"What an unlucky little girl!" The words haunted Helen all day. They rang in her ears persistently. Was she unlucky? Would she always be unlucky? always doing things that hurt others? Would she never have a chance of showing that she was not really wicked? that she longed to do those sweet gracious actions that came so naturally from some people? Would no one ever love her except her father, whom she was always disappointing, whose chief trouble and anxiety she was, her stepmother said? "I try, I try!" cried Helen to herself; "but I always do the wrong thing. I am unlucky." Dusky night came on. No one noticed Helen as she sat alone in her quiet corner. Mrs. Desmond had retired long ago. Colonel Desmond had gone his own way, imagining his little girl safely in bed. Gradually the various groups of passengers dispersed, calling out merry good-nights to one another. Silence fell, broken only by the faint lapping of the sea against the ship as she went swiftly through the water. With wide-open eyes, full of sad questionings, Helen looked out over the still waters and watched a faint coast-line that showed itself far away against the horizon. There was no moon visible, only that curious gray shroud veiled sea and sky, making everything look unreal and ghost-like, its effect heightened by the peculiar stillness of the sultry atmosphere. Intensely wide awake, Helen sat and watched, while every incident in her short life seemed to pass in review before her. More vividly than any other, there came back to her the scene in Jim Hunt's dying chamber. She could almost have fancied that she was sitting once more by the little open window, listening to the sick boy's rambling talk, while the children shouted and laughed below. Then the scene changed. What had happened? Where was the ship and the gray waters and shadowy, distant land? Had she been dreaming? Where was she? In a sick-room, not bare and comfortless like Jim Hunt's, but bright and cheerful, lit with shaded lamps, and filled with tokens of thoughtful love. On the bed someone was lying, but from where Helen stood only a curly head was visible. At a small table by the bedside sat a lady, busy, apparently, over a gaily-coloured scrap-book. Her back was turned to Helen, but as the girl advanced timidly she raised her head and said: "I think I have done enough to-night, Harold. I will put the rest in to-morrow." "Not to-morrow;" and the little figure in its eagerness tried, though vainly, to raise itself in bed. "Not to-morrow. Mother, mother, do finish it to-night." Helen clasped her hands. This was Harold. She pressed forward and tried to speak, but no words came. It was all curious, for Mrs. Bayden must surely see her now, and yet she made no sign. Helen looked at Harold, but his eyes were closed.