MISS MCMILLAN.
Come hop, come skip, fair children all.
Old Father Time is in the hall.
He'll take you on his knee, and stroke
Your golden hair to silver bright,
Your rosy cheeks to wrinkles white.
In the saloon of the fine transatlantic liner, the Climatus, two long tables extend from the piano at one end to the bookcase at the other end of the ample dining room.
On each side of this main saloon are four small tables intended to accommodate six or seven persons. At one of these tables sat a pleasant party of four ladies and three gentlemen. Three ladies were from Detroit, and one from Kent, in England. At the head of the table sat Mr. Blair, the frost of many American winters in his hair and beard, while the lines of care in his rugged, cheerful Scottish face told of a life of business crowned with generous success.
Mr. Waters, a younger merchant, had all the alert
