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 The Blenmora! The Blenmora! For her father would be among the first to send his ship through.

She was with him in his cabin. What matter the scream and scrape of the enormous clamshell maws lifting the ore from the holds? What matter the clangor of the red iron bounding in the chutes, the hiss and heat of steam, the spread of the brown hematite dust? Ellen loved it; it brought her father.

She was in his arms, her cheek against his; he lifted her a little and tossed her a bit, laughing aloud in his love and pride in her. They talked and laughed; they went about the ship; they had supper together, through which he studied her, seriously.

"Ye grow little, Ellen," he charged her at last.

"It's the rest at home growing bigger, father," she said.

"They grow," he agreed, "and ye—" suddenly he was out with it—"what have ye taken on, my little girl?"

"Nothing new, father," she denied.

He shook his head. "Do ye work too hard?"

"No."

"It's not work," he agreed, "I know the look of ye. It's loving, is it?"

"No, father!"

"So that's it; loving! Ellen, girl, does he love ye?"

"No."

"I felt it in ye, my arms about you. You'd have them—his own. Ellen, girl, look to what ye do! Loving like ye'd love your man, look to what ye do!"