On the Scoriac Harold An Wolf, now John Robinson, kept aloof from every one.  He did not make any acquaintances, did not try to.  Some of those at table with him, being ladies and gentlemen, now and again made a polite remark; to which he answered with equal politeness.  Being what he was he could not willingly offend any one; and there was nothing in his manner to repel any kindly overture to acquaintance.  But this was the full length his acquaintanceship went; so he gradually felt himself practically alone.  This was just what he wished; he sat all day silent and alone, or else walked up and down the great deck that ran from stem to stern, still always alone.  As there were no second-class or steerage passengers on the Scoriac, there were no deck restraints, and so there was ample room for individual solitude.  The travellers, however, were a sociable lot, and a general feeling of friendliness was abroad.  The first four days of the journey were ideally fine, and life was a joy.  The great ship, with bilge keels, was as steady as a rock.  
Among the other passengers was an American family consisting of Andrew Stonehouse, the great ironmaster and contractor, with his wife and little daughter.
 
Stonehouse was a remarkable man in his way, a typical product of the Anglo-Saxon under American conditions.  He had started in young manhood with nothing but a good education, due in chief to his own industry and his having taken advantage to the full of such opportunities as life had afforded to him.  By unremitting work he had at thirty achieved a great fortune, which had, however; been up to then entirely invested and involved in his businesses.  With, however, the colossal plant at his disposal, and by aid of the fine character he had won for honesty and good work, he was able within the next ten years to pile up a fortune vast even in a nation where multi-millionaires are scattered freely.  Then he had married, wisely and happily.  But no child had come to crown the happiness of the pair who so loved each other till a good many years had come and gone.  Then, when the hope of issue had almost passed away, a little daughter came.  Naturally the child was idolised by her parents, and thereafter every step taken by either was with an eye to her good.  When the rigour of winter and the heat of summer told on the child in a way which the more hardy parents had never felt, she was whirled away to some place with more promising conditions of health and happiness.  When the doctors hinted that an ocean voyage and a winter in Italy would be good, those too were duly undertaken.  And now, the child being in perfect health, the family was returning before the weather should get too hot to spend the summer at their chalet amongst the great pines on the slopes of Mount Ranier.  Like the others on board, Mr. and Mrs. Stonehouse had proffered travellers’ civilities to the sad, lonely young man.  As to the others, he had shown thanks for their gracious courtesy; but friendship, as in other cases, did not advance.  The Stonehouses were not in any way chagrined; their lives were too happy and too full for them to take needless offence.  They respected the young man’s manifest desire for privacy; and there, so far as they were concerned, the matter rested.
 
But this did not suit the child.  Pearl was a sweet little thing, a real blue-eyed, golden-haired little fairy, full of loving-kindness.  All the mother-instinct in her, and even at six a woman-child can be a mother—theoretically, went out towards the huge, lonely, sad, silent young man.  She insisted on friendship with him; insisted shamelessly, with the natural inclination of innocence which rises high above shame.  Even the half-hearted protests of the mother, who loved to see the child happy, did not deter her; after the second occasion of Pearl’s seeking him, as she persisted, Harold could but remonstrate with the mother in turn; the ease of the gentle lady and the happiness of her child were more or less at stake.  When Mrs. Stonehouse would say:
 
‘There, darling!  You must be careful not to annoy the gentleman,’ Pearl would turn a rosy all-commanding face to her and answer:
 
‘But, mother, I want him to play with me.  You must play with me!’  Then, as the mother would look at him, he would say quickly, and with genuine heartiness too:
 
‘Oh please, madam, do let her play with me!  Come, Pearl, shall you ride a cock-horse or go to market the way the gentleman rides?’  Then the child would spring on his knee with a cry of delight, and their games began.
 
The presence of the child and her loving ways were unutterably sweet to Harold; but his pleasure was always followed by a pain that rent him as he thought of that other little one, now so far away, and of those times that seemed so long since gone.
 
But the child never relaxed in her efforts to please; and in the long hours of the sea voyage the friendship between her and the man grew, and grew.  He was the biggest and strongest and therefore most lovely thing on board the ship, and that sufficed her.  As for him, the child manifestly loved and trusted him, and that was all-in-all to his weary, desolate heart.
 
The fifth day out the weather began to change; the waves grew more and more mountainous as the day wore on and the ship advanced west.  Not even the great bulk and weight of the ship, which ordinarily drove through the seas without pitch or roll, were proof against waves so gigantic.  Then the wind grew fiercer and fiercer, coming in roaring squalls from the south-west.  Most of those on board were alarmed, for the great waves were dreadful to see, and the sound of the wind was a trumpet-call to fear.
 
The sick stayed in their cabins; the rest found an interest if not a pleasure on deck.  Among the latter were the Stonehouses, who were old travellers.  Even Pearl had already had more sea-voyages than fall to most people in their lives.  As for Harold, the storm seemed to come quite naturally to him and he paced the deck like a ship-master.
 
It was fortunate for the passengers that most of them had at this period of the voyage got their sea legs; otherwise walking on the slippery deck, that seemed to heave as the rolling of the vessel threw its slopes up or down, would have been impossible.  Pearl was, like most children, pretty sure-footed; holding fast to Harold’s hand she managed to move about ceaselessly.  She absolutely refused to go with any one else.  When her mother said that she had better sit still she answered:
 
‘But, mother, I am quite safe with The Man!’  ‘The Man’ was the name she had given Harold, and by which she always now spoke of him.  They had had a good many turns together, and Harold had, with the captain’s permission, taken her up on the bridge and showed her how to look out over the ‘dodger’ without the wind hurting her eyes.  Then came the welcome beef-tea hour, and all who had come on deck were cheered and warmed with the hot soup.  Pearl went below, and Harold, in the shelter of the charthouse, together with a good many others, looked out over the w............