She had not said she would tell her father. She had never, in any of their disputes, threatened to appeal to Cap’n Smiley except in the long dispute about what she should have to wear. And she had explained that at the time by saying: “It’s only that Dad is buying them. If he says you’re right, that’ll settle it.” Keturah never reopened the argument. She put the money in the girl’s hand. “All right, Missy, spend the last cent and wear ribbons!” But Mermaid had insisted on Miss Smiley’s going with her to the shop, and had followed her advice on the quality of the goods, which Keturah shredded with her fingers along the selvage and bit, a thread at a time, with her very sound (and very own) teeth. Mermaid had then made her own selection of styles and patterns, and on the way home had handed Keturah $5 with the remark: “Will you send that to the savings bank in Patchogue for me?” “It might have been twice as much,” was Keturah’s only remark. “And it might have been twice as little. And I might be half as happy,” Mermaid exclaimed. “Would you be twice as happy if you had twice as much money, Miss Smiley?” “I’d be willing to try and find out,” said Keturah, sententiously. Mermaid looked at her speculatively. “If there’s a chance of it, I’ll help you all I can to get rich!” she declared with so much seriousness that Keturah was uncertain how to take her, and so took her in silence. Probably Mermaid’s words were not really so ironical as they sounded. The girl was generally in earnest when she was not plainly in fun; as children usually are. She had only the vaguest notion of Miss Smiley’s means, and a very vivid notion of her money-stinting ways; Mermaid, however, liked her Dad’s sister in spite of the difficulties of living with her. Miss Smiley was “square” for all her harshness and even hardness; she said cutting things which were, however, never mean, and seldom really unkind. She could be wrathful, but she did not sneer, and she had only scorn for those who sneered at her. Very little mercy, but a rigid adherence to what she thought just, distinguished Keturah in the girl’s eyes. And no one, Mermaid concluded, could live with Miss Smiley and not be struck by the fact that she was thoroughly unhappy. What would make her happy Mermaid had not the least idea; but if the child could have given it to the woman she would have done it, even at some cost to herself. For she was a generous child and she felt generosity all about her, guarding her, befriending her, helping her. Her Dad’s and her uncles’ liberality to her always touched her heart. She knew now, at the age of eleven, that her Dad was not really her Dad and that her uncles were not related to her by blood or marriage. She knew she was a nameless child of unknown lineage, washed ashore from the wreck of the ship by whose name she was known. Everyone except Miss Smiley called her Mermaid; Miss Smiley called her Mary when she