CHAPTER I.—NAMED AT LAST.

If one has a fairy tale in mind, why then, of course, the more mystery the better; but when you have a story to tell about people who cannot fly from hill-top to hill-top, and who to live at all must have food more substantial than rose-leaves and honey-dew, why then, say I, the less mystery the better. Therefore, let me tell you at once that the Courage of this story is not at all the sort of thing you might at first imagine. Auburn-haired, brown-eyed, and rosy-cheeked was this particular Courage; in point of fact, as charming a little maiden as you would meet on a long day's journey, and with Courage for her name. An odd name no doubt you think it. Courage herself did not like it, but the suns of a half-dozen summers and winters had risen for the little lady in question before she could so much as lay claim to any name whatsoever. All that while she was simply known as Baby Masterson. Her father, Hugh Masterson, was foreman in a machine shop over on the west side of the city, and “a very queer man,” people said. Probably they were right about it. He was unquestionably a very

clever man, and queerness and cleverness seem to go hand-in-hand the world over. He was the author of at least three successful inventions, but, as often happens, others made more money out of them than he. Hugh, nevertheless, did not seem inclined to grumble at this state of affairs. Having a wife whom he loved devotedly and a comfortable home of his own, he felt thoroughly contented and happy. Then when, one bright June morning, Hugh found himself the father of a lovely baby daughter, happy was no name for it, and he was quite beside himself with joy. But, sadly enough, the joy was soon over, for scarcely three months after the baby-life came into the little home the mother-life went out of it, and then it seemed to poor Hugh as though his heart would break. He hired a kind-hearted woman named Mary Duff to care for his baby, and plunged harder than ever into his work, hoping by delving away at all sorts of difficult problems to grow less mindful of his great sorrow; but do what he would, there was always a sense of irreparable loss hanging over him.

However, between his work and his sorrow he did often succeed in altogether forgetting his baby. Still the little daughter grew and flourished, apparently none the worse for this neglect. Mary Duff was love and tenderness itself, and it were well for the children if every mother in name were just such a mother at heart. But at last there came a time when Hugh Masterson could no longer fail to notice his baby's charms. She had taken it into her wise little head to grow prettier and prettier, and more and more cunning with every day, till there was no more forgetting of her possible; and first thing her father knew, he found himself thinking of her right in the midst of his work, and then hurrying home through the crowds of laboring people at night, fairly longing for a sight of her. And so it happened that the little girl grew to fill a larger and still larger place In his life, till on her sixth birthday he decided that she really ought to have a name, that little woman beginning strongly to resent the fact that she was known only as Baby Masterson to the small world in which

she lived. So when Sunday came, Hugh carried her in his arms up to St. Paul's to be christened. But the name that he gave her! Well, it was not in the least like other little girls' names, as you know. No wonder Mary Duff, who was standing godmother, was more than surprised when she heard it, having simply taken for granted that Baby would be named for her mother. Baby herself was naturally greatly mystified at the whole proceeding.

“What did you say I had been, papa?” she asked, as with her hand held fast in his she trudged home beside him.

“I said you had been christened, darling.”

“Christened!” she repeated softly, wondering just what the word might mean.

“And did you say I had a name now, papa?”

“Yes, dear; and you think it was time, don't you?”

“I have wanted one for a very long while,” she said, with a little half sigh; “but did you say my name was Courage?”

“Yes, Courage; it's a pretty name, isn't it?”

“I don't know,” rather doubtfully. “Do other little girls have it?”

“No, I believe not; but probably they don't deserve it.”

“I would like to have been named Arabella,” she replied, somewhat aggrieved. “Why did you not let me choose, papa?”

“Why, I never thought of that, Baby; besides, it isn't customary to consult children about what names they shall have—is it, Mary?” turning to Mary Duff, who, because of the narrow flagging, was walking just behind them.

“No, I believe not, Mr. Masterson,” said Mary; “but then, sir, no more is it customary to delay a naming of them till they're old enough to be consulted.”

“Well, I reckon Mary's right about that, Baby, and perhaps I ought to have talked matters over with you; but I can tell you one thing, I never should have consented to Arabella—never in this world. I should say Arabella was a regular doll name, and not at all suited to a sturdy-limbed little girl like you.”

