Ben went on watch at eight o'clock, and the rest settled around the stove in the cosy octagonal cabin. They were plain-living people in the _Nor'lan' Star_, as all true sea-folks are. The skipper smoked in his easy-chair, Mrs Paterson sat knitting in hers, with Lotty on a footstool by her knee, and the red-faced mate between. The steward brought tumblers to these two men-people, so they sipped their grog and then settled to yarning and singing. So soft, so sweet, yet so ringing withal was the good mate's voice as he gave his rendering of the 'Bay of Biscay' and 'Tom Bowling' that Lotty had tears in her eyes; but she clapped her little hands as he finished. 'Oh, how much I love that!' she cried with real enthusiasm; 'and oh, Mr Mate, how delighted my daddy Biffins Lee would be to have you in our camp! People would come from all directions to hear you sing real sea-songs like that.' The mate laughed. 'I fear,' he said, 'I should make but a poor gipsy. But why do you like my songs, little lass?' 'Because I hear things in them.' 'Hear things in them?' 'Yes, oh yes, for as you sing I can hear the woesome wail of white-winged gulls as they beat to windward in the dark-cloud sky, dipping now and then down, down till they touch the darker water and dive through the spray, then up and up, screaming, till the haze hides the silver of their flight. And I can hear the storm wind too, sir, rising and falling, falling and rising, so mournful-like because of the quiet sleeping dead that lie so far beneath the waves upon the yellow sands.' Lotty was blushing now at her own youthful enthusiasm, and was fain to hide her face on Mrs Skipper's lap. And Mrs Skipper patted the shapely yellow poll. 'So we've really picked up a little poet, have we, from off the stormy main? said Mr Mate. 'Lotty,' cried the captain suddenly, 'you can sing I'm sure!' The blue, sparkling eyes glanced upwards through the tousled hair. 'Yes,' she replied, 'I sing always in the show. I have a mandoline. Have you a mandoline?' 'No, just the fiddle.' 'Oh, that will do. It is tuned the same. Thanks, not the bow, only my fingers.' The child's voice was very beautiful, and almost sad were the songs she sang. The skipper beckoned to the steward and pointed to the empty tumblers. Then he threw back his head in his easy-chair and shut his eyes. 'Sing again, my sweet,' he said. Lotty did, and once more too. And the ship swayed and swung in rhythm, while Mrs Skipper, though her eyes were on her work, forgot to knit. 'Maggie, lass,' said the captain as a song was ended, 'Maggie, dear wife, I feel sure, quite sure, I saw a tear drop down upon your wool. There! I was sure of it. Your eyelashes are wet.' Well, maybe--who knows?--this kindly, homely skipper's wife had a bit of romance buried away back in her past. But that evening was a happy one to all, and so were many more that followed. CHAPTER XIV. A LITTLE STRANGER COMES ON BOARD.