that, in the teeth of the gale, was beating round Alcatraz Island.  Although at times a mere blank speck on the gray waste of foam, a closer scrutiny showed it to be one of those lateen-rigged Italian fishing-boats that so often flecked the distant bay.  Lost in the sudden darkening of rain, or reappearing beneath the lifted curtain of the squall, she watched it weather the island, and then turn its laboring but persistent course toward the open channel.  A rent in the Indian-inky sky, that showed the narrowing portals of the Golden Gate beyond, revealed, as unexpectedly, the destination of the little craft, a tall ship that hitherto lay hidden in the mist of the Saucelito shore.  As the distance lessened between boat and ship, they were again lost in the downward swoop of another squall.  When it lifted, the ship was creeping under the headland towards the open sea, but the boat was gone.  Mrs. Tucker in vain rubbed the pane with her handkerchief, it had vanished.  Meanwhile the ship, as she neared the Gate, drew out from the protecting headland, stood outlined for a moment with spars and canvas hearsed in black against the lurid rent in the horizon, and then seemed to sink slowly into the heaving obscurity beyond.  A sudden onset of rain against the windows obliterated the remaining prospect; the entrance of a servant completed the diversion.

“Captain Poindexter, ma’am!”

Mrs. Tucker lifted her pretty eyebrows interrogatively.  Captain Poindexter was a legal friend of her husband, and had dined there frequently; nevertheless she asked, “Did you tell him Mr. Tucker was not at home?”

“Yes, ’m.”

“Did he ask for me?”

“Yes, ’m.”

“Tell him I’ll be down directly.”

Mrs. Tucker’s quiet face did not betray the fact that this second visitor was even less interesting than the first.  In her heart she did not like Captain Poindexter.  With a clever woman’s instinct, she had early detected the fact that he had a superior, stronger nature than her husband; as a loyal wife, she secretly resented the occasional unconscious exhibition of this fact on the part of his intimate friend in their familiar intercourse.  Added to this slight jealousy there was a certain moral antagonism between herself and the captain which none but themselves knew.  They were both philosophers, but Mrs. Tucker’s serene and languid optimism would not tolerate the compassionate and kind-hearted pessimisms of the lawyer.  “Knowing what Jack Poindexter does of human nature,” her husband had once said, “it’s mighty fine in him to be so kind and forgiving.  You ought to like him better, Belle.”  “And qualify myself to be forgiven,” said the lady pertly.  “I don’t see what you’re driving at, Belle; I give it up,” had responded the puzzled husband.  Mrs. Tucker kissed his high but foolish forehead tenderly, and said, “I’m glad you don’t, dear.”