undertake such a journey, and I fear that your impression of her
    high character will receive some severe wrenches before your return.

    It must require unusual "nerve" to start off for several months with
    an unmarried man (or a married one, for that matter) putting ones
    self at his mercy, for that is what it amounts to. When the
    individual is wholly unknown to the woman who is to accompany
    him--when he may, for all she knows, be a "Jack, the Ripper"--the
    foolhardiness of the idea grows on one. I am sure I do not envy your
    companion, though it is by no means certain but you, and not she,
    will be the most swindled in the affair.

    I conjure you, however, though a total stranger, that if your friend
    proves to be merely a misguided girl of good intentions, you will
    not soil your soul with the greatest guilt of which a man can be
    capable. Remember, if your thoughts are dishonorable, that you have
    or have had a Mother, perhaps a Sister, whose memory should make you
    pause before you inflict irreparable ruin on one of the same sex.

    Yours Sincerely,

    A.B.

    New York, Dec. 31, 1897.

A strange letter, I thought, take it altogether. I read it over slowly
for the second time. The first few lines indicated disappointment, and a
perusal of the remaining portion did not remove this impression,
entirely. The final sentences sobered me. The reflections they induced
were certainly not exhilarating. Although I have no sister and cannot
remember my mother, I have a great veneration for my lost parents, and
there is no string so susceptible of influence on my actions as the one
this writer touched.

I made a new resolution that I would carry myself like a gentleman in
the truest sense of the word with Miss May. I had been honest in the
expressions I used when talking the matter over with Harvey Hume. The
earnest admonitions of Dr. Chambers had not been without effect. I meant
to prove by this journey that I was capable of being in the close
companionship of a young lady without becoming either a brute or a Don
Juan.

Looking at it even from the standpoint of an enlightened selfishness I
was sure to get more satisfaction in a voyage with a woman whom I could
respect than with one who assumed the role of a cyprienne.

Loose creatures are to be found in plenty in the Caribbee Islands, as
well as in New York. A sweet, true, honest, intelligent bit of
femininity was quite another thing, and infinitely to be preferred, from
any sensible view.

Marjorie! So far as my uncertain mind could do so I pledged to her a
purity of intercourse such as a man might give to his affianced
sweetheart.

I had folded the letter up and put it in my pocket when a visitor was
announced, no less a person than Tom Barton. He came toward me with a
distressed look on his honest countenance and it was plain that he was
far from being at ease.

"Don," he said, paying no attention to my motion toward a chair, "what
is the trouble between you and Statia? I can't believe you have done
anything intentionally to set her so against you, and yet--"

"Sit down and don't get excited," I responded quickly, deciding to
dispose of the matter in the calmest way. "Have you had your coffee? If
not, let me ring for another pot. You don't seem well this morning, old
boy."

"I'm not well," he said, in a dispirited tone, taking the chair at last.
"But you can make me so with one word. Last night Statia came to me with
her eyes full of tears. 'Tom,' she said, 'if you love me I want you to
promise never to see Donald Camran again.' 'Never to see Don!' I
exclaimed, unable to believe my ears. 'Yes,' said she, 'I've told him I
don't wish him to call here and I want you to write him to the same
effect.' You may imagine what a staggerer that was. There's not another
fellow in the world of whom I wouldn't rather she'd have said that. I
tried to get her to give some reason--any reason, or the hint of
one--but it was no use. She only cried the harder, and when at last I
went to bed, I tell you I didn't get much sleep. Tell me, Don, what it
means."

"It seems you didn't make your sister the promise," I replied. "And you
were quite right. The whim of a girl should not come between stanch
friends like us."

That did not satisfy him, however. He murmured that we had been good
friends--that he couldn't bear to think we should ever be otherwise--but
he wanted to understand what his sister meant. As she wouldn't tell him,
he had come to ask that favor of me.

"Supposing I don't care to say anything about it," I replied, quietly.
"If Statia is set on keeping the wonderful secret, how can you expect
me to divulge it?"

He struggled a moment with this idea, for Tom was always slow in
grasping abstruse problems.

"You'll have to help me clear up the mystery," he said, at last. "I've
only got one sister, Don, and she and I are all there are to the family
now. If it comes to losing my sister or my best friend, I must stand by
Statia."

I felt a chill going over my flesh as he spoke. I liked Tom, and I liked
Statia--yes, in spite of the silly meeting of the day before. It was
better to back down a little than to lose such friends.

"What a serious matter you make of it!" I exclaimed. "You ask me what is
the trouble between Statia and me. Well, the fact is, I hardly know. She
met me in Broadway yesterday and wanted to make me promise something
that I could not see--to be candid--was any affair of hers. When I
declined, as courteously as I knew how, she flew at me with the
statement that I need never call at her house again. I had no choice in
the matter, Tom, not the least. I wouldn't do anything to justify her in
talking to me in that way, if I could help it, but one must retain a few
of his personal rights, you know."

"And what was it about?" asked Tom, very earnestly.

"It was about a woman. A woman I like very well, and who happens to be
going on the same steamer I am to the Tropics. There! The terrible
secret is out."

Tom studied the answer a long time, but evidently could make nothing of
it.

"Statia has always liked you immensely, Don," he said. "I've been almost
jealous of you sometimes. She wouldn't go against you all of a sudden
without what seemed to her a strong reason."

"And I like Statia," was my reply. "Yes, in spite of the ugly attitude
she has chosen to take toward me. Why, Tom--I don't know but, under the
circumstances, I ought to tell you--I asked her only a week ago to marry
me."

"Ah!" he exclaimed, in a mixture of happiness and pain, that was very
touching.

"Yes, and she refused positively. I was disappointed, you may believe,
for I had thought she entertained a decided feeling in my favor, and
would have asked long before except for that illness of mine. Her
attitude might have thrown me back into the doctor's hands, for my head
is not yet any too strong, but I managed to crush down my thoughts and
bear up under it. I hope it's not wrong to tell you this, old chap, but
I don't think I ought to let you go off with wrong impressions of me."

He shook his head in mute dismay.

"The other woman--the one you and she were speaking about," he said.
"Who is she? It seems as if the key to the whole trouble was there."

"Now, Tom," I replied, "you have no right to ask me a question like that
and I shall have to decline to bring the name of a third person into
this discussion. I have the greatest regard for you and the highest
respect for Statia. If you decide to throw me over, the responsibility
must rest where it belongs."

"Would you--would you come round to the house and talk it over with
both of us together?" he asked, after a long pause. "It troubles me more
than I can tell you. Would you come over, say Tuesday evening?"

"Yes," I said, smilingly, "if Statia writes me a letter asking me to do
so."

"She must write it," he said, brightening. "I can't have our friendship
broken up like this. Shall you be at home all day?"

I answered that I would be there just before dinner, at least, to
receive any communication that might be sent, and Tom, taking my hand in
his hearty grasp for the first time since he had been in the room, said
'Good-by' and left me, evidently much relieved.

I was by no means as certain as he that Statia would make any such
back-down. I have noticed that women are more apt than men to stick to a
position they have once taken, even after they find that the mistake is
on their side.

But, I really hoped some avenue would be opened for a reconciliation
without my having to go on bended knees to either of them, which I saw
no reason for doing.

I had told Tom all it would be safe to tell. He was so immaculate in all
his thoughts of women that there was no saying how my plan, if fully
presented, would strike his mind. I certainly did not mean to risk it.

It was a day that had begun disagreeably and I was looking forward to at
least a pleasant afternoon, when a note from Miss May came, to dash that
prospect to the ground. Here it is:

    My Dear Mr. C.:--I fear you have undertaken a larger contract than
    you anticipated when you began. To be plain, the amount you left in
    my hands will hardly suffice to provide all the necessaries for a
    lady travelling as your relation and equal. If you are satisfied I
    will consent, though I am sure I would not have done so at first, to
    go as your ward, merely,--as a young woman whom you have promised
    some friend to see on her journey to a point where she is to be a
    governess or whatever you like to say.

    In that case you will not be disgraced if I do not dress very well.
    I cannot endure the thought of being suspected; and a lady such as
    you wish me to appear would have three or four gowns suitable for
    appearing at table, with at least a little jewelry--of which, alas!
    I have practically nothing.

    I write you this with a heavy heart, for I fear you will begin to
    consider me a nuisance, but I hope you will understand. I went out
    this morning and priced several gowns, but finding that the money
    you left me would be exhausted before the really necessary things
    were obtained, I returned to my room without breaking one of the
    banknotes.

    Please reply by messenger, stating what you think it best to do. If
    I am going to cost you more than you wish to expend, tell me so
    frankly and I will release you from every obligation. I resigned my
    other position last night, but am certain my old employer will
    gladly take me back if I have to ask it. Ugh! that is the most
    disagreeable thought in connection with this entire matter!

    Understand, I am ready to go with you--I want to go--and I leave the
    position I am supposed to occupy to your own judgment. If I am to
    pass as a governess, in whom you have no special interest, you may
    return me half of the money enclosed and I shall find it amply
    sufficient. If I am to be your "cousin," I fear it will have to be
    doubled.

    Please do not decide in a way you will regret. I am obliged to leave
    the city on an early train, to remain over New Years with friends,
    but shall expect you Tuesday at any hour after ten. That is, if you
    wish to see me again.

    Yours Faithfully,

    M.M.

