We were now within about a hundred yards of the ship's side and I could see the silhouette of Molly's pretty little girlish head moving swiftly hither and thither as if she were dancing. Snatches of song also came from her lips--half-remembered lines and phrases, little animal-like grunts of joy, weird hummings. . . . "Ho! . . . Ho! . . . That fas-cin-a-ting, Ju-ust so glide, It's a tum-tum tum-tum tum-tum. . . . Ju-ust so slide, There's a rumor that the _Puma_ do-oes it now, _Monkeys_ have taken to it . . . la-da-da-dah-dee do it . . . !" The deliciously cool sea air, the lapping of the water against our boat, a swaying lantern on "The Pilgrim Father," the hushed stillness of Nature, and the great gray shroud of mist creeping down on us from the horizon, all imparted to the scene a vague dream-like quality. Molly became a nymph, a will-o'-the-wisp, a sprite. Youth indeed! What nonsense this business of rejuvenation was compared with the care-free ecstasy of those who were young in soul! What a terrible mockery of the real joy of life were we instituting in that awful hospital for the aged at Windhuk! As I watched her swiftly-moving and gyrating figure, I was filled with pity for myself and others--for all that vast multitude of humans who could never again recover the fine, free Spirit of Youth. In our blindness we might seek palliatives against pain, and foolish stimulants for jaded nerves and waning appetites and diminishing pleasures, but our greatest endeavors would always be in vain. One by one, we were creeping onwards and downwards. Here and there, a little rise on Life's roadway; here and there, a whiff of fresh keen air again; here and there a shaft of sunlight in a slowly darkening world; but always that view of the straight pathway which leads down to a "ripe old age." The Song of Youth, with its rippling, flute-like accompaniment, grew faster and faster until at last it suddenly stopped and I heard Molly cry out in a loud (and almost breathless) voice: "Oh! . . . You are mean! . . . How can I keep up with that?" The concertina slackened its speed into a mere drawl and then changed into a terrible discord of squeaks and grunts. "I believe Molly's shaking the old chap!" whispered Croft. We brought our boat to a standstill, anxious to remain an unseen audience for a little while longer. "Do stop playing!" cried Molly. "I have!" answered Taffy. "I don't mean _that_ playing--I mean being so silly! Do you know any Irish jigs?" Evidently he did, for the next moment the concertina broke out into a wild, Celtic dance tune. I saw Molly spin round with sheer delirious joy, extend her arms, throw back her head, and proceed to give an unauthorized version of an Irish dancer. "Begorrah!" she cried; and "Och!" (apparently under the impression that all primitive people emitted weird noises when executing a national dance.)