“And in the morning, Katie, I’ll be putting out. You won’t see me, it’ll be so early. And it’ll be the last trip in that old packet, though maybe I oughtn’t say that of her that’s earned a good bit of money for me--earned enough to pay for the new one, Katie--the new one that’ll be ready for me the next trip in. And then, Katie dear, we’ll see--as good as anything of her length and beam out the port. And have you picked a name for her yet? Yes? The _Dannie Keating_, indeed! No, no, I’ve a ten times better one--and you’d never guess, I’ll bet. And she’ll be a vessel! Every cent that you saved for me, dear, went into her.” “You saved it yourself, Dannie.” “I saved? Lord bless you, Katie, how much would ever I save if I hadn’t turned it over to you as fast as I made it? How much did I save before I met you? A whole lot, warn’t it, now? Why, girl, the very oilskins I used to wear would be drawn against my next trip. But it don’t matter which of us--every cent the pair of us have saved has gone into her. And she’ll _be_ a vessel, and then, if any man sailing out of this port thinks to make me take my mains’l in----” “Hush, Dannie, don’t begin by being reckless. And I wish you weren’t going out in the _Pantheon_ again. She’s so old, Dannie, and not the vessel for a winter trip to Georges.” “Well, there _is_ better. But she’s been a good vessel to me, dear, and that means to you, too. And only one more trip, and then the fast and the saucy--the handsome _Katie Morrison_.” He parted from her after that, and from the shadow of the doorway she looked after him, her heart jumping and herself all but running after him. Up the street she watched him swing, so straight and strong. Oh, but the shoulders of him! and the spring to his every stride! Then she breathed a prayer for him, and went upstairs and to her bed. But she could not sleep. All night long she tossed, whatever it was possessed her; and in the dawns she got up to watch by the window until he should come by on his way to the vessel. He would come by, she knew. He never yet failed to go that half dozen streets out of his way so that he might look up at her window. Oh, the times that she watched from behind the curtains--before she knew him well, that was--and he never suspecting! And he came at last. It was but five o’clock then, and dark--a winter morning. But she needed no light. Long before she could make out his figure she knew his footfall. How lightly he trod for so big a man--to his toes at every stride, as a strong man should. No doubt or hesitation there--a man to go winter fishing that, and enjoy every whistling breath of it. And he was singing now! “O sweetheart dear, I love thee!” When a man sings a love-song at five o’clock of a winter’s morning-- She threw on her mother’s prized cashmere shawl and ran down. “Dannie!” Across the street he leaped, three strides from curb to curb and two more to the top step. “Katie-- Katie--and this cold morning!”