“Rather!” said Susan huskily.

Visitors were beginning now to go reluctantly down the gang-plank, and mass themselves on the deck, staring up at the big liner, their faces showing the strained bright smile that becomes so fixed during the long slow process of casting off.  Handkerchiefs began to wave, and to wipe wet eyes; empty last promises were exchanged between decks and pier.  A woman near Susan began to cry,—­a homely little woman, but the big handsome man who kissed her was crying, too.

Suddenly the city whistles, that blow even on Sunday in San Francisco, shrilled twelve.  Susan thought of the old lunch-room at Hunter, Baxter & Hunter’s, of Thorny and the stewed tomatoes, and felt the bitter tears rise in her throat.

Various passengers now began to turn their interest to the life of the ship.  There was talk of luncheon, of steamer chairs, of asking the stewardess for jars to hold flowers.  Susan had drawn back from the rail, no one on the ship knew her, but somebody on the pier might.

“Now let us go find Mrs. O’Connor,” Stephen said, in a matter-of-fact tone.  “Then you can take off your hat and freshen up a bit, and we can look over the ship.”  He led her cleverly through the now wildly churning crowds, into the comparative quiet of the saloon.

Here they found Mrs. O’Connor, surrounded by an anxious group of travelers.  Stephen put Susan into her charge, and the two women studied each other with interest.

Susan saw a big-boned, gray-haired, capable-looking Irishwoman, in a dress of dark-blue duck, with a white collar and white cuffs, heard a warming, big voice, and caught a ready and infectious smile.  In all the surrounding confusion Mrs. O’Connor was calm and alert; so normal in manner and speech indeed that merely watching her had the effect of suddenly cooling Susan’s blood, of reducing her whirling thoughts to something like their old, sane basis.  Travel was nothing to Mrs. O’Connor; farewells were the chief of her diet; and her manner with Stephen Bocqueraz was crisp and quiet.  She fixed upon him shrewd, wise eyes that had seen some curious things in their day, but she gave Susan a motherly smile.

“This is my niece, Mrs. O’Connor,” said Stephen, introducing Susan.  “She’s never made the trip before, and I want you to help me turn her over to her Daddy in Manila, in first-class shape.”

“I will that,” agreed the stewardess, heartily.

“Well, then I’ll have a look at my own diggings, and Mrs. O’Connor will take you off to yours.  I’ll be waiting for you in the library, Sue,” Stephen said, walking off, and Susan followed Mrs. O’Connor to her own cabin.

“The very best on the ship, as you might know Mr. Bocqueraz would get for anyone belonging to him,” said the stewardess, shaking pillows and straightening curtains with great satisfaction, when they reached the luxurious little suite.  “He’s your father’s brother, he tells me.  Was that it?”