    P.S. The trunks and bag are splendid. Of course, I shall hold them
    subject to your orders if you decide to drop our arrangement.

I looked at the six fifty dollar bills lying on the table, where they
had fallen from the envelope. The messenger boy looked at them also, as
if he half wished he had run away with the package instead of delivering
it. His presence disturbed me and I told him to walk around the block,
returning in a quarter of an hour. This he hesitated to do and I shoved
a two dollar bill into his fist, as a guarantee of my good faith.

What a criss-cross of ideas piled upon my brain when I was alone! At one
instant I said to myself that Miss May was a schemer, who had determined
to "play me for a sucker,"--to use a common, though not over delicate
expression. She had been indiscreet in returning my cash; I would put it
in my pocket and forget her. On the other hand, the thought of going
south alone was enough to madden me. I did not care two straws that the
cost of the trip would be doubled, if it possessed the charming features
I had allowed myself to paint.

The woman's going into the country for two whole days when the question
was unsettled was also most exasperating. If I could proceed
immediately to her room and talk with her face to face it would be
easier to decide.

The fifteen minutes passed, the boy returned, and I was still in a
quandary. Finally, when the young imp presented himself in a
business-like attitude, I seized a pen and wrote as follows:

    _Destroy the note I sent a moment ago and substitute this one._

    Dear Miss May:--["Dear" does not mean anything at the beginning of a
    letter]--I am very sorry to learn that you feel it necessary to be
    absent over Monday, as I have many things to say to you. Perhaps, as
    you can do nothing in the meantime, it is best to let the matter
    rest till Tuesday morning, when I will call, promptly at ten, and we
    will decide everything.

    Yours,

    D.C.

The boy took this note, when it was sealed and addressed, and
disappeared like magic. He had hardly gone when I wished I had sent a
letter of different purport. There was an awful possibility that Miss
May would take the chance I had undoubtedly offered, to give up the
whole idea of going. She had certainly not seemed as enthusiastic as I
could wish. I ran to a window, threw it open, and would have whistled to
the boy, but he was nowhere to be seen.

It was like a matter of life and death to me then. Ringing in a call I
took my pen again and indited the following:

    Dear Marjorie:--for so you said I might call you:--I return the
    money that you sent back to me. Keep it till I meet you Tuesday
    morning at ten, when I will come prepared with a sum which will
    certainly meet every demand you can put upon it. You are wiser than
    I about feminine apparel and could not please me better than by the
    forethought you display. It is with great regret that I learn you
    are to be absent over Sunday and Monday, when I had hoped to pass
    some pleasant hours with you, but I cheerfully yield to your
    arrangement. Within a few days there will be no other friends to
    distract your attention from one who will prove himself the truest
    of them all.

    Sincerely Yours,

    D.C.

    No. -- Thirty-fourth Street.

I procured a large envelope and took it into the bedroom, where I could
re-insert the bank bills without danger of arousing the cupidity of
young Mercury. With a lead pencil I added to the note a request that the
recipient would send just a line by bearer to show that my message had
arrived safely, and saw the boy depart, feeling that I had at last done
the sensible thing.

Whether this proved to be the case I will leave the reader to judge when
he has finished this volume.

CHAPTER IX.

A PRIVATE DINING ROOM.

Saturday evening was dull enough, being only brightened by a pencilled
note from Miss May, reading simply, "Money received. Will see you
Tuesday." I went over to the Lyceum Theatre to a play called "The Tree
of Knowledge," which I now believe one of the brightest things produced
on the American stage in years, though I was too full of other thoughts
to appreciate it at the time.

It was an attempt to shift the burden of blame that has rested in all
fiction on the shoulders of the man, to that of the woman, and was so
far rather welcome to me. We are a bad lot, as a rule, I am afraid, but
some allowance should be made for a case like the one in the play, where
a well intentioned young fellow is used as a football by a girl who does
not care if his life is ruined, so long as she accomplishes her designs.

I remember being somewhat surprised at the apparent approval of the fine
audience, but that may have been due in a measure to the delightful
acting of the various parts. I had not been to the Lyceum for a long
time and did not remember to have seen the "wronged young man" before,
but he made a most favorable impression on me as more natural and less
stagey than the average. The "villain,"--the masculine one--was an
excellent actor, also. As for the "wicked" woman, I thought, if
Marjorie failed me, I would give her an invitation to spend the rest of
the winter in the Caribbean.

Sunday was weariness itself. I poured over the newspapers, took a walk,
managed to get a short nap, for I was tired, ate my lunch, and then, to
fill up the time, wrote a letter to Miss Brazier, in defense of myself
from the severe attack that unknown young woman had made. It was a silly
proceeding, but I liked to write about Marjorie, even to one wholly
unknown, and this is what I said, as near as I can remember it:

    Dear Alice (Ben Bolt):--I feel justified in calling you "Alice," now
    it is settled that you are not to be my companion for long and (to
    you, doubtless) weary weeks, a liberty I should never have dreamed
    of taking had you decided to go. I do not know in what way I have
    offended you, which I judge by your letter to be the case, but as
    the children say, "If I've done anything I'm sorry for, I'm glad of
    it." (Of course I don't mean exactly that.) The reason I write this
    is to ask you to dine with me (in a highly respectable public dining
    room--no cabinet particulaire, mind!) some evening before the 12th,
    when I am to sail.

    If you will do this, I will fill your shell-like ears with such an
    account of your Rival that you will acquit her of intending any of
    the horrors you intimate. She is neither, I believe, a sinful
    creature nor a dunce--just a sweet, strong-minded, trusting seeker
    after change and rest.

    And I don't like your insinuations, either, about my own moral
    character. If you knew me, I should not blame you so much, but as
    you don't--it's simply reprehensible. I have no intention of
    "soiling my soul," or that of any other person, but if that awful
    event happens (I wonder how I would look with a soiled soul!) you
    will be to blame. If you really thought I was in danger, why did you
    not do the patriotic thing and offer to go in her place? That would
    have disposed of the s--s--possibility.

    Now, if you have not already thrown this down in a rage--I judge you
    to be a woman of the most fiendish temper!--let me be sensible for
    just one moment. I am recovering slowly from a long illness and am
    as harmless as a dove. I have, honestly, some work for a typewriter
    to do, and my physician has advised me to take one. The young lady
    who has agreed to go is not the sort you seem to imagine. She has
    consented only after the most distressing stipulations in regard to
    my conduct--all of which were entirely unnecessary, by the way. I am
    to file a bond to return her to New York by May 1st in absolutely
    perfect condition.

    Come and dine with me, Alice dear, and have your doubts removed. I
    won't bite you, nor offer the slightest familiarity, upon my word!
    Name your hotel and, provided it is of undoubted respectability, I
    will meet you there at any hour you choose, after 6 P.M., or I will
    send a carriage for you. I only wish I could bring 'Marjorie'--isn't
    it a perfectly sweet name! One sight of her soulful eyes would say
    more than all my protestations. Unhappily she is out of town, and I
    am afraid she wouldn't like to be exhibited, if she were here.

    You'd best come.

    Yours Fraternally,

    D. CAMWELL.

    The Lambs, Dec. 31, 1897.

It didn't seem too funny, when I read it over, as I thought it would,
but I sent it to East Sixteenth Street by a messenger that I summoned,
telling him to bring an answer, if there was any, and to return for his
pay, if there was none. He came back in half an hour, saying that a boy
at the house took the letter up stairs, presumably to Miss B., and
returned in a few minutes stating that she would reply by mail. As this
exhausted all the fun I could expect out of that matter for the day, I
went over to the Club and lounged away the afternoon.

It was nine o'clock and I had only been at home for a few minutes when a
note came from Statia Barton. It was written in a very cool strain, but
its contents were unexpectedly agreeable, for all that. Statia said she
was afraid she had been a little too severe, and that, as it distressed
Tom very much to have a general falling out, she had made it up with
him. She had nothing to take back in what she had said relating to a
certain matter, (what woman ever took back anything?) but was willing to
admit that it was, really, my personal affair and that she had no right
to control my conduct. She believed it best, on the whole, that we
should see each other as little as possible before I went away, but she
did not wish, on reflection, to make trouble between her brother and his
friend. If Tom wanted me to come to spend an evening with him, she hoped
I would do it, and she promised to keep out of my way.

It was a queer mixture, take it altogether, but I was very glad to
receive it. The calming effect on my general condition was such that
when I went to bed, I slept for nearly seven hours without interruption,
something I had not done for the previous fortnight.

Monday, on account of New Years, was as dull as Sunday. When I awoke
with the exultant knowledge that it was at last Tuesday morning, I
sprang from bed joyfully. Filling my tub with water as it ran from the
street pipe, I plunged into its icy depths. Rising again I repeated the
operation half a dozen times, until the effect on my entire body was of
a healthy glow, and then proceeded to dress with care. I was long in
selecting a necktie, for one thing, and tried three pairs of cuff-links
before I was content. My coffee was barely tasted, and the newspapers
were scanned as if in a dream.

All the time, mind you, I was trying my best to obey the injunction of
Dr. Chambers to avoid the least excitement. I persuaded myself that I
was simply happy and that no injurious effect could be apprehended from
a merely contented frame of mind. I did not stop to think that I was
pursuing a short road to the nervous prostration from which I had
emerged, and which had its origin in the same lack of control I was
exhibiting.

