I stumbled feebly back to a steamer-chair and looked out on the horizon that one instant sank far below the rail, and the next, lifted as far above it. Between lay the tossing sea—my heritage. That which my ancestors had lived and died for. I did not blame them for dying—I was willing to do that, myself. Chauncey Gale came along just then. “I’ve got a great scheme for the balloon boat,” he began, “a combination wind and water propeller. Ferratoni can supply the power, and——” He caught my expression just then and the words died in his throat. “Hello,” he laughed, “you’ve got ’em, haven’t you? Storm last week left it a little rough. Do you always get sick this way at sea?” “I—yes—I don’t know. It—it’s my first experience.” Gale regarded me with an amazement that was akin to respect. “Oh, Lord!” he gasped. “Never been to sea before and planned a trip to the South Pole! What’s a bluff without a show-down!” “Do you think I’ll be like this all the way?” I asked. “Oh, pshaw! No! I’ll have Bill give you some of his tablets. You’ll be all right enough by lunch time.” The suggestion of a food tablet at this particular time was the last thing needed. I went hastily below. Gale’s prediction was not quite realized. I was absent from luncheon, but before evening the spirit of my ancestors rose within me—perhaps because there was nothing else left for that purpose—and I ascended to the dinner table. “Well, you’ve concluded that this voyage is no dream, have you?” greeted Gale. “A good many more will come to that conclusion before it’s over,” growled Captain Biffer, who was present. Across the table, the place of Ferratoni was vacant. Edith Gale, radiant, beamed upon me. I could afford to laugh, now, and did so. And thus it was I came fully into my heritage. VIII. THE HALCYON WAY TO THE SOUTH. A cold plunge next morning in water combed up from the very bottom of the sea was my final baptismal ceremony. Fully restored I hastened on deck. Chauncey and Edith Gale were already there, walking briskly up and down, and I joined in the joyous march. A faint violet bank showed on the western horizon. Looking through a glass I could see that it was solid and unchanging in outline. It was land, they explained; we were off Cape Charles, and would pass Hatteras during the afternoon. I remembered an account in my old Fifth Reader of “The Last Cruise of the Monitor.” It had been always my favorite selection in the reading class. It gave me a curious feeling now to know that we were soon to pass over the waters where the sturdy little fighter had gone down. However, I had no longer a sense of unreality in my surroundings. I had been too thoroughly waked up the day before.