CHAPTER I

Erica Folger sat cross-legged on the flat, railed platform known to Nantucketers as “the walk,” which perched astride the sloping roof of her aunt’s shabby, well-weathered gray house on Orange Street, overlooking the blue waters of the harbor. The water was very blue on that late October day, and the sunshine very clear and golden on the distant commons of the unromantically named “Pest-house Shore” across the harbor, where the brilliant coloring of autumn was already flaming in a riot of orange sedge, and the red and gold and rose of turning huckleberry.

The air was full of the clean tang of sea salt and of sweet-fern and bayberry, mixed in a most aromatic fragrance. Erica, busy as she was about a highly reprehensible matter of vast importance to herself, sniffed it appreciatively. Vaguely, half her attention otherwise occupied, she decided, as she always decided each year at this time, that October was the best month of the whole twelve. She loved the snap and vigor of the crisp, sweet air, and the _alive_, ambitious feeling it put into fingers and toes. October smelled of so many interesting things on Nantucket.

Thinking of interesting things, Erica reflected that her present occupation, though undoubtedly interesting to herself, would not in the least interest Aunt Charity. She was sorry that Aunt Charity’s point of view so often ran counter to her niece’s, but Erica, turning to stare critically at her own reflection in the small, square mirror she had propped up on a box before her, felt no regrets as to her recent act of vandalism—which is what Aunt Charity would term it the minute she knew.

Though Erica Folger sat on the high walk above her home and stared at her reflection in the mirror more than eighty years ago—at that time even the Civil War would not be fought for a matter of nearly twenty years yet—she had just achieved, with no known precedent to guide her, a thoroughly modern “bob.” On the floor of the walk, beside her, lay Aunt Charity’s biggest cutting shears, and two thick braids of curly dark red hair, tied at the ends with demure black bows.

Following the shearing process, Erica had shampooed her shorn locks in a pail of warm water she had carried up the ladder when Aunt Charity was otherwise occupied, and now she sat there letting the bright October sunshine dry the new bob. (But Erica, years ahead of her generation though she was, did not know that it would one day be called a bob. She called it giving herself a sensible hair-cut, that should not require the half hour of tiresome brushing Aunt Charity insisted on each evening.)

The hair was almost dry now, and the mirror showed Erica a tumble of short red curls against either rosy cheek on a line with the just-hidden ears. Above the curls and the flushed cheeks were two widely opened eyes of the exact shade of the blue harbor-water below, a straight little nose well supplied with a powdering of faint golden freckles, and below that, again, a rather wide mouth that was made for courage and light-hearted laughter even in the face of discouragement.

Erica shook her head experimentally, and sighed with delight at the free, untrammeled feeling that had replaced the drag of her heavy braids.

“Aunt Charity’ll hate it,” she murmured, but without regret. “And Lis and Tommy’ll laugh. Oh, well, let’s get it over with.”

She rose to her feet, picked up her discarded braids, the mirror, and the pail of water, and carefully negotiated the ladder down to the floor below. It was unfortunate that Miss Charity Folger should have come out into the upper hall just then, and, discovering her always-unaccountable niece halfway down the ladder with a heavy pail of water, stopped aghast.

”_Erica!_” she said. “For the land’s sake! What were you doing up on the walk with that pail?”

It was too dark in the hall for her to notice Erica’s guilty little head, but at the sound of the unexpected voice below her the girl jumped, and one of the heavy red braids slipped through her clutching fingers. Miss Charity gave a stifled shriek as the long, sinuous object fell limply at her feet. Perhaps she thought it was a snake; but of a certainty her wildest imaginings never reached within a far cry of the truth. She gathered her full skirts higher about her ankles and, after a perceptible hesitation, bent over the puzzling object on the floor. Then, though she was not at all the kind of woman who screams easily, she uttered something that was very much like another little shriek.

“Erica,” she asked, in a much severer voice, “just _what_ have you been doing this time?”

Erica, having by now arrived at the foot of the ladder, plunged eagerly to her own defense.

“I don’t see why only boys should be comfortable, Aunt Charity. I really don’t,” she said, vehemently. “My hair was heavy and hot. I got so I simply couldn’t bear it any longer. And all that brushing and _brushing_ every night of my life! It’s such a waste of time. And—and so I cut it off. It’ll grow again, of course—probably thicker than——”

She stopped, her voice, for all its eager conviction, trailing off limply into silence at the expression on her aunt’s face.

“I—I’m sorry if you really feel badly about it, Aunt Charity,” she offered at last.

“I never know what you’ll do next, Erica Folger,” Miss Charity complained, despairingly. “You had nice hair, and I’ve always tried to see that you kept it in good condition. Her hair’s a woman’s crowning glory, so the Bible says. But of course, if you want to make yourself look a fright. Well, it’s done now and there’s no more to be said about it. I hope you’ll enjoy it.”

