They went to the end of the bridge, apart from the man at the wheel. “I hurried to go to sleep last night so that I could dream of you, my own big boy.” “I walked the bridge until after daylight. I wanted to stay awake. I could not bear to let sleep take away my thoughts.” “What is there like love to make this world full of happiness? How bright the sun is! How the waves sparkle! Those folks sitting back there are looking at the same things we are--or they can look, though they don't seem to have sense enough. And about all they notice is that it's daylight instead of night. My father and those men are talking about money--just money--that's all. And Wally has a headache from drinking too much Scotch. And Nan Burgess doesn't love anybody who loves her, But for us--oh, this glorious world!” She put out her arms toward the sun and stared boldly at that blazing orb, as though she were not satisfied with what her eyes could behold, but desired to grasp and feel some of the glory of outdoors. If Captain Mayo had been as well versed in psychology as he was in navigation he might have drawn a few disquieting deductions from this frank and unconscious expression of the mood of the materialist. She emphasized that mood by word. “I'll show you my little clasp-book some day, big boy. It's where I write my verses. I don't show them to anybody. You see, I'm telling you my secrets! We must tell each other our secrets, you and I! I have put my philosophy of living into four lines. Listen! “The future? Why perplex the soul? The past? Forget its woe and strife! Let's thread each day, a perfect whole, Upon our rosary of Life.” “It's beautiful,” he told her. “Isn't it good philosophy?” “Yes,” he admitted, not daring to doubt the high priestess of the new cult to which he had been commandeered. “It saves all this foolish worry. Most of the folks I know are always talking about the bad things which have happened to them or are peering forward and hoping that good things will happen, and they never once look down and admire a golden moment which Fate has dropped into their hands. You see, I'm poetical this morning. Why shouldn't I be? We love each other.” “I don't know how to talk,” he stammered. “I'm only a sailor. I never said a word about love to any girl in my life.” “Are you sure you have never loved anybody? Remember, we must tell each other our secrets.” “Never,” he declared with convincing firmness. She surveyed him, showing the satisfaction a gold-seeker would exhibit in appraising a nugget of virgin ore. “But you are so big and fine! And you must have met so many pretty girls!” He was not restive under this quizzing. “I have told you the truth, Miss Marston.” “For shame, big boy! 'Miss Marston,' indeed! I am Alma--Alma to you. Say it! Say it nicely!” He flushed. He stole a shamefaced glance at the-wheelsman and made a quick and apprehensive survey of the sacred regions aft. “Are you afraid, after all I have said to you?”