tell that story to strange
folk, but you remind me so of her that I guess I will."
Condy sat down on the edge of the bunk, and the mate seated
himself on the plush settle opposite the door, his elbows on his
knees, his eyes fixed on a patch of bright sunlight upon the deck
outside.
"I began life," he said, "as a deep-sea diver--began pretty young,
too.
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