Tom Barton called about eight o'clock and, as he entered the room, came
straight to me with his right hand extended. I took it heartily in mine,
glad that the chasm between us was bridged at last.

"Dear old fellow," he said, with strong feeling, "forgive me for
anything disagreeable I said, the other day. I feel now that I misjudged
you. Let us end that matter and when you come to my house this evening,
tell me exactly what route you are going to take, so I can arrange where
to write you."

I promised to come if I could, and if that was impossible, to send a
message to account for my absence. I told him I had bought a set of
small maps which would show my route perfectly and that I hoped for
frequent communications with him. Neither of us said anything about
Statia, for I think he felt as I did that we should get along better
without bringing in her name. He was obliged to leave after a brief
call. As soon as he was out of sight I donned my out-door garments and
proceeded by round-about stages toward Miss May's residence.

The hands of my watch pointed to ten exactly, when I rang her bell. It
is considered a virtue, I believe, to be prompt at an appointment. The
woman who attended the door dampened my ardor somewhat, however, by
informing me that Miss May had not yet returned. She suggested that I go
at once to the lady's room and make myself comfortable till she came,
which must be very soon.

I walked slowly up the stairs, which seemed longer than ever, oppressed
with a new series of doubts. Perhaps she would not come at all. Perhaps
she had taken my three hundred dollars and fled to parts unknown.
Perhaps--oh! the ugly things that came into my head between the lower
hall and the door of that empty room.

I turned the knob and entered. Somehow the sight of the things that
belonged to her began to mollify me. There was the chair in which she
had been seated when I saw her last--happy chair! There was the dressing
table, the brush and comb she used, the glass into which she had looked
with her beautiful blue-gray eyes. Yes, and masquerading as a cabinet,
yet deceiving no one for a second, was the folding bed that had often
received her lovely form, with her head pillowed in happy slumber.

It was something to be in the room she occupied, to see the furniture
she used.

I seated myself in her chair--the one I had seen her in--but almost
instantly rose and walked about. My nerves were too much on edge to
permit me to remain long without motion of some kind. At the end of half
an hour I began to grow incensed again. She had made the appointment for
ten o'clock. She knew from previous experience that I would keep it to
the moment. Trains from the suburbs ran frequently enough. Did she
consider me merely a puppet, to be played with?

Between half-past ten and eleven I was a hundred times on the point of
descending the stairs and leaving the house, ending the whole affair.

But I didn't.

She came about ten minutes past eleven, with many expressions of regret
at having kept me waiting. The timepiece at the house of her friend had
broken its mainspring, or something of the sort, and with the
carelessness of a woman she had forgotten to wind her watch the evening
before. The family were all deceived by the fact that the sky was
cloudy. When she reached her station the train had just gone and she was
obliged to wait three-quarters of an hour for another. As soon as she
alighted in New York, she took a cab and bade the driver hasten. Had I
been waiting very long?

I did not know, at that instant, whether I had been a minute or a week,
and I did not care. It was enough that I was again in her presence--that
she had actually arrived. I begged her to say nothing more about it.

"I have kept the cab," she said, looking me full in the face, "thinking
you might be kind enough to go with me to the shops and help me pick out
my things. If it isn't asking too much--"

I assured her it would give me the greatest pleasure to accept the
invitation and that I had no engagement so important as helping her to
get ready for our journey. With a smile, she took off her hat and
arranged her hair at the mirror, with a few passes of the brush and
comb. Then she put it on again and said she was quite ready.

"Drive to Altman's," she said to the cabman, as she stepped inside the
vehicle.

We were together, side by side. Had we been on the way to the steamer
nothing could have exceeded my delight. These preliminaries all tended
in that direction, however, and I was fain to curb my haste and content
myself with the present.

"I think you ought to see what it costs to dress a young woman who is
going to masquerade as the cousin of a gentleman of means," said Miss
May, as we turned the corner. "I want you to decide on each article,
since the expense is to come out of your pocket. I must say another
thing also, at this time. I shall not consider as my own anything I need
to buy. I am merely in the position of an actress whose wardrobe is to
be provided by her manager. Whenever our engagement terminates I will
return every article to you in as good shape as possible."

I was staggered by the suggestion, as well as impressed by the sentiment
that led her to make it.

"What could I do with a lot of gowns--and--lingerie?" I inquired,
helplessly. "They would be a veritable drug on my hands."

"They could be altered," she said, thoughtfully. "I shall be very
careful of them."

"Altered!" I cried. "For whom?"

"For the next typewriter you may happen to engage."

I laughed to conceal the disagreeable feeling which the thought gave me.

"As a joke that is stupendous," I said, "but, if you don't mind, I would
rather you would be funny on some other subject."

She relapsed into silence, something after the manner of a child who has
been chidden, which did not add to my ease. I had no idea of scolding
her. Luckily we were soon at Altman's.

I had come provided with plenty of money that time. The cash she had
brought was exhausted when we left this place and we did not seem to
have got much for it, either. A milliner was next visited, where the
price of the few articles purchased was forgotten in my admiration of
the charming appearance Marjorie made in her new headgear. Then we drove
to another establishment, where she was obliged to hide herself from
view for three-quarters of an hour, with a bill of eighty-five dollars
as the result. She explained that she had got nothing she could possibly
avoid, when it was considered that we might be several weeks at a time
without a laundress, and I said the only fear I had was that she would
buy too little.

A boot shop came next in order, where I had a jealous pang as one of the
salesmen fitted her with various articles in his stock, all suitable
for a warm climate, at a total cost of forty dollars. And then we drove
about, from glove shop to perfumer's, from umbrella maker to fan dealer,
from this to that, and the hands on my watch showed that it was nearly
five o'clock.

"I think that is about all for to-day," said Miss May, drawing a long
breath. "You must be glad it's over."

"Not at all," I replied. "Isn't it about time, though, that we had
something in the way of refreshment?" (She had declined several offers
to lunch during the preceding five hours.) "Mayn't I tell the driver now
to take us to a restaurant?"

She consented, after a little thought, and also said she would leave the
place to me. When I suggested the Hotel Martin, she thought a little
longer, and then surprised me with a request that I would get a private
room.

"Impossible," I said, when I could catch my breath. "They will assign no
party of two to a room alone."

She blushed, which was not surprising. I had put her in the position of
wishing to break a puritanic rule of which she had never heard.

I mentioned several other places, and we finally agreed on one some
distance up-town, at which I told her the regulation against a single
couple dining alone did not apply. She was rather tired and leaned back
in the carriage in a manner that showed it. I studied her face as much
as I could without appearing to stare, but it was wholly
expressionless.

"You are very good to me," she said, after a long pause.

"And you are very kind to me," I answered.

"What a lot of money we have spent to-day," she added. "Aren't you sorry
yet?"

"No," I answered, smiling. "Not yet."

"I shall need almost nothing more," she said, "to appear in a garb that
will not disgrace you. Nothing, but a little jewelry, I think."

I said we would go to-morrow and attend to that, or she could go alone
if she preferred, and send the bills to me.

"It must be lovely to have all the money one wants," she remarked,
dreamily. "To order whatever you please without stopping to see if you
can afford it."

"Yes," I assented.

"You can do that?" said Miss May, putting one of her gloved hands on my
arm.

"Within a reasonable limit. My wants are seldom extravagant."

"Why," she asked, slowly, "is the world arranged so unevenly? Why are
some provided with all they want, and more, while others have to study
each item of actual necessity?"

"That is a deep question, that I would not like to settle in my present
state of hunger," I replied, at which she smiled and sat up in the
carriage. "We are luckily near the end of our route. I think I had best
dismiss the cab and get another one when we leave."

She agreed and then asked if I had any objection to her donning a veil.
It was all right, of course--dining in a private room with her
employer--but it might not seem so to a casual passer, who would
possibly recognize her face at some future period. A woman had to be so
particular.

I cut her explanations short by saying that I did not object to the
idea, but quite approved of it; at which she put on the veil, which to
my consternation was blue and quite opaque. I did not wish to let any
difference of opinion come between us, but I reflected that if one of my
friends saw me, with a woman veiled like that, his conclusions would be
anything but pleasing. There is such a thing as going too far.

We were shown to a nice little room, where the waiter came near getting
himself into trouble by informing me with needless severity that it was
not permitted to lock the door.

Miss May did not seem to hear what he said. She was removing her blue
veil at a little glass that hung on the wall.

When she took the chair opposite to me and accepted the menu at my
hands, she looked so charming that I had to put a veritable Westinghouse
brake on my arms.

CHAPTER X.

ONCE THERE WAS A CHILD.

The meal that we ordered was well cooked and well served, and being
provided with that best of all sauces, hunger, I did it full justice.
Our conversation seemed, however, rather dull, and there was not that
flow of spirits that I expected when we entered the place. Miss May
seemed absorbed in thought, though she declared, when I rallied her on
the point, that she was not down hearted, but very happy to be there.
Occasionally when footsteps were heard in the corridor she started
nervously, which led me to suppose that she feared intrusion. I
thereupon remarked that while it was against the rules to bolt the door
of the room, I believed a good-sized tip would secure the privilege; to
which she replied, with a vehemence I could not understand, that she
would not hear of such a thing.

One might imagine she suspected me of an intention to murder her, so
earnest was her protest.

