Schuyler paced the deck. Coming out of the dim half light of the promenade into the corner of the rail, by the bow, he thought he saw her. He was not sure at first.... Then, though his eyes pierced no more clearly, he was sure.... He went closer. She stood there, white hands clasping the bare rail, lithe, sinewy, lazy body, tilted a bit backward as though in the grasp of the spitting wind. Her throat was bare to it, and her breast. Her lips were parted. Her eyes were deep lidded. Her head was poised like a tiger lily upon its stalk.... He stood there, enveloped in the blackness.... For a long time she stood motionless. Then she stretched her white arms above her head, stretched the long muscles of her body, as a panther stretches. She was very, very beautiful.... He stood watching.... The ship lurched. It reeled against a huge wave, shivering it into roaring spume. The wet fingers of the wind had wrapped her garments about her, every fold tight against her rounded body. She stood, arms above her head, lips parted, silhouetted against the foam.... The ship reeled again, and there came darkness utter.... When again there was light so that one might see, Schuyler stood alone. Six bells had struck ere he went to his room. Then, scourged of body, scourged of soul, wracked, harassed, torn, he sought his berth. But he did not sleep. He thought of Parmalee, the boy who was a man. He thought of The Woman. He thought of himself. He thought of the wife that he loved. He thought of the child that he loved--the child that had come to him through that wife. He thought of all these things, and of many more; and he did not understand; he did not know. For God has shown even the wisest of us but little of this world in which we live. [Illustration] CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. WHITE ROSES. It was two months later. In the little garden that lay on the side of the big, rambling house at Larchmont where the sun best loved to dwell, roses were in bloom; and roses, even as the sun, seemed to love that garden. They clustered, great masses of glowing white, against the latticed arbor--they caught playfully at one's hat as one would walk through the gate that led to the broad green lawn, and to the Sound beyond--they snatched at one's clothing as one would walk past the largest bush--the one that stretched its branches across the French window. It was a real garden--an out-of-door home--a garden in which one might live, and in which one might be glad that one was alive. At one side of a tiny writing table set upon the thick, carpet-like sward, sat the mother, pen in hand, before her a half-finished letter. Across from her the child pressed strong white teeth into the yielding wood of her pencil; and before her, too, was a half-written letter--a sprawling, uncertain letter of childhood. At length the child looked up. She could see that her mother was not writing; so if she spoke, she would not be interrupting. "Mother, dear?" "Yes, honey?" "How do you spell love?"