Dunham glanced round the vast horizon. “It _is_ like the Flood. And it has that quality, which I've often noticed in sublime things, of seeming to be for this occasion only.” “Yes?” said Lydia. “Why, don't you know? It seems as if it must be like a fine sunset, and would pass in a few minutes. Perhaps we feel that we can't endure sublimity long, and want it to pass.” “I could look at it forever,” replied Lydia. Dunham turned to see if this were young-ladyish rapture, but perceived that she was affecting nothing. He liked seriousness, for he was, with a great deal of affectation for social purposes, a very sincere person. His heart warmed more and more to the lonely girl; to be talking to her seemed, after all, to be doing very little for her, and he longed to be of service. “Have you explored our little wooden world, yet?” he asked, after a pause. Lydia paused too. “The ship?” she asked presently. “No; I've only been in the cabin, and here; and this morning,” she added, conscientiously, “Thomas showed me the cook's galley,--the kitchen.” “You've seen more than I have,” said Dunham. “Wouldn't you like to go forward, to the bow, and see how it looks there?” “Yes, thank you,” answered Lydia, “I would.” She tottered a little in gaining her feet, and the wind drifted her slightness a step or two aside. “Won't you take my arm, perhaps?” suggested Dunham. “Thank you,” said Lydia, “I think I can get along.” But after a few paces, a lurch of the ship flung her against Dunham's side; he caught her hand, and passed it through his arm without protest from her. “Isn't it grand?” he asked triumphantly, as they stood at the prow, and rose and sank with the vessel's careering plunges. It was no gale, but only a fair wind; the water foamed along the ship's sides, and, as her bows descended, shot forward in hissing jets of spray; away on every hand flocked the white caps. “You had better keep my arm, here.” Lydia did so, resting her disengaged hand on the bulwarks, as she bent over a little on that side to watch the rush of the sea. “It really seems as if there were more of a view here.” “It does, somehow,” admitted Lydia. “Look back at the ship's sails,” said Dunham. The swell and press of the white canvas seemed like the clouds of heaven swooping down upon them from all the airy heights. The sweet wind beat in their faces, and they laughed in sympathy, as they fronted it. “Perhaps the motion is a little too strong for you here?” he asked. “Oh, not at all!” cried the girl. He had done something for her by bringing her here, and he hoped to do something more by taking her away. He was discomfited, for he was at a loss what other attention to offer. Just at that moment a sound made itself heard above the whistling of the cordage and the wash of the sea, which caused Lydia to start and look round. “Didn't you think,” she asked, “that you heard hens?” “Why, yes,” said Dunham. “What could it have been? Let us investigate.”