"Oh, I would much rather leave it unlocked," I said. "I was only trying
to please you."

She made no answer, and I found my spirits, always mercurial, beginning
to sink a little. Noticing my dejection, she came to my rescue and soon
had me all right again. We talked of the journey, she asking many
particulars of my former visit to the Caribbean Islands. She had never
been at sea for more than a few hours and wondered if she was liable to
that malady so much to be dreaded, seasickness. I assured her it was not
nearly as bad as it was painted and told of my own slight experiences in
that line, years before.

My companion ate and drank sparingly. She declined my proposal to order
champagne, and mixed her claret and apollinaris like a veritable tyro in
restaurant dining. This rather pleased me, on the lookout as I was for
indications that she might be other than she seemed. She had every mark
of the true lady, and I was well prepared to believe it, when I learned,
some days later, of the station in which she had been born and in which
her childhood was passed.

"I have been thinking," she remarked, after one of her long pauses;
"would it not be best for me, to take your family name? I wish, above
all things, to avoid suspicion."

"I fear we are a little too late for that," I replied. "I was obliged to
give your name to the agent and he has already placed it on the
passenger list."

"Will that list get into the newspapers?" she asked, nervously.

"I presume so."

"Then you must manage to have my name changed, at all hazards. My old
employer would use every means to annoy me if he discovered where I am
going."

"It is only recorded as 'Miss M. May,'" I said. "Surely there is more
than one person of that name in the world."

She shook her head and bit her lips in distress.

"It must be changed," she repeated. "It will not do to give him the
slightest clue. He imagines himself 'in love'--Heaven help me!--and I
dare not risk it. Any name you like, but my own."

"What can he do?" I inquired. "You don't think I would let him annoy
you, when you were under my protection."

"He can do many things. No, there is no way but to alter the name. Tell
the agent the lady you expected is not going--that she has been taken
ill--and that another is to fill her place. Do not argue, do not
hesitate, or I shall be compelled, even now, to give up the journey. And
that," she added, seeing my sober face, "you know well I would not like
to do."

This was enough to settle the matter and I said I would give the agent
in the morning any name she desired.

"I would like it the same as your own," she said, thoughtfully. "It
might save infinite trouble. Just record me as Miss M. Camwell. Is there
any reason against that?"

Yes, there was one and it occurred to me. The name, which I had decided
to use, was so near my own that Uncle Dugald would be likely to see it,
not to say anything about Hume, Tom Barton and Statia. They might lay
the twisting of Donald Camran into "David Camwell" to the carelessness
of copyist and printer, but their suspicions would certainly be aroused
if they saw next to my name that of a "Miss" Camwell.

"I will change your name in some way," I answered, after a long pause,
"but I see dangers in the plan you propose, nearly as great as in the
present one."

I then gave her an inkling of my fears, saying I did not wish any sharp
friend to guess what I was doing, which was possible with two such
uncommon names in just a position on an alphabetical list.

She did not seem satisfied, but raised no objection when I asked her if
I might call her Miss M. Carney, which I thereupon decided to do.

It was rather dull, take it altogether, the dinner, but when we were
again in a cab and rolling toward Forty-fifth Street, Miss May
brightened, like the close of a cloudy day, just before the sun sinks
into the obscurity of the western sky. She put one of her hands on mine,
quite as if the act was a wholly thoughtless one, but it sufficed to
cheer me up. She even volunteered a prophesy that we would be good
friends and contented fellow voyagers.

Before we reached her door she asked me at what hour I would call on the
morrow, quite as if anxious to see me. After a little debate I decided
upon three in the afternoon. That would give her the entire morning with
her dressmaker, for necessary alterations in the garments she had
purchased.

She did not seem to notice particularly when I raised the gloved hand I
held and pressed it to my lips at parting. It was an act that any lady
might pardon, and she probably thought nothing of it.

"To-morrow, then, at three," she said, smiling at me from the curbstone.

"Yes. Don't keep me waiting," I answered, remembering the morning.

"I will try not to; these dressmakers are so unreliable, though.
You--you wouldn't rather I would come to your rooms? Perhaps there is
another of those rules we have been running across, against it. If there
is none, and you prefer--"

I said I approved of the idea highly and that I was at liberty to invite
to my apartment any person I pleased.

"You spoke of a machine that I have never used," said Miss May,
tentatively. "If you have one there, as a sort of excuse--"

"I have one," said I. "Although it won't be needed for that purpose. You
remember the number, -- West Thirty-fourth."

She nodded and spoke to my driver, repeating it to him. Then with
another of her bright smiles she waved me good-by and ascended the
steps, while I was driven away.

"Henry," I was saying ten minutes after, to the hall boy, "I expect a
young lady to-morrow, between three and four, who will ask for Mr.
Camwell."

"There isn't any Mr. Camwell in the house, sir," said the boy.

"There will be at that hour. He will be in my rooms. You may not see him
enter and you may not see him leave, but he will be here. All you have
to do is to say 'Yes, ma'am,' to the lady and bring her to my door."

"I understand," said Henry, with a wholly superfluous grin, that showed
how little common sense the average hall-boy possesses.

"No, you don't understand anything," I responded, snappishly. "Do as I
order and you'll lose nothing. Make the least mistake and I will see
that you get your notice."

He responded meekly that he would be careful and then handed me a
letter, which I saw was from Miss Brazier. He also said that Mr. Barton
had called and expressed surprise when he heard that I had left no word
for him.

Poor Tom! It came to my recollection all at once that I had promised to
spend the evening at his house, or send him a note if unable to do so.
Well, I would write him an apology before I went to sleep.

This is what Miss Brazier said:

    Dear Mr. Camwell:--I wish I could understand you, but the riddle
    grows harder and harder. Sometimes you seem a combination of Don
    Quixote, Mephistopheles and Hector Greyburn. At one moment I believe
    you the greatest wretch alive; at the next I ascribe your sentiments
    to the buoyancy of youth and convince myself that you are at heart
    an honorable man.

    As to dining with you, I must deny myself that pleasure. I do not
    believe you would "bite" me, nor am I afraid your levity would turn
    my head. I can merely say that dining with a stranger is not in
    accord with my habits and that I see no sufficient reason to make
    your case an exception. I would be glad to see your "Marjorie,"
    though, were that feasible, but this also I must forego.

    Now, as a last word--for my correspondence may weary you--remember
    that true happiness in this life does not consist in the mere
    gratification of every passing whim, and that the path you have
    before you may contain thorns as well as roses. If you return to
    America with your conscience void of offence toward God and your
    companion you will have accomplished something of which you may
    well be proud.

    Won't you write me just a line when you are again at home, to say
    that my petition has been answered.

    Your True Friend,

    A.B.

    Jan. 2, 1898.

Sobered more than I could account for by reading this letter, I sat for
a long time in silence. Then, after writing a brief note to Tom,
excusing my neglect, I sought my pillow, or in plain English, went to
bed.

My first act in the morning after coffee was to go to Cook's and alter
the name of May to that of Carney, as well as change my own to "David
Camwell," for which I gave a satisfactory reason to the clerk. He told
me that he could omit both names from the list sent to the newspapers,
if I desired, and I decided that this was, on the whole, the better way.

On leaving I had an idea that pleased me, no less than to visit
Tiffany's and purchase a little jewelry for Marjorie. It would be
pleasant to see her eyes light up as I put it into her hand.

Taking a Broadway car, I soon reached the shop I sought, and emerged a
few minutes later with a pair of diamond eardrops, a ring of turquoise
and small diamonds, and another of chased gold without a stone. Each was
enclosed in a tasty case. I was much pleased that the selection had been
made so easily.

Miss May arrived at my room nearly on time, with a fine color in her
cheeks, due to the fact that she had walked some distance. She was
undeniably good-looking and my heart warmed as I thought of the long
companionship we were to have together. She was a little tired, she
said, from standing for the dressmaker's measurer, and dropped into my
largest chair with a very fetching air of fatigue. As soon as I could
without seeming in haste I produced the case containing the turquoise
ring and presented it for her inspection.

"I took the liberty," I remarked, "of buying this, to fill the vacant
place on one of your fingers. If it does not fit, you can take it back
for alteration; or if it does not please you Tiffany will exchange it."

She took it out languidly and found that it fitted very well. She was
not as delighted as I had supposed she would be, but her tired feeling
probably accounted for that.

"It is very pretty," she said, "and you are very kind."

Then I opened the case containing the plain ring and she found a
suitable position for that also. When I showed her the eardrops she grew
more interested and on trying them on declared them "perfectly sweet."

"I used to have some very like them," she said, with a sigh, "but that
was long ago. How very good you are. Are you not tired of the expense I
cause you?"

I assured her that I was not, in the least.

"I do not own a piece of jewelry in the world," she added, "except a
wedding ring, that belonged to my mother."

"And these," I corrected her by saying.

"No. These are not mine. They are merely part of the make-up for the
rôle I am to play. You shall have them all back again when the curtain
is rung down."

She took out her purse, and drew forth the ring of which she had spoken.
Placing it on her wedding finger she held it out to me.

"Don't I look quite like a married woman?" she asked, smilingly.

"Quite," I assented, "and a very sweet bride you make, too."

"Have you the typewriting machine here?" she asked, ignoring my
compliment. "I wish to see what it is like."