“But there are other beautiful names, papa—Edith and Ethel and Helen! I love Helen.” Then suddenly coming to a standstill and eagerly looking up to her father's face, she exclaimed: “Papa, if we hurried back perhaps the minister would un-un-christen me”—proud to have remembered the proper word and evidently comprehending that the rite was a binding one.

“No, I fear not,” laughed her father; “but take my word for it, you'll like Courage after a while; it's just the name for you.”

“Does it mean something, papa?”

“Yes, something fine. Why, when you grow up, Baby” (for the new name was quite too new for use), “you'll discover that there's nothing finer than courage.”

“Is courage something that people have? Have I got it?”

“Some people, dear, and I hope that you have it.”

“But why am I named it, if you are not sure, papa?”

“Because then perhaps the name may help you to get it; but the best reason of all is this, that the sight of you, darling, always puts new courage into me and although she did not in the least understand it, Baby felt somehow that that was a beautiful reason, and as her father lifted her up in his arms, gave him a tight little hug and was perfectly satisfied.

“How do you like my new name?” she said, looking over her father's shoulder at Mary.

“Faith, darling.” said Mary, taking hold of her little extended hand, “I thought it some queer at the first, but now that I've learned the reason, I think it's an elegant name.”

It may be that you do not agree with Mary Duff in this, and yet you must know that it was just because Courage proved to be so well named that there is this little story to tell about her.

CHAPTER II.—ON THE WATCH.

At the time of the commencement of our story Courage was twelve years old. To be sure, she was only six over in that little first chapter, but to be quite honest, that wasn't a first chapter at all. It was simply what is termed an introduction, but we did not dare to mention the fact, because, if you will believe it, that is something many people cannot be persuaded to read. So the real story commences with a twelve-year-old Courage standing one May morning on the edge of a wharf at the foot of a West side street. The wind was tossing her auburn hair and winding her little plaid skirt close about her, but was not strong enough by half to blow a sad, wistful look from her brown eyes. Morning after morning she had taken her position at exactly the same spot, and there had sat or stood for hours at a time. The men who worked on the wharf had come to know her, and some of them to wish her a cherry good-morning as she tripped by. It was evident that she was watching for somebody, and that the somebody did not come. After

awhile they began to feel sorry for her, and finally one of them—Big Bob they called him—resolved to stroll out to where she was standing that breezy May morning and have a word with her.

“Be yez watchin' for some one, miss?” he said.

“Yes,” answered Courage; “I've been watching a great many days.”

“That's what the men was a-noticin', miss. Is it for yer father ye're lookin'?”

“No, not for him and there was a sadness in her voice which even the big burly Scotchman was not slow to detect.

“Mayhap ye've no longer a right to be lookin' for him on ony o' this world's waters,” said the man, gazing down sympathetically over the ledge of his great folded arms.

Courage bit her lip, and the tears sprang into her eyes, but she managed to answer, “My father died two weeks ago, sir—just two weeks ago to-day,” while the man looked the sympathy he could not speak. “That is why I am watching for Larry,” Courage added.

“For Larry!” he exclaimed. “Is it for Larry Starr ye're watchin'?”

“Why, yes,” said Courage, as though she thought any one should have known that; “do you know him?”

“Of course I do. Every 'longshoreman knows Larry.”

“Have you seen him lately?” very eagerly.

“No, not for a twelvemonth; but come to think of it, he often ties up at this very wharf.”

“Yes, often,” said Courage; “but it's two months now since he's been here, and he never stays away so long as that. You don't think”—she paused a moment, as though afraid to give words to her fears—“you don't think, do you, that he can have died too, somewhere?”

Poor little Courage! with her mother dead since her babyhood and her father lately gone from her, no wonder she felt it more than possible that Larry would never come back.

“Oh, no, miss,” said the man reassuringly; “he'd never a-died without our a-hearin' of it; still, it's some old he's a-gettin', is Larry.”

“He's a good strong man yet, though,” Courage replied, not willing to admit the possibility of waning powers in her hero.

