the start. True, her father, Edward Stanwicke, awaited her in Charles Town. But he had not bidden her come, he had not answered the letter in which she told him that she was coming. How would he receive her, this father of whom no faintest recollection lingered in her mind; this father who, soon after her mother's death, when she was still a baby crawling on all-fours, had sent her away to England to live and grow up among her mother's people there?
For a little while fear chilled her—fear of failure, fear of the unknown that loomed ahead. But as the Queen Bess sailed on between the islands, beauty deepened upon the harbour until all that panorama of blue sky and bluer water and hazy encircling woodland became a thing too wonderful to be believed. Little by little its magic warmed her, and in the spell of its beauty fear retreated sullenly and that high, happy courage, which was folly wiser than wisdom, returned. Her eyes shone, her cheeks were richer than pink Indian rose. Richard Barradell, standing beside her, spoke more earnestly than was his habit.
"Smite me!" he exclaimed, his gaze sweeping the placid harbour and the sunlit roofs beyond, "'Tis the sweetest haven this side of Heaven! Saw you ever bluer water or a fairer sky?"
He turned and looked at her in silence for a moment, his delicate jewelled hand stroking his smooth chin.
"Ged, Jolie," he said presently, "I am past paying