I put the machine on a table, arranging it for her inspection. It was an
original Hammond, which I prefer to the universal keyboard. She drew up
a chair and listened intently while I explained its workings, showing
how the capitals and figures are produced with the same set of keys as
the lower case letters. I showed the working of the ribbon, the
arrangement of the alarm bell and all the other points needed by one who
had never operated that style. When I had finished and inserted a sheet
of paper she began carefully to write a sentence, encouraged
occasionally by my guidance when the unfamiliar location of the keys
caused her to pause.

"I shall be able to use it as rapidly as the Remington, in a week," she
said, when she finished the sheet. "It is not nearly as hard as I
imagined."

She left the table and resumed her seat in the chair, where we fell into
a conversation that lasted several hours. She counted with me the days
that remained and was glad they were so few. She said she could think of
nothing more that she needed before starting: yes, the jewelry was
quite sufficient. She put back each piece in the case it had come in,
asking me to keep them till we were ready to go.

"You are sure you will not be sorry for what you are doing?" she asked,
after a time.

"How can I, if you enjoy the journey?" was my reply.

She shrugged her shoulders prettily and said it was time to leave. She
declined with many thanks an invitation to dine with me again, making a
light excuse, and with a friendly grasp of the hand took her departure.
It had been agreed that she would call for a short time each afternoon
that remained.

When I had become chilled at the vacancy her absence made in the room I
went over to the table and looked at what she had written on the
machine. It was a pleasure even to see the lines her fair hands had
made, and I withdrew the sheet she had covered as if it were something
sacred. Glancing over it I noted to my surprise, that the lines had not
been written with accidental meaning--that it contained a message for my
eyes and heart. There were naturally slight errors caused by the
writer's unfamiliarity with the instrument, but no ambiguity of any
kind. And this is what the message said to me:

Once there was a child, who had been reared in comfort, almost in
luxury, in the fairest part of the fair State of Maryland. At the age of
sixteen a cruel fate deprived her of both parents. The guardian to whom
her small means were intrusted proved false and in another year she was
left to face poverty alone.

Almost stunned by her misfortunes, this child found it necessary to
provide herself with some means of subsistence, for even sorrow must
have bread. She learned the art of stenography and typewriting; and
after attaining sufficient speed in these branches went to a large city
and sought a situation. Luckily she found one, though for a long time
the pay was very small and she could no more than support life in the
poorest manner.

Later a place was offered her with a largely increased stipend, and the
cloud seemed about to lift a little. But her new employer soon unmasked
his soul and disclosed himself a wretch. The girl could hardly breathe
in his presence, but she resolved to endure his attentions as long as
they were bearable, hoping for relief from some unknown source.

When the purpose of her employer became all too plain, and she was on
the point of despair; when advertisement after advertisement had been
answered and nothing secured; when she had advertised, herself, and
found by the replies received that the majority of the situations
promised nothing better than the one she was unable to endure--there
came a ray of light.

A gentleman, or what seemed to be one, sought an interview in reference
to a most novel proposition. He wanted her to accompany him, alone, on a
long journey; announced his willingness to provide her with an outfit
suitable for a member of his family, which she was to profess to be; and
assured her that behind this offer there was lurking no sinister design
such as she at first suspected.

Her situation had grown desperate. Slowly she came to the decision to
trust this man. She grew to believe that there might be one who could
give these things with an honest mind and a pure purpose.

She accepted the situation, if such it might be called; purchased the
necessary clothing; donned the jewelry he provided; gave her trust into
his hands, and sailed with him on the ship he selected.

He was only twenty-four years of age, she but twenty-two. She had not
concealed from him that she was poor and nearly friendless. He was rich
and what is called a man of the world.

What will happen to the girl on that journey?

There can be but two possibilities. Either the man will prove the kind
friend he has represented and they will return able to look the world in
the face without a blush--that is one of them. Or somewhere beneath the
blue waters of the Caribbean Sea the fishes will gnaw the flesh of a
woman who is drowned--that is the other. Let neither delude themselves,
when the hour of temptation comes. There is no possibility outside these
two.

I rose and paced the floor in remorse for my ill-spent life, in sympathy
for the unhappy creature whose fears clouded the pleasure I meant to
share with her.

If there had been, away down in the lowest depths of my wild nature, the
slightest thought of wrong to Marjorie May, it was crushed out of sight
by that pathetic appeal.

Crushed out of sight, yes! But there are seeds that put forth life with
the dust of years piled above them.

CHAPTER XI.

A THEFT ON BOARD SHIP.

The time before the date set for the sailing of the Madiana passed
slowly enough, but contained little that is worth recording at length.
Miss May took another dinner with me, though not in the same restaurant
as before, she expressing a preference for another in a different part
of the city. She came to my room daily about half the time and I went to
hers the rest, for our afternoon talks. Her gowns were fitted, her
baggage made ready; and she sent the trunks out to have the initials
"M.C." marked upon them, to consort with her new title.

As the date of sailing approached she grew visibly nervous, saying
repeatedly that she would be glad when the ocean waves lay between us
and Manhattan Island, in which sentiment I concurred heartily. On the
day before our departure she expressed a wish to go to the wharf alone,
rather than have me come for her, giving as a reason that she did not
like the people at her lodgings to connect us in that move. This seemed
sensible and I agreed without demur. I had long since ceased to have any
suspicion of her and felt as certain that we would meet at the steamer
as that the boat would sail.

The evening before the day I was to go, I passed with Tom Barton at his
house. It was the second time I had been there within a week. In some
way Tom fixed it so that Statia consented to dine with us. She did the
best she could, I suppose, to act as usual, but made a poor show of it
to eyes as watchful as mine.

I got a minute alone with her by accident and tried my best to cheer her
up.

"I wish you would write me a line or two while I am gone," I said. "If
you send to St. Thomas by the 18th, I ought to get it before I leave
there. The mails are fearfully slow in that part of the world, but they
do arrive eventually. I will let you know how I am getting on, if you
wish it, besides what I send to Tom. I'm not going to let you quarrel
with me any longer."

She said without much enthusiasm that she would be glad to have me
write, and that perhaps she would do so herself. I did not care to press
the matter, thinking it best to leave it that way.

On the morning of the 12th I went early to the steamer, inspected the
cabins I had engaged and made arrangements with the head porter to
reserve a good place for my steamer chairs on the after-deck. I was
rather pleased with the accommodations, for I had not expected too much.
Driving back up-town I secured my letter of credit and did a last bit of
shopping. An hour before the time the vessel was to slip her moorings I
was again on board, not wishing Miss May to arrive and find me absent.

As the passengers arrived, one after another, I looked into their faces
to see if there was a familiar one, but there was none, until Mr. Wesson
came. I exchanged a few words with him about the arrangement of things
in the room we were to occupy jointly. When he left, my attention was
attracted to a woman, just coming up the plank, whom I certainly had
seen before. An elderly man walked just behind her, and as she turned to
speak to him I judged they were together. It was some time before I
remembered where I had seen that face, and when it flashed upon me I
could not restrain a low whistle.

She was the woman who had advertised in the Herald "Personal" column
that she desired the acquaintance of an "elderly gent," describing
herself as "beautiful of face and form," with her "object matrimony."

Well, she seemed to have found what she sought and I hoped the "gent"
was also not disappointed. I did not believe that the ceremony of
marriage had been performed between them, but perhaps a temporary
arrangement was equally pleasing to both. One of the stewards took their
hand baggage and descended with it, showing them to their rooms.

Miss May, arrived finally. I did not recognize her at first, heavily
veiled as she was, though happily without the blue article she had worn
to the restaurant. I rose and escorted her to her cabin, where she
seated herself on the sofa and tried to recover her breath, which I
could not see she had any reason to lose. As soon as she could speak she
asked which was my room; when I told her, she begged me to wait there a
few minutes.

Rather distressed by her manner I could, nevertheless, do nothing but
comply. After what seemed an endless time I heard her voice, speaking my
name in low tones, and went to see what she wanted.

"Don't come in!" she said, opening the door slightly. She spoke hardly
above a whisper and yet in a way that conveyed an imperative
prohibition. "Has the boat started yet?"

"No," I answered. "I think it will go in a few moments."

"Will you inquire if my baggage has been brought on and have the smaller
trunk sent down here as soon as possible?"

"You ought to come on deck and see the start," I said. "That is one of
the interesting things of a voyage like this."

"Oh, no!" she said. "I am feeling faint--I don't know what is the
matter--doubtless I shall be better in a few minutes. I am going to lie
down and see if that makes me more comfortable. Go on deck and amuse
yourself. I shall try to get a nap."

Seeing that I hesitated she looked pleadingly into my eyes.

"Please go!" she said.

I went, swallowing my disappointment. The boat had commenced to move and
I witnessed the usual waving handkerchiefs, tearful eyes, loud good-bys,
and that sort of thing. The elderly gentleman with his well-formed,
matrimonially-inclined lady was apparently enjoying the scene, for both
of them looked happy. Mr. Wesson smiled as I approached and uttered some
commonplace remark, as he made room for me by his side. Each moment the
distance between the Madiana and her late moorings widened; presently we
were well out in the river and proceeding down the Bay.

Wesson suggested a walk on the deck and as we were both well wrapped up
I saw no objection. I remarked what a wonderful thing it was, how soon
our heavy clothing would be discarded. Ice and snow to-day and summer
garments day after to-morrow.

