And these purblind, trustful creatures, filled with their pathetic hopes, was it of them she had been afraid? She smiled at the absurdity. They were rough and crude, but not in the least alarming—except at a distance. She pondered this, catching glimpses of a truth of wider application. When the motley throng had stood without the gate struggling and crying to be allowed on board this enchanted ship, when Hildegarde had stood apart from them, not enlightened by sharing in their lot, she had had her moments of misgiving, or rather she had been seized by a quite childish panic. And, after all, what harm can they do me? Poor little Curlyhead, they might teach him a few more bad words (though even that was open to doubt)—one or two ignorant girls in their teens, they might suffer. But Hildegarde Mar—how could they hurt a person twenty-six years old, who is among them for a few days out of a lifetime. What’s the good of me and my better advantages if I can be injured by this sort of thing? It was something to get back her courage to be alone among these people. Last night she had been under an illusion about them. Yes, she had had some bad moments, but they had come chiefly because she had so set her heart on seeing—yet no, let her be honest. Louis’s neglect had put her out of tune, disheartened her quite unaccountably, but the worser moments had come through positive fear. And the fear had come—oh, it was clear now—it had come through having her mind filled with foreboding by the people who cared most for her. There was always that potency in evil prophecy—it went a long way toward bringing about its own fulfilment. If good were foretold you were afraid to believe it. If evil you were afraid not to believe. There was that much truth in the fabled power of the Evil Eye. Her expedition had been so frowned on, eyed so askance; small wonder she had failed to keep her courage quite untarnished. Well, she had found out one thing on the threshold of the journey. It is the fear felt for us by the men who love us that makes cowards of womankind; it is others’ shrinking that goes far to make us quail. She took a sheet of folded note-paper out of her little Tennyson and her pencil traced the words: “On board the _Los Angeles_, May 31, 1900. My dear Louis—” Yes, she would write him a long, long letter, and tell him how little ground there was for fear. But she would write very gently, even humbly, and get him to understand and to forgive her. She would show him how much better his fellow-men were than he had given out. She remembered with an instant’s loss of enthusiasm her room-mate’s account of the matter. But she decided that lady was of a carping and a gloomy nature—she looked on the dark side. Perhaps Hildegarde would feel less cheerful herself if she’d had her arm nearly broken—but an accident could happen anywhere.