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they ran into bad weather. Candace awoke to the noise of wind and rain and roaring water. Rosemary’s groans of distress filled the small cabin.
    Candace got up and rang for the stewardess. She only came after many ringings, and even then could spare but a few moments to the prostrate girl.
    “Nearly all the ship have gone down. We hardly ever get it this bad so soon. There is really very little I can do, but I’ll come back as often as I can.”
    Candace told her not to worry that she would attend Rosemary herself, and the woman left relieved of at least one less patient on her busy hands.
    Rosemary was worse in the morning, and Candace went up to the cabin her friend had told her was the berth of Mr. and Mrs. Tilburn, and knocked on the door.
    Weak voices bade her enter.
    Rosemary’s parents were as prostrate as their daughter.
    It was a busy day for Candace, but she was glad. Attending Rosemary she had neither the time to think about Gwenda and Charlotte and all she had left behind, nor the opportunity to anticipate being sick herself.
    By the evening, although the weather had worsened, she felt sure she would not be sick, in spite of the fact that tables had thinned considerably since lunch, and even now several passengers were leaving the saloon wearing distinctly miserable expressions.
    Candace noted that Stephen Halliday was neither among the absent nor the departing. He sat at his table eating unconcernedly.
    The next day was the same. The third day the ship seemed to roll more distressingly with every knot. The skies were heavy and lowering, and the ocean a monstrous mass of angry froth.
    The fourth morning there was only a handful of people at breakfast. To Candace’s surprise, the steward led her to Stephen’s table.
    Halliday rose, sat down after she had, then explained laconically, “This weather will last another day. A pity to give the stewards unnecessary work. I have decided to help them with closer settlement.”
    Candace was annoyed. She did not mind his consideration for the stewards, but she thought he should have consulted her first. At the least he could have come to her, not ordered her to be brought to him.
    As though reading her thoughts, he said, with that sudden smile of his that made him look so different, “Anyway, it’s a better table.”
    A trifle mollified, Candace ordered kidneys and bacon. As she ate she remarked with justifiable pride, “The Captain says it’s the worst trip he’s made.”
    Halliday raised amused brows. “It affords some weathers and gives a fillip to the more robust customers. Incidentally”—crushingly—“I wouldn’t be too triumphant, Miss Jamieson. Mal-de-mer happens at the oddest times. You can never be quite certain—” He glanced at her plate, and, feeling considerably smaller, Candace returned to the kidneys that somehow did not taste quite the same this time.
    She was not very happy over the new seating arrangement.
    On one of her windy tours round the ship she had met another hardy soul, a tall, lean, young Australian returning home from England, and, battling against the elements, they had become friendly.
    Last night on the boat-deck, the wind screaming its dislike of the world, John Buckland had yelled a similar suggestion in Candace’s ear.
    His table for four, he had shouted, in the corner of the saloon, was occupied only by himself. If he asked the steward at breakfast and he was agreeable, would Candace join him?
    Candace now shot a swift glance across to the corner to John. Stephen Halliday, hawk-eyed, caught the rather rueful look.
    “So the ammunition is working already?”
    “I beg your pardon.”
    “You know what I mean. The French perfume. Young Buckland is quite a catch.”
    The kidneys had lost their savour altogether now. Candace pushed them aside.
    “Not feeling the effects?” grinned Halliday remorselessly. “I warned you seasickness struck at the most unexpected times.”
    “I feel fine. I mean I would if I were