"That is due to the Gulf Stream, of course," he replied.

"Yes. In two days any passenger not actually an invalid can bathe with
pleasure in water pumped from the ocean."

Wesson expressed his surprise at this statement. We fell to talking of
the islands we were to visit, he appearing deeply interested in all I
had to say. The time was thus occupied until the first dinner bell rang,
when I excused myself to go and look after my "cousin."

Miss May answered the knock by saying that she had already asked the
stewardess to bring her a cup of tea and would want nothing more. She
would try to get upon the deck to-morrow, if the water was sufficiently
smooth, but at present she was quite unable to move. I was to be at ease
about her and not allow her condition to interfere with my enjoyment. As
there seemed no help for it, I went back to the deck and soon descended
with the others to the dining table.

I thought it an odd fate that the "elderly gent" with his
matrimonially-inclined companion should be seated at the same table with
myself and Mr. Wesson, but odd things happen continually on shipboard
and this voyage was to prove the rule. There were just eight of us
assigned to that table, a married couple and one man travelling singly,
besides those mentioned. Before we separated I took a printed list of
the passengers, such as had been generally distributed, bearing on the
reverse side a map of the Windward Islands, and requested those present
to mark their names, that I might know them better. Wesson and I marked
ours first. The "elderly gent" put his cross against two names reading
Matthew Howes and Miss Nellie Howes, the married couple endorsed the
names of Mr. and Mrs. H.G. Stone and the single passenger claimed the
title of Robert Edgerly. The seats had been assigned by the steward with
written cards on each plate, and Mr. Edgerly, who sat at my left, took
up that of Miss Carney.

"We have still another messmate, who has not made her appearance," he
said, to the table in general. "Miss M. Carney."

"The lady is not feeling well and will not appear to-night," I said.

"I believe she occupies the stateroom with me," said Miss Howes, to my
surprise. "She is evidently not used to the sea, for she was taken ill
before the steamer left the dock."

"Miss Carney is my cousin," I explained, forced into it by the inquiring
eyes of Mr. Howes, who evidently connected us in some way. "She was not
very well before we started, is in fact taking the journey mainly for
her health. I hope she will feel able to be out to-morrow."

With the freedom that sometimes prevails in parties thrown together at a
steamer table the conversation then became general, and before we rose I
knew that Mr. Edgerly claimed Albany as his home and Mr. and Mrs. Stone,
Montpelier, Vt.; while Mr. and Miss Howes said they resided in
Binghamton. It helps very much in remembering people to get a city or
town tacked on to their names, and I wrote the locations on my passenger
list.

It was a dull evening, in spite of the fact that I passed it in the
smoking room, where considerable cheap wit was bandied about and my
fellow-passengers got acquainted with each other and with me. The
push-button was kept busy until the steward in charge of that department
gave signs of exhaustion. I drank very little, though I paid for several
rounds, after the fashion of most Americans, who think such proceedings
necessary to preserve their self-respect.

At last, when there was nothing else to do, I went to my cabin and to
bed.

Before breakfast I saw the stewardess and asked her to learn how Miss
Carney was and whether she would be at the table. She soon returned with
the information that the lady thought it best not to leave her room, and
that she wished me to procure her a list of the passengers. This I did,
marking the addresses of those who sat at our table, and scrawling a bit
of advice on the margin, recommending her to make her appearance on deck
during the forenoon as the sea was remarkably smooth.

After leaving the table I took a novel called "His Foster Sister," which
somebody told me had a reference to the Islands, and seeking my steamer
chair became absorbed in its contents.

In a short time Mr. Edgerly came along and dropped into my second chair
in a friendly way. He also had a book and it was some time before we
engaged in conversation beyond the customary greetings.

My first impression of Edgerly was decidedly favorable. He was
apparently a jolly sort of chap, ready for a joke or story and not
inclined to be a bore. We got along together famously until about eleven
o'clock, when Miss May came slowly up the companion way, with the
stewardess to assist her. Edgerly saw her before I did and sprang to
offer her his arm. As she looked into his face and detected that it was
that of a stranger, she drew back, but he reassured her in low tones.

"You must permit me to help you to your chair," he said, "which I have
just vacated. It's evident you cannot reach it without aid."

By this time I had arrived at her side and Miss May took my arm, leaning
very heavily upon it. I was surprised to find her so weak and as soon as
she was seated I asked if there was anything I could order to give her
strength.

"No," she replied, faintly. "I shall be better soon. Please wrap the rug
around me."

The stewardess had the rug on her arm and at my request placed it over
the lady's skirts, tucking in the ends about her feet. She wore her
cloak and a steamer cap, and seemed provided against the coolness of the
air, which was still marked.

When the stewardess had gone, and Edgerly also, for he disappeared at
once, I waited for Miss May to speak again, but she lay with closed eyes
so long that I grew uneasy.

"There is a doctor among the passengers," I said. "I think when you go
below, you had best let him see you. I am alarmed at your condition."

She raised herself and surveyed the decks in every direction. Then she
took a less recumbent position.

"Who is the man that came to me at the top of the stairs?" she asked, in
a whisper.

"His name is Edgerly and he is from Albany. I never saw him till
yesterday."

"He has called at the office of my last employer, and I am afraid he
recognized me. Did he say anything to intimate it?"

"No," I answered. "There is not one chance in a thousand that he
remembers you. I never in my life have looked closely enough at a
stenographer to know her if we met outside."

"I hope he doesn't," she said, uneasily. "I felt so sure there would be
no one here who had ever seen me!"

"His chair is next yours at the table," I remarked. "If he intimates
that your face is known to him you have only to convince him that he is
mistaken."

"I want that seat changed," she said, earnestly. "Can't you sit between
us? I--I can't explain why, but I don't like him. What business had he
to offer me his arm?"

I laughed at the serious way she regarded the matter, saying he had only
done as any gentleman might, but added that I would certainly put her
between myself and Mr. Wesson, if she preferred.

"And who is Mr. Wesson?" she asked.

"My room-mate, that I told you about. He is a splendid fellow."

"Can you see him anywhere at this moment?" she asked, looking around.

"Yes--he is there, talking with the second officer--the man with the
white cap. If he comes this way I will present you."

She said there was no need of haste, that she did not wish to meet the
passengers any more than was absolutely necessary; when we went to the
table would be quite time enough.

"Mr. Camwell," she added, after a pause, "you can't imagine how I feel.
If I had dreamed I should experience such sensations I never would have
come."

"What sensations?" I asked, rather shortly, for I thought she might
consider my feelings a little.

"The sensation of being a deceiver of those about me; the shame of
passing for what I am not; the dread of somehow being exposed for what I
am."

I grew angrier as she proceeded.

"If you were not ill," I said, "I should be out of patience with you.
What awful crime have you committed? You are travelling in a perfectly
respectable way, with a respectable party of people; occupying a room
with a lady; acting in a rational manner except for these vagaries,
which I must ask you to suppress. To be sure the name assigned you on
the passenger list is not your own, but plenty of people travel
incognito, even princes and dukes, for that matter. You make a mountain
out of a molehill. Your whole journey will be ruined--and mine, if you
care anything about that--if you go on as you have begun."

She begged my pardon humbly, saying she would do her best to amend her
conduct in the future. And, as usual, the moment she took this attitude,
I repented of my hard words and assured her I had no intention of being
too critical.

"The lady who occupies the room with me is very agreeable," was her next
observation. "She offered to do anything she could to relieve my head
last night, and this morning she bathed it with cologne for half an
hour."

"She sits opposite us at the table," I said. "With her uncle."

"I am glad of that. I feel quite acquainted with her now."

Then she assayed a question of the sort that eminate from women.

"Don't you think her very handsome?"

"She's not bad looking," I admitted.

"I call her magnificent. Such a face and form do not often go together."

I wanted to reply, "So she said in her advertisement," but I merely
nodded.

"There is another woman on this boat that I would not exchange for a
thousand of her," I said, presently, in a low voice.

"Point her out to me," said Miss May. "I would like to know what your
ideal is."

"Look in your mirror," I responded.

"Why do you think it necessary," she asked, frowning, "to pay me that
kind of compliment?"

"I think it necessary to refrain from doing so, but sometimes I grow
forgetful."

She saw that I was very sober again.

"If you meant what you say, it would not be so wicked," she replied,
gently.

"You know very well that I mean it."

"Mr. Camwell," she said, leaning very close to me, "we are obliged to
lie to outsiders, in the contract we have assumed. Let us always tell
the truth to each other."

"If I told you the truth," I responded, gloomily, "you would not sit
where you are. You would find strength to walk down those stairs and
back to your room alone."

She grew slightly paler, though her cheeks were waxen enough before.

"Then do not tell it to me just now," she replied, with an attempt at a
laugh. "I would rather remain on deck where the air is purer."

When the lunch bell rang I advised Miss May to take her repast where she
was, promising to send a steward to her with a bill of fare. It pleased
me to learn when I came back that she had made quite a meal and was
feeling considerably better.

The succeeding two days contained nothing of high importance, but there
were several little things that deserve to be chronicled.

