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“Where is it?” he asked.

“The young lady’s got it her own self,” she replied.

Kirk felt foolish. Had his chum come down over the rail for it? He would do something to distinguish himself. He fumbled in his pockets for a coin to give the girl, but found nothing smaller than a half sovereign, and with that he could ill afford to part. The girl had meanwhile turned away, and Kirk had nothing left but to go back to the upper deck.

The enthusiastic Sylvia spoke in praise of the Irish girl for her agility and politeness, but the young lady alongside, who did not like the Irish, told her that what the girl wanted was a shilling or two. Servants in Europe were always beggars, and the Irish people especially. But she wouldn’t give the girl a quarter if it were her hat. What was the use of making people so mean-spirited?

“I’d like to give her something, if I thought it wouldn’t hurt her feelings,” said Sylvia, at which the other laughed immoderately.

“Hurt her feelings! Did you ever see an Irish girl whose feelings were hurt by a present of money? I never did, though I don’t often try the experiment, that’s so.”

“I was going to offer her something myself, but she walked away while I was trying to find some change,” said Kirk.

The matter of a gratuity to the girl weighed on Sylvia Thorne’s mind. She had a sense of a debt in owing her a gratuity, if one may so speak. The next day being calm and fine, and finding her company not very attractive, for young Kirk was engaged with some gentlemen in a stupid game of shuffleboard, she went forward to the part of the deck on which the steerage passengers were allowed to sun themselves, and found the Irish girl holding a baby. “You saved my hat yesterday,” she said with embarrassment.

“Sure that’s not much now, miss. I’d like to do somethin’ for you every day if I could. It isn’t every lady that’s such a lady,” said the girl, with genuine admiration of the delicate features and kindly manner of young Sylvia Thorne.

“Does that baby belong to some friend of yours?” asked the young lady.

“No, miss; I’ve not got any friends aboard. Its mother’s seasick, and I’m givin’ her a little rest an’ holdin’ the baby out here. The air of that steerage isn’t fit for a baby, now, you may say.”

Should she give her any money? What was it about the girl that made her afraid to offer a customary trifle?

“Where did you live in Ireland?” inquired Sylvia.

“At Drogheda, miss, till I went to work in the linen mills.”

“Oh! you worked in the linen mills.”

“Yes, miss. My father died, and my mother was poor, and girls must work for their living. But my father wanted me to get a good bit of readin’ and writin’ so as I might do better; but he died, miss, and I couldn’t leave my mother without help.”

“You were the only child?”

“I’ve got a sister, but somehow she didn’t care to go out to work, and so I had to go out to service; and I heard that more was paid in Ameriky, where I’ve got an aunt, an’ I had enough to take me out, an’ I thought maybe I’d get my mother out there some day, or I’d get money enough to make her comfortable, anyways.”

“What kind of work will you do in New York? I don’t believe we’ve got any linen mills. I think we get Irish linen table-cloths, and so on.”

“Oh, I’m going out to service. I can’t do heavy work, but I can do chambermaid’s work.”

All this time Sylvia was turning a quarter over in her pocket. It was the only American coin she had carried with her through Europe, and she now took it out slowly, and said:

“You’ll accept a little something for your kindness in saving my hat.”