Stevens busied himself at a small wall desk, doing some sort of drawing--probably a sketch of the way he would effect to-morrow’s task in refitting. It was a quiet night, and the moon rose late. Perhaps the game had run an hour when we heard the pop-pop of the returning dory launch; then came the slight thump as she brought up to the port ladder. Stevens left the cabin to meet the fellows; returning almost immediately, and carrying a couple of packages, probably the turnbuckles, and a stack of newspapers which he flopped down on the center table. Then came the slam of a door behind me as I sat with my back to the owner’s stateroom. Even before I turned I could feel the change in him; and one look riveted the impression. I had begun to know that look. But it was some time before he said a word. I could see that he was laboring to conceal some sort of excitement--for the girl’s sake, it flashed on me. We kept on with our game, and, with a grunt, Stroth caught up one of the newspapers from the pile. The sheet shook under his hand as he turned page after page. It looked to me as if he were almost certain to find some item. It’s hard to make my point clear, but I don’t mean that he was simply looking for an article, a particular page. His search through those crackling sheets partook more the nature of prophecy, as though some force other than plain reason prompted him. Then suddenly the crackling stopped; his brow knotted, his hands no longer shook. For perhaps two minutes he stood thus. Finally he put down the paper, and I could see that he was getting some grip on himself; and it was a good grip, for his voice had almost the real ring as he spoke to the girl. “Turning-in time again, honey!” he said. “Why, you’re a regular old ogre at sending me off to bed, dad!” And I saw that she suspected no change in him as she obediently finished the hand, bade me good night, and went to her stateroom. It was as though he had nerved himself to the limit, and could hold it only till he heard the click of her door latch. “Grey!” It was little more than a whisper, but I jumped to it as to a bellow. “Yes?” said I. “Go to your room, and don’t leave it until to-morrow morning at nine!” I went. TO BE CONTINUED. MORAL SUASION. Old Gentleman--“Do you mean to say that your teachers never thrash you?” Little Boy--“Never. We have moral suasion at our school.” “What’s that?” “Oh, we get kep’ in and stood up in corners and locked out and locked in and made to write one word a thousand times, and scowled at and jawed at and that’s all.” PATIENT WAITERS. The Greenlanders’ mode of life has accustomed them to take things as they come. If they find no game, they know how to go hungry, and in their relations with each other and with Europeans they manifest the same astounding patience.