The first time Marjorie came to the table and was introduced by me to
the others as "Miss Carney," I fancied that a smile rested lightly on
the features of Miss Howes, for which I could not account. Marjorie was
seated between Mr. Wesson and me, and I saw with pleasure that they
seemed likely to be good friends. It was desirable in the interest of
our general plan that she and I should not act as if there was no one
else in the world. Stone and his wife were quiet people, who rarely
spoke unless first addressed. Edgerly was good-natured but not
obtrusive. The most of the talk, therefore, at table, came from Mr. and
Miss Howes, Wesson and myself. We got to be at last a rather jolly
party.

Carrying out my plan, now that Miss May had apparently recovered from
her indisposition, I left her alone a good deal, or rather with one or
more of the others as her companion on deck. They aroused in her an
interest in the trip, for which I was glad. Edgerly probably talked with
her the least of all, and she told me he never mentioned having seen her
before. Miss Howes was her most constant companion, quite naturally,
when it is considered that they roomed in one cabin.

But on the third day out, just before dinner time, Miss May came to me
with a distressed face that showed unusual perturbation. She was
actually trembling and her eyes looked as if she had been weeping.

"A terrible thing has happened!" she said, when I followed her to a
place where no one could overhear us. "I would not tell you if I could
help it, but you will have to know." Then, in response to my inquiring
look, she added, "Some one has entered my stateroom and robbed me!"

As far as she could learn, nothing had been taken but her turquoise
ring, but the feeling that her effects were unsafe agitated her greatly.
In response to questions she said she had left the ring on a little rack
above the washbowl, when she washed her hands for lunch, as she had done
twice before. She was absolutely certain where she put it, but had made
a thorough search of her handbag, the only other place it could have
been.

I told her not to get excited, but to ask the stewardess, whom I would
send to her when she went down again, if she had seen it. I remarked,
also, that I believed a theft on that line under such conditions was of
extremely rare occurrence, and that she had best quiet her nerves until
an investigation could be made.

"But it was your ring--it really belonged to you--" she stammered, "and
I feel ever so much worse than if it were my own."

"That is mere casuistry," I replied, "but, if it pleases you to call all
your things mine, of course, you will continue doing so. Whosever it is,
we must do our best to recover it."

At dinner Miss May whispered to me that the stewardess had made a
diligent search, but without effect. The meal passed rather dully. Miss
May was pale and distraught. I sympathized with her, though the value of
the lost article was not great. I wished I had some of the intuition of
a Monsieur Lecoq that I might place the offence on the right person and
relieve the strain I could not help feeling.

It must be one of the stewards, who were continually in and out of the
adjacent rooms, or a fellow passenger. In either case something of the
ease and comfort of the voyage was lost. A mosquito who enters your room
at night is not as large as a lion nor on the whole quite as dangerous;
but he can, if he chooses, banish sleep from your eyes.

That confounded ring made a lot of trouble. I began to suspect
everybody on board. The stewardess promised to say nothing of the
occurrence, and I at first followed the same course. The only one I did
tell, and that the next day, was Mr. Wesson, and the contribution he
made to the case was merely a depressed shake of the head and a
long-drawn sigh.

CHAPTER XII.

A LITTLE GAME OF CARDS.

The reader will doubtless have come to the conclusion that I was by this
time tired of my bargain and wished Miss Marjorie May had never come
across my path. On the contrary I was well satisfied with the way things
were going, in the main. The ocean has a charm for me that nothing else
can equal. The bracing effect of the sea air was being felt in every
fibre of my frame. Miss May's coolness was not of a kind to annoy me
seriously, and much better than the opposite extreme would have been.
There was nothing like a breach between us. She was merely allowing me
to get the full benefit of my voyage.

I had never, at any time, feared that I would experience trouble in
passing my time while on shipboard. My dread was of the days to be spent
ashore, and for these she would be with me to divert my mind. The matter
of the stolen ring was a mere incident of travel, and might have
happened anywhere. The intrinsic value of the article was small. It
would not be hard to replace it.

Miss May asked me the day after the ring was missed if I knew anything
about her roommate. She said it in a way that showed suspicion and set
me to thinking. "Miss Howes" had plenty of jewelry of her own, and was
hardly likely to purloin the turquoise; but I knew her to be rather
"off color," and more open to suspicion than a woman of different
character. I asked Capt. Fraser, the commander of the boat, what the
record of the stewardess was, without leading him to guess my object,
and when he told me I dismissed all thoughts against her.

It might have been Miss Howes, it might have been one of the stewards. I
urged Miss May to think of it as little as possible.

But this was not to be. Miss Howes told her during the day that she also
had lost some jewelry, taken from a bag that, more careful than Miss
May, she had locked. The article consisted of a bracelet of the value of
$300, and was a serious affair. Miss May was obliged to relate her own
misfortune, and Mr. Howes, when the matter was brought to his attention,
went straight to the captain with the news. A vigorous questioning
followed of all the steward's staff, but without result. There was
nothing to clear up the mystery.

Miss Howes being certain that her bag was locked made the theft seem
that of an expert, who was provided with keys. Her "uncle" thought it
best after that to put the bag into his own steamer trunk, which had a
peculiar lock that he did not believe could be opened except by force.
Before night I discovered that a diamond stud, the only valuable jewel I
ever wore, had been taken from my own room, but when I could not tell. I
had not worn it on the trip, nor indeed for some time previous, and had
carried it along merely because it happened to be in a small box with
some cuff-studs and collar buttons. I locked my trunk after that, but
said nothing about the loss.

The next morning when Marjorie reported, with tears, that her earrings
had also disappeared, I comforted her as well as I could, but I felt
that both of us had been culpably careless in leaving our valuables
about so loosely.

Wesson learned of the loss of these jewels and said in a quiet way that
he was going to try to unearth the rascal. He spent hours at a time in
our room, listening for approaching steps in that part of the steamer,
besides interviewing the ladies at length. I thought he acted as if
suspicion might fall on himself, occupying quarters so near the scene of
the theft, but this was of course ridiculous.

Miss May had now made the acquaintance of several passengers, and had
little need of my companionship. I got into the habit of spending
considerable time in the smoking room, where cigars and cards were the
attraction, besides an occasional story from a passenger. Of course, I
played in a few games, sometimes for fun and oftener for a small stake.
My luck is usually good, and I began to be pointed out as a man ahead of
the game. One evening, on a very low limit indeed, I retired $75 ahead,
though at the last I really tried my best to lose.

Edgerly, who was on the opposite side, and had given up considerable of
this coin, was one of the best-natured fellows I had ever seen. He was
equally jolly whether luck was on his side or against him. I chummed
with him more than with any of the other passengers, now that Wesson had
gone into the business of amateur detective. Sometimes when I was with
Miss May, Edgerly would come and sit by us, addressing an occasional
remark to her. She had not learned to like him, however, and he did not
find it very agreeable.

"Miss Carney has never forgiven me for offering to assist her that day
she came on deck," he said to me, once. "I meant well enough, I'm sure.
I knew that she was in your party, for I saw you when you came on board,
and I thought it as easy to help her as to call your attention to her
presence."

I made light of the matter, saying that my cousin was of a very retiring
disposition and made few acquaintances when travelling. In talking with
her afterwards I asked her to treat my friend as politely as she could,
as I felt that she injured his feelings.

"If he was a true gentleman he never would complain of such a little
thing," she answered, coldly. "But, of course, I am in your service--"

"Then do as I ask," I replied, shortly. "The next time he comes to speak
to either of us, don't act toward him like a she-bear."

She promised meekly to obey; and an hour later, when I went to look for
my steamer chair I found Edgerly in it, apparently on very good terms
with his neighbor. They were laughing over something at the moment,
which seemed to please both mightily. Rejoiced at the change I did not
make my proximity known, but went back to the smoking room.

That evening the fact that we were to see our first land the next day
was the general topic of conversation. Several of us who had made the
voyage before were airing our wisdom, when Edgerly entered the smoking
room and, slapping me a shade too familiarly on the back, asked if I was
ready to give him his revenge for the times I had worsted him at poker.
He was too evidently under the influence of liquor and I did not like to
play with him while in that condition. When I made an excuse, however,
the Albanian looked so downhearted that I altered my decision and said I
would play him for anything from a glass of soda up.

There was no need of putting our stakes on the table, as we were both
supposed to be gentlemen. All I wanted was to leave the steamer at St.
Thomas with none of his cash in my pocket. In this I succeeded, as will
appear, even better than I could have hoped.

In a quick succession of plays Edgerly convinced me that he had a hand
which he could rely on. Before I hardly realized it, I had over $200 in
the game. I heard a low whisper at my elbow. It was from Wesson and
conveyed a warning to drop out at the earliest opportunity. Edgerly
noticed what was up as quickly as I, and neither of us relished the
interference. At that instant my opponent raised me $200 and having
three aces I called.

Edgerly's face lit up with joy as he exhibited a straight flush of
diamonds, king at the head.

Success had transformed my quiet friend. He put his hand on the cash
which I counted out to him, uttering an exultant yell, as he gathered it
up, $425. His exultation, or at least his manner of showing it, was
quite out of place, I thought, in a game between friends; but I merely
rose, and remarking that I would now take my evening stroll and smoke
on deck, went out. The moon was at its full. In my admiration for its
beautiful effect on the sea I forgot for the moment the folly of which I
had just been guilty. But Wesson soon joined me, as was his nightly
custom, and began to talk of what had just occurred.