“Faith, and I know he's a good man, miss, and no doubt, too, but his strength will be as his day.”

“But you don't know anything about where he is now?” Courage asked rather hopelessly.

“No, not for this twelvemonth, as I was a-tellin' ye; but like as not some of the men has heard some word on him. Gang back wi' me and we'll speir 'em a question or two,” whereupon he extended his hand, which Courage took rather reluctantly, it was such a powerful-looking hand; but there proved to be nothing rough in the way it closed over the small brown hand she placed in it. So side by side, in this friendly fashion, they walked up the dock to where the men were unloading a Southern steamer.

“Has ony o' ye heard a word o' Larry Starr o' late?” called Big Bob, but in a tone so different from the one in which he had spoken to Courage, that she gave a little start of surprise, and then hoped he had not seen it. Most of the men shook their heads in the negative. “Niver a wurrud,” answered an old Irishman. Indeed, only one of the number made no reply whatsoever, so that Courage thought he could not have heard. It was his place to free the huge iron hook from the bales, after they had been landed on the wharf, and he seemed all absorbed in his work. Fortunately, however, he had heard, and as he stood watching the hook as it slowly swung back aboard of the vessel, he called out, “Yes, I has some word on him, Bob; anybody 'quiring for him?”

“O' course there is, just the verra little leddy what I've here by the hand. If ye'd eyes worth the name, John, ye'd seen her 'fore this!”

“Oh, is it you, miss?” said John, looking for the first time toward Courage, and at once recognizing the little girl who had been so long on the watch. “Well, then, I can tell ye he'll be at this wharf this day week, certain. The Lady Bird's due here on Friday or Saturday, and Larry's under contract to carry part of her cargo down to the stores Monday morning. It's a pity, miss, you hadn't asked me afore, I could a-told you the same any day back for a fortni't. But run down bright and early next Monday morn-in', and take my word for it, you'll find Larry's lighter swinging up to this wharf, as sure as my name's Jack Armstrong.”

Courage, meantime, had grown radiant. “Oh, he'll come sooner than that!” she exclaimed exultingly. “He'll tie up Saturday night and spend Sunday with us. He always does that when he has work at this pier for Monday.” Then, looking up to Big Bob, she said gratefully, “Thank you very much for finding out for me. I will run right home now and tell Mary Duff,” and suiting the action to the word, Courage was at the wharf's end and up the street and out of sight before the slow-moving longshoremen had fairly settled to work again.

Now that Courage was sure that Larry was coming, as sure as though it had been flashed across the blue May sky in letters of silver, all the hours of weary foreboding and waiting were quite forgotten. So true is it, as Celia Thaxter sings in that peerless song of hers, as brave as any bird note, and as sweet:=

```"Dark skies must clear, and when the clouds are past,

```One golden day redeems a weary year."=

CHAPTER III.—LARRY COMES.

Strange as it still may appear to you that a little girl should have Courage for her name, yet, true it is, that she was no sooner named herself than she had a namesake. It was none of your little baby namesakes either, but a stanch and well-built boat, and one that was generally admitted to be the finest craft of her class in the harbor. The Courage Masterson was what is commonly known as a lighter, and to whom of course did she belong but to Larry Starr, Hugh Masterson's best friend; but she was no common lighter, I can assure you. Larry had given his whole mind to her building, and it was unlike any of the other lighters that make their way up and down the river or out on the bay, with their great cumbersome loads. She had a fine little cabin of her own, a cosey, comfortable cabin, with two state-rooms, if you can give them so fine a title, opening out of it, and a tiny kitchen beyond, lighted by a small sky-window. All this, as any one knows, was very luxurious, but Larry had put the savings of many years into that

boat, and he meant to have it as he liked it. To be sure, the cabin, occupying as it did some twenty square feet, greatly lessened her carrying capacity, for one square foot on the deck of a lighter stands for innumerable square feet of merchandise, which may be piled to almost any height upon it. Larry was quite willing, however, to lose something from the profits of every trip for the sake of the added comfort. But it was six years now since the lighter had been launched, and so it had happened that all that time, while the little girl Courage had been having a variety of experiences on land, the big boat Courage had been sailing under “fair skies and foul” on the water, and safely transporting many a cargo that netted a comfortable living for Larry. And now Saturday afternoon had come, and Courage was down in her old place at the dock's end with a happy certainty in her eyes, and yet with a sorrowful look overshadowing it, for there was such sad news to be told when at last Larry should come, and at last he came.

