“I really don’t know. I don’t bother my head about such things. I used to when I was a little girl. And yet . . . yes, surely I believe in God. At times, when I am not thinking about it at all, I am very sure, and my faith that all is well is just as strong as the faith of your Jewish friend in the phrases of the philosophers. That’s all it comes to, I suppose, in every case—faith. But, as I say, why bother?” “Ah, I have you now, Miss West!” I cried. “You are a true daughter of Herodias.” “It doesn’t sound nice,” she said with a _moue_. “And it isn’t,” I exulted. “Nevertheless, it is what you are. It is Arthur Symon’s poem, _The Daughters of Herodias_. Some day I shall read it to you, and you will answer. I know you will answer that you, too, have looked often upon the stars.” We had just got upon the subject of music, of which she possesses a surprisingly solid knowledge, and she was telling me that Debussy and his school held no particular charm for her, when Possum set up a wild yelping. The puppy had strayed for’ard along the bridge to the ’midship-house, and had evidently been investigating the chickens when his disaster came upon him. So shrill was his terror that we both stood up. He was dashing along the bridge toward us at full speed, yelping at every jump and continually turning his head back in the direction whence he came. I spoke to him and held out my hand, and was rewarded with a snap and clash of teeth as he scuttled past. Still with head turned back, he went on along the poop. Before I could apprehend his danger, Mr. Pike and Miss West were after him. The mate was the nearer, and with a magnificent leap gained the rail just in time to intercept Possum, who was blindly going overboard under the slender railing. With a sort of scooping kick Mr. Pike sent the animal rolling half across the poop. Howling and snapping more violently, Possum regained his feet and staggered on toward the opposite railing. “Don’t touch him!” Mr. Pike cried, as Miss West showed her intention of catching the crazed little animal with her hands. “Don’t touch’m! He’s got a fit.” But it did not deter her. He was half-way under the railing when she caught him up and held him at arm’s length while he howled and barked and slavered. “It’s a fit,” said Mr. Pike, as the terrier collapsed and lay on the deck jerking convulsively. “Perhaps a chicken pecked him,” said Miss West. “At any rate, get a bucket of water.” “Better let me take him,” I volunteered helplessly, for I was unfamiliar with fits. “No; it’s all right,” she answered. “I’ll take charge of him. The cold water is what he needs. He got too close to the coop, and a peck on the nose frightened him into the fit.” “First time I ever heard of a fit coming that way,” Mr. Pike remarked, as he poured water over the puppy under Miss West’s direction. “It’s just a plain puppy fit. They all get them at sea.”