Only he had not been looking for it, or perhaps the sorrow of her mother’s death had touched her with the beauty that sorrow brings. But anyhow, the memory of her face as he had just been looking down into it, stayed with him and intrigued him strongly.

The twilight was settling down over the pearly tints in the sea, and the ship had become a part of the distance, with possibly a mere speck of light stabbing it somewhere to show where it had gone, but he felt sure the little girl was still there by the ship’s rail looking back to the land of her birth wistfully, and perhaps, as he was, thinking of their brief farewell. Would he ever see her again? His heart cried out to be assured. Would it be possible for him to do anything about it sometime? When? Would he still wish to do it when the time came?

He turned sadly away and walked the length of the wharf, took a taxi to his hotel, and sat down to think before he went down to get his dinner.

And later, after going out to call on some of his mother’s friends, the memory of Rose Galbraith was with him again on his way back to the hotel. Her eyes reflecting the blue of her garments, their beauty holding his thoughts even against his will. He felt again her small soft hands in his, the thrill of her shy lips so sweet against his own. He wasn’t a boy who made a practice of kissing girls. Kissing had always seemed a very special sacred thing to him, and now that he was looking at his own action past, and the fact that it was he who had stooped to lay his lips upon hers, he wondered why he had done it. What impulse had stirred him to it? Was it pity for her loneliness? No, not that. There was nothing forlorn about her. Nothing in herself that had claimed such intimacy. She had seemed almost surprised, yet she had yielded her lips. No, it was not pity for her, nor was it promiscuous. It had seemed a fitting sacred thing. As if somehow she suddenly belonged to him and he wanted to kiss her. The farewell gave enough occasion for it, even though they had never been intimate. He was not ashamed of his action. He thought about whether he should tell his mother of it when he went home. He would not be ashamed to tell her. In a way, she would understand. There had always been a sweet intimacy between himself and his mother. But yet he wondered if she would fully understand. He had to think it over carefully and be sure he understood himself before he would feel like bringing it out into the open that way. Maybe it was just something that should be kept in his own heart till time should pass over it and set some kind of a seal upon it. Perhaps it was only a pleasant salutation, a farewell, like a handshake, that would pass into history. Yet that thought was not pleasant, for the memory of that kiss held a strange sweet thrill that was full of beauty and seemed something akin to a heavenly friendship. It was as if suddenly he was aware of having known her a long time.

Always in his schooldays, she had been somewhere about, though usually shy and quiet. Excepting of course when it came to recitations. She had always been smart as a whip in class. The teacher’s attitude toward her had been one of utter confidence.