It contained a pretty little green-bound copy of Emerson's Poems, with
Katy's name and "To be read at sea," written on the flyleaf. Somehow the
little gift seemed to bridge the long misty distance which stretched
between the vessel's stern and Boston Bay, and to bring home and friends
a great deal nearer. With a half-happy, half-tearful pleasure Katy
recognized the fact that distance counts for little if people love one
another, and that hearts have a telegraph of their own whose messages
are as sure and swift as any of those sent over the material lines which
link continent to continent and shore with shore.
Later in the morning, Katy, going down to her stateroom for something,
came across a pallid, exhausted-looking lady, who lay stretched on one
of the long sofas in the cabin, with a baby in her arms and a little
girl sitting at her feet, quite still, with a pair of small hands folded
in her lap. The little girl did not seem to be more than four years old.
She had two pig-tails of thick flaxen hair hanging over her shoulders,
and at Katy's approach raised a pair of solemn blue eyes, which had so
much appeal in them, though she said nothing, that Katy stopped at once.
"Can I do anything for you?" she asked. "I am afraid you have been
very ill."
At the sound of her voice the lady on the sofa opened her eyes. She
tried to speak, but to Katy's dismay began to cry instead; and when the
words came they were strangled with sobs.
"You are so kin-d to ask," she said.
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