“What book is that?” he asked, of the volume she was tilting back and forth under her hand.

She showed it.  “One of his.  He brought it up to amuse me, he said.”

“While he was amusing himself with Lottie,” thought the judge, in his jealousy for her.  “It is going the same old way.  Well!” What he said aloud was, “And is it amusing you?”

“I haven’t looked at it yet,” said the girl.  “It’s amusing enough to watch the sea.  Oh, poppa!  I never thought I should care so much for it.”

“And you’re glad we came?”

“I don’t want to think about that.  I just want to know that I’m here.”  She pressed his arm gently, significantly, where he sat provisionally in the chair beside her, and he was afraid to speak lest he should scare away the hope her words gave him.

He merely said, “Well, well!” and waited for her to speak further.  But her impulse had exhausted itself, as if her spirit were like one of those weak forms of life which spend their strength in a quick run or flight, and then rest to gather force for another.  “Where’s Boyne?” he asked, after waiting for her to speak.

“He was here a minute ago.  He’s been talking with some of the deck passengers that are going home because they couldn’t get on in America.  Doesn’t that seem pitiful, poppa?  I always thought we had work enough for the whole world.”

“Perhaps these fellows didn’t try very hard to find it,” said the judge.

“Perhaps,” she assented.

“I shouldn’t want you to get to thinking that it’s all like New York.  Remember how comfortable everybody is in Tuskingum.”

“Yes,” she said, sadly.  “How far off Tuskingum seems!”

“Well, don’t forget about it; and remember that wherever life is simplest and purest and kindest, that is the highest civilization.”

“How much like old times it seems to hear you talk that way, poppa!  I should think I was in the library at home.  And I made you leave it!” she sighed.

“Your mother was glad of any excuse.  And it will do us all good, if we take it in the right way,” said the judge, with a didactic severity that did not hide his pang from her.

“Poor poppa!” she said.

He went away, saying that he was going to look Lottie up.  His simple design was to send Lottie to her mother, so that Breckon might come back to Ellen; but he did not own this to himself.

Lottie returned from another direction with Boyne, and Ellen said, “Poppa’s gone to look for you.”

“Has he?” asked Lottie, dropping decisively into her chair.  “Well, there’s one thing; I won’t call him poppa any more.”

“What will you call him?” Boyne demanded, demurely.

“I’ll call him father, it you want to know; and I’m going to call momma, mother.  I’m not going to have those English laughing at us, and I won’t say papa and mamma.  Everybody that knows anything says father and mother now.”