Courage first thought she discovered a familiar boat away down the river, and then in a moment there was no longer a doubt of it. The lighter, with her one broad sail spread to the wind, came slowly nearer and nearer, and Courage in her eagerness stood way out on the farthermost corner of the dock, so that Larry caught sight of her long before she put her two hands to her mouth, trumpet fashion, and called, “Hello there, Larry,” at the top of her strong little lungs.

“Hello there, Courage,” rang back Larry's cheery answer, as leaning hard against the tiller, he swung his boat into place with the skill of a long-time sailor.

“I knew you'd find out somehow that I was coming,” he called, and then in another second he was ashore and had Courage's two hands held fast in his, and was gazing gladly into her face. But instantly the look of greeting in her eyes faded out of them. She could find no words for the sad news she had to tell. Larry was quick to see her trouble, and his voice trembled as he asked, “Why, Courage, child, what has happened?” and then he drew her to a seat beside him on a great beam that flanked the wharf.

It was easier to speak, now that she could look away from Larry's expressive face, and she said slowly, “The saddest thing that could happen, Larry. Papa——” and then she could go no further.

“You don't mean that your father is——” but neither could Larry bring himself to voice the fatal, four-lettered little word.

“Yes,” said Courage, knowing well enough that he understood her, “nearly three weeks ago. He had typhoid fever, and he tried very hard to get well, and we all tried so hard, Larry—the Doctor and Mary Duff and me—but the fever was the kind that wouldn't break. And then one day papa just said, 'It isn't any use, darling. I'm going to give up the fight and go to your blessed mother, but you need have never a fear, Courage, while Larry Starr is in the world.'”

“Did he say that really?” asked Larry, tears of which he was not ashamed rolling down his bronzed face.

“Yes,” said Courage solemnly; “but oh, Larry, I have been waiting here for so many days that I began to think perhaps you would never come, and if you hadn't come, Larry—” and then the recollection of all these hours of watching proved quite too much for her overwrought little frame, and burying her face in her hands on Larry's knee, she cried very bitterly.

“It is best,” thought Larry, “to let her have her cry out.” Besides he was not sure enough of his own voice to try to comfort her, so he just stroked the auburn hair gently with his strong hand, and said not a word. Meanwhile another old friend had come upon the scene, and stood staring at Larry and Courage with a world of questioning in his eyes. He seemed to have his doubts at first as to the advisability of coming nearer. He discovered, it was evident, that there was trouble in the air. That he was greatly interested, and fully expected to be confided in sooner or later, was also evident from the beseeching way in which he would put his head on one side and then on the other, looking up to Larry, as much as to say, “When are you going to tell me what it is all about?” But never a word from Larry and never a glance from Courage, till at last such ignominious treatment was no longer to be borne, and walking slowly up, he also laid his head upon Larry's knee. Courage felt something cold against her cheek and started up to find a pair of wonderfully expressive eyes raised

beseechingly to hers. “Oh, Bruce, old fellow,” she cried, “I forgot all about you,” and then, flinging her arms about his neck, she literally dried her tears on his beautiful silky coat. But Bruce would not long be content with mere passive acceptance of affection, and in another second rather rudely shook himself free from her grasp, and began springing upon her, so that she had to jump to her feet and cry, “Down, Bruce,” three or four times before he would mind her; but Bruce was satisfied. Things could not have come to such a terrible pass if it took no more than that to make Courage seem her old self again, and finally, concluding that she really said “Down, Bruce,” quite as though she meant it, he decided to give his long legs a good run, and call on an old collie friend of his who picked up a living on Pier 17. Never, however, had visit of sympathetic friend proved as timely as this call of Bruce's. With what infinite tact had he first sympathized with and then tried to cheer his little friend! And he

had succeeded, for both Larry and Courage now found themselves able to talk calmly of all that had happened, and of what had best be done.