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Jim frowned from time to time when he caught the inquisitive

glance of some stranger. He had that dislike of being stared at,

which comes on geniuses late in life and never leaves the

commonplace. Sibyl, however, was quite unconscious of the effect

she was producing. Her love was trembling in laughter on her

lips. She was thinking of Prince Charming, and, that she might

think of him all the more, she did not talk of him, but prattled

on about the ship in which Jim was going to sail, about the gold

he was certain to find, about the wonderful heiress whose life he

was to save from the wicked, red-shirted bushrangers. For he was

not to remain a sailor, or a supercargo, or whatever he was going

to be. Oh, no! A sailor's existence was dreadful. Fancy being

cooped up in a horrid ship, with the hoarse, hump-backed waves

trying to get in, and a black wind blowing the masts down and

tearing the sails into long screaming ribands!