Erica put her hands up protestingly to her head. She had thought it looked rather—rather _pretty_, even if she had never seen a girl wear her hair short before. But now, under Miss Charity’s scathing words, her own enthusiasm fell suddenly flat, like a pricked toy balloon. Perhaps she had just been silly and impulsive again.

“Take that pail of water downstairs, and be careful you don’t spill it all over everything,” Miss Folger ordered, shortly. She had said her say on the other subject, and Erica knew by experience that she would not be apt to refer to it again. That was one of the nice things about Aunt Charity—she never nagged. Perhaps, though, Erica further reflected, uncomfortably, that made it all the worse when she did these unconsidered, impetuous things Aunt Charity worried over.

She went downstairs very soberly. The day had lost some of its early glamour already, but within another hour it was destined to become for Erica a very gray day indeed. Shortly before noon she heard a familiar whistling of an old sea tune from the garden that adjoined the house of her Folger cousins, next door. She went quickly through the dining-room door, out onto the sunny side porch, and whistled vigorously in response.

A tall, long-legged boy of fifteen swung himself easily over the low dividing fence, and was followed by a second long-legged boy, so exactly like him that a stranger might well have been excused for believing his own eyesight was playing him tricks. The only difference between them, which even a keen observer would have noticed at first glance, was that the fair hair of the boy first over the fence had an unruly kink in it that made it stand wildly on end at the slightest provocation, while the equally fair hair of his twin—for they could have been nothing else—was as straight and smooth and tractable as hair could be.

They came up the bricked path side by side, and then, at sight of Erica on the steps, stopped, stared incredulously, and went off into wild whoops of uproarious laughter.

Erica, one hand consciously touching her short locks, waited with obvious impatience until the two saw fit to come to order.

“Yes, I cut it off,” she said, hotly. “You would, too, long ago, if you’d had to drag those everlasting braids about everywhere. It’s comfortable, anyway.”

“Well, it looks queer,” the straight-haired twin said, bluntly. “But I guess it likely does feel more comfortable.”

“And there’s no good talking, as long as it’s cut,” the curly-haired twin added, good-naturedly. “Besides, Rick, we came over to talk about something much more important.”

Both boys’ faces sobered instantly, making them look, somehow, a good deal older. They sat down on the lowest step of the porch and looked up at the girl standing above them.

“We’ve settled the big question at last, Rick,” the one who had spoken last announced. “We spun a coin for it, and Lis stays home with mother and _I_ go to sea as cabin boy in the _Flying Spray_, sailing out of Boston next week, bound for Macao, Canton, and Cochin-China. Hurrah! Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”

Some of the bright color faded from Erica’s face. She glanced at the straight-haired boy in swift interrogation. He nodded, his own face clouded.

“Yes, Rick, Tommy gets all the luck and adventure, this trip,” he said, ruefully. “Mother can’t be left alone while she’s so poorly, so we agreed to let the toss of a coin settle which was to go and which to stay. No sense in both of us being tied on Nantucket; and this chance came up unexpectedly through Captain Bartlet of the _Spray_ being here for a few days with his sister—Mrs. Macy, you know, over on Pearl Street. He wants a boy for his next trip.”

“It was only decided last night,” Tommy added. “Mother and Captain Bartlet talked it over and agreed one of us should have the chance. They left it to us to say which one.”

“I don’t think an important thing like that ought to be decided by tossing a coin,” Erica objected, weakly. “It’s—well, it’s too much like gambling.”

“Oh, there’s Bible authority for casting lots—same thing exactly,” Tommy retorted. “Anyhow, it’s like your hair, too late to do anything about it now but groan.”

He grinned, and Erica bit her lip, flushing angrily. But the flush died as quickly as it had arisen. With the near prospect of losing one of the cousins who had been her inseparable companions from babyhood, she could not find it in her heart to resent anything teasing Tommy might say.

“I wish I were a boy,” she sighed a moment later. “Then I’d be on father’s ship right now bound home from China.” Her expression became less woe-begone. “La! I do envy you, Tommy! But why didn’t you wait for the _Sea Gull_? Father always promised one of you two a berth when the time came.”

“Yes, I know, but he won’t be back for months yet, probably,” Tommy replied. “And here was the chance to go right off, next week. Besides, I think it’s better not to sail with your family. Going with Captain Bartlet, I’ll stand on my own merits.” He couldn’t help an unconscious strut of importance, and both Erica and Lister laughed.

“You needn’t be so proud,” the former teased, “I came home from Canton on a clipper myself, before I was a year old; and had a Chinese nurse, too, that Sun Li sent home with me.”

For Erica Folger’s young mother had insisted on sailing with her captain on his voyages after their marriage, and on their second trip to China Erica had been born at sea, and her mother had died just two days from Canton.

“Maybe I’ll meet that mysterious godfather of yours, Rick,” Tommy suggested, out of the little silence that had fallen suddenly over the three. “Funny Uncle Eric won’t ever tell you anything definite about him.”

“Oh, but I do know lots,” Erica said, quickly. “He’s a very rich and powerful merchant in Canton—or at least, I _think_ he’s a merchant,” she added, less certainly. “I know father met him years ago through carrying a cargo for him. And Sun Li had a little son born the same day I was, only his baby died and he’s never had any other children. So as he and father were friends, anyhow, that made him take a very special interest in me. He sent his little dead son’s nurse to take care of me on the voyage home, and every time the _Sea Gull_ touches at Canton he sends me back a lovely present by father.”

The twins nodded, impressed as always by the story and the hint of mystery surrounding it. Also they had seen the “presents” in question, beautifully carved jade of deep, clear green, lengths of rich silks, ivory fans, and cunning teakwood boxes with trick drawers and detachable bottoms; things, as Aunt Charity pointed out disapprovingly, that were far too fine for a simple little Nantucket girl in her early ‘teens.

“Tommy, listen to me,” Erica cried, suddenly, her sea-blue eyes very bright with the new, exciting idea that had come to her. “It’s just possible that you _will_ meet Sun Li if the _Spray_ goes to Canton. Anyway, I’m going to give you something that will introduce you to him as my cousin if you do.” It was Erica whose voice held an important note now, but both her listeners were too absorbed to smile. “Wait here for me,” she added, eagerly. “I’ll be right back.”

She ran into the house, slamming the porch door behind her in the headlong tomboy fashion nothing that Miss Charity could say had succeeded in moderating. The twins heard her flying feet on the steep, carpeted stairs, and a moment later heard her come racing down them again.

She held a small ebony box very carefully in one hand, and, opening it, drew out a heavy gold ring set with a green jade seal. There were strange Chinese characters cut in the stone, and the ring itself formed a conventional dragon’s head, which held the seal in its wide-open mouth.

“Remember this?” she asked, breathlessly, holding it out to Tommy. “He sent it to me two years ago. Father said I was always to take great care of it, because it was Sun Li’s private seal, and the ring would have belonged to his son if he had lived. I’m going to give it to you, Tommy. When you’re in Canton, you can try to find out whose seal it is, and go to see Sun Li.”

“But he may not like that, Rick,” Lister interposed, his tone troubled. “If Uncle Eric hasn’t told us much about him, perhaps its because he’s been asked not to. Sun Li may not care to have visitors from across the ocean.”

“I don’t see why not,” Erica objected. “Anyhow, Tommy can use his judgment. He can inquire round a bit first, if you think he’d better——”

“Tommy’s judgment is just about as much to be relied on as your own,” Lister said. But his smile was gentle for her, as always. Lister felt himself years older, most of the time, than his twin and Erica.

Tommy took the ring and tried to slip it on his fourth finger. But it proved too small for that one, and too large for his little finger. He stared at it, frowningly, his face full of ingenuous disappointment.

“Never mind. You can wear it round your neck, like a sort of talisman,” Erica giggled. “I’ve got just the very cord for that—it’s Chinese, too. It came round the last box Sun Li sent me.”

She dashed upstairs a second time, and returned carrying a dark-blue cotton cord of a curious weave, knotted at intervals. Taking the ring from Tommy, she slipped it over one end of the cord, adding still another knot to the collection, which secured both ends firmly together. Then, with the air of a queen bestowing the accolade of knighthood on a subject, she flung the cord itself over Tommy’s fair, ruffled head, and tucked the ring down inside his collar.

“It’s safer to wear it out of sight, anyhow,” she advised him. “There are always rough men in those clipper crews, and you might have the ring stolen, if they knew you had it.”

She sat down, still breathless after her run upstairs, on the step between her two cousins and slipped an arm through an arm of each of them. Another little silence fell. In the midst of their banter and laughing plans the realization seemed to have seized on all three at once, that there were only a few more days left of the old, happy companionship.

Characteristically enough, it was Tommy who spoke first.

“Oh, well,” he observed, philosophically. “I won’t be gone more than a year. Probably not so much. The _Spray’s_ one of the fast clippers, you know. Rick’ll just have time to let that silly hair-cut grow out long enough to wear the ivory comb I’ll bring her back from Canton or Cochin-China, in exchange for Sun Li’s ring.”

“All right,” Erica flashed back, her eyes bubbling over with fun again. “I’ll put it with all the rest of the Chinese presents Aunt Charity won’t let me use yet. But I’m not going to let my hair grow,” she added with firmness. “It’s much too comfortable this way.” Which again, had Erica only known it, was a remark that a good many other girls were destined to repeat, in the same tone of conviction, eighty years later.