"Some other topic of conversation would please me better," I responded.
"It is not a delightful reflection that one has been drawn into a course
against which his better judgment distinctly warned him."

"But the man is a fraud," he persisted. "He did not win your money
honestly, and if I were you I would make him give it back."

"Pshaw!" said I. "He's the better player, that's all. I lost my head and
got over-excited. Now, we must drop the subject, as I wish to think of
it no more."

Seeing that I was determined, Wesson obliged me and nothing more was
said about the unpleasant matter. The next morning Edgerly was not at
the breakfast table. Some time later, as I was walking the deck, he came
toward me, with a good-natured greeting, though his face bore evidence
of the foolish amount of liquor he had swallowed the night before.

"I'm afraid," he said, "that I won more of your money yesterday than I
intended. I was astounded this morning when I counted what I had in my
pocket. You must let me return at least a part of it. In a gentleman's
game--"

I interrupted with the statement that I had no fault to find and that I
should not listen to any proposition of that nature. My pride was hurt
by a suggestion that I would crawl out of the result of my own acts.

"Oh, well, if you insist," he said, in a disappointed tone. "I am
disgusted with myself for getting in that condition, which is something
I seldom do. There is one thing you must do, however. Let me give you
back the cash in exchange for a check or note. I would not for anything
leave you short of ready money on a trip like this, and I know
travellers seldom think it necessary to carry a great deal about them."

I had not thought of that, but it did occur to me as he spoke that with
two persons in my party, and a journey without fixed limits, I might, as
he said, run short before I reached home again. There was nothing
lowering to my pride in exchanging my check for the money he had won. I
thanked Mr. Edgerly and said, on reflection, that if it really made no
difference to him, I would write him a check for whatever sum he pleased
to exchange. And I proceeded to do so for $350, as he named that figure.

Wesson came up just as we parted, but I did not think it necessary to
inform him of what had taken place. To tell the truth I did not exactly
like the air of protector that he was putting on over me of late. It
seemed impertinent when he warned me to leave the card table, just
before my heavy loss, for I would rather a hundred times have dropped
the amount than exhibit myself as a craven before my fellow passengers.

Nor did I fancy his characterization of Edgerly as a sharper. I saw
nothing to justify the assertion. He had taken his losses like a man
when the luck ran my way, and no one, so far as I was aware, had
indicated that I stacked the cards.

I resolved to show Wesson, if he interfered any more in my affairs that
I resented his conduct. He was a well meaning fellow and I had no wish
to quarrel with him; but there are limits to forbearance.

"Have you told any one on the steamer that you are going to leave at St.
Thomas?" Miss May asked me, soon after breakfast, when the outlines of
the island were in view.

"The purser has our tickets. Why?"

"If we could get away without any of the passengers knowing, I would be
very glad. I hate good-bys. Everybody will go ashore. Let us be the last
to leave, and put our baggage in a separate boat."

I thought her reason a strange one, but she was to be my sole companion
for a long time now, and I wished to please her in every way. I
responded that I would do as she said, and even ask the purser not to
mention my intention to any one.

The warm clasp she gave my hand would have repaid me for a much greater
effort to suit her. Her eyes shone with a new happiness and her cheeks,
which had been pale ever since the boat left New York, took on a faint
tinge of color.

Lunch was served just before landing and at the table Edgerly asked me
what there was to see on the island. I mentioned the points of
particular interest, which to tell the truth are few, though the town of
Charlotte Amélie is in itself well worth a visit.

"I shall spend the day with old friends," I added. "I feel quite like a
resident here."

Only those who have sailed into this harbor will appreciate its special
beauties. I had been a warm friend of the project of annexing the Danish
Islands, consisting, besides St. Thomas, of St. Croix and St. John, to
the possessions of the United States, ever since I was here before.
While neither a jingo nor a land grabber, the value of St. Thomas from a
naval standpoint is so apparent to one who will stop and think that I
have hardly patience to argue the matter with opponents of the scheme.

If the United States is to maintain a navy, an occasional coaling
station somewhere away from the coast is of prime importance; and these
islands are offered us for an insignificant sum by Denmark, who with her
crippled commerce has no longer any use for them.

St. Thomas has a harbor that can accommodate a great number of vessels,
a floating dock, immense coal wharves, skilled artisans for the repair
of ships, and a conformation from which could be made a small Gibraltar
with reasonable expense.

The Trans-Atlantic cable lands here, giving communication with all parts
of the world. In case of a war with any European country the possession
of St. Thomas would be of incalculable value to us. However much one may
love peace, it is poor policy in these days to be unprepared for a
conflict. China is the latest instance of a great country that finds
itself open to the assaults of any fifth-rate power.

When it was first proposed to sell St. Thomas to the American nation (in
1867, I believe) a vote of the inhabitants showed but 14 opposed to the
plan. No European government has expressed the slightest objection to
the purchase. I only hope that before this story is published a bill to
that effect will have been signed by President M'Kinley.

"Aren't you going ashore?" asked Mr. Wesson, as he passed down the
stairs to a rowboat, in which the Howes, "uncle" and "niece," and
Edgerly were already seated.

Just then I heard my name called by a voice from an approaching
skiff--my right name, this time.

"Camran!" came the voice. It was awkward, but I must try to explain it
as an error, in case anybody noticed.

It was Edward Moron, agent of the line, whose acquaintance I had made in
my former visit. I would have known his white helmet and Dundreary
whiskers anywhere, but at the moment he was most inconvenient.

I waved my walking stick in reply, and as soon as he could get on board
he grasped my hand. Excusing myself from Miss May for a moment, I
followed him some steps away.

"Confound you!" I said, "my name is not Camran, but Camwell."

"It used to be 'Camran,' I'll take my oath to that," he replied. "But,
whatever name it is, how are you? Going to stop here, I hope."

"Till evening," I answered, for I feared if I told him the truth he
might tell it to other passengers, who would be sure to run across him.
"Now, answer me a question. Is Eggert's place in quarantine?"

It was not, for which I was profoundly grateful. If I was to stay in St.
Thomas at all I wanted to stay at the Quarantine Station, where I had
been before--the only quarantine in the world where a man is happier
inside than out.

I went to tell Miss May that we could go to Eggert's, and then to ask my
stateroom steward to have my baggage brought on deck.

"I don't want you to tell anybody that I leave the boat here," I said,
flourishing a five dollar bill in his face. "Now, mind!"

He promised. The baggage came duly up and two boats were engaged to take
us directly to Eggert's.

With the lightest heart I had known for a year, I helped my fair
companion down and heard the oars of our negro boatmen splash in the
waters of the harbor.

CHAPTER XIII.

BATHING IN THE SURF.

There was something really delightful in the way Eggert received me. (I
am not going to put "Mister" before his name--even his wife does not do
that, in ordinary conversation.) He heard "Laps," the dog, barking
violently and came to the veranda to ascertain the reason.

"Do you know me?" I asked.

"Know you!" he said, grasping both my hands heartily, and looking from
me to Miss May. "Of course, I know you. Where did you come from? I am so
happy to see you again!"

I introduced my "cousin," and he gave her as cordial greeting as he had
given me.

"Why, even Laps knows you," he said, as the dog barked and capered
around us. "Mother will be very glad to see you. You came on the
Madiana? How good you were to think of us and come out here!"

Mrs. Eggert soon appeared and answered my numerous questions. The eldest
daughter was married and lived in the town. The children had gone there
to spend the day, but would soon return.

Of course we were going to remain to dinner.

When I said we might stay a week or more, it was plain that we were very
welcome. Rooms were assigned us, on one of the verandas, I having my
old one, by special request, and Miss May the one next to mine.

Eggert walked up and down with me, smiling broadly and talking of the
old days when our party was quarantined there. There never was another
party like it, he insisted. He produced a large photograph that he had
taken of the entire group, with donkeys and negroes in the foreground.

"This was your room," he said, indicating it. "Mr. A---- had the next
one, Mr. H---- the next, Mr. Mapp the other, and so on. We never had a
party like that before or since. You were all so good natured and had
such a good time!"

I responded that he did very well for us, which aided in our enjoyment,
and that I had not thought of staying at a hotel unless his place was
quarantined; which pleased him mightily.

When Miss May retired to her room to arrange her dress, Eggert asked me
slyly if she was to be the future Mrs. Camran. This reminded me that I
had reached a fork of the road, where I must either take this whole
family into my secret or explain my change of name to my companion. The
latter was decided upon as the most feasible. When she emerged and drew
a chair to the edge of the veranda to admire the prospect of land and
sea I told her that henceforth she must call me by a new name.

She looked inquiringly into my face.

"Do you remember suggesting on the steamer," I asked, "that as we had to
lie to others we ought to tell the truth among ourselves? Well, my name
is Camran, not Camwell. The family here will call me by that name, and
as there is no need of deceiving you, I will admit that it is the
correct one."

"But why," she asked, "did you use the other? Was it because you were
afraid to trust me?"

"Remember how little I knew you," I said.

"Quite as well as I knew you," she replied, reproachfully.

"And have you told me the entire truth in all things?"

She reddened deeply.

"Your name, then, is David Camran--am I right now?" she asked.

"Donald Camran," I corrected. "That is my real name and henceforth you
may call me so; unless we come across any of the Madiana's passengers,
in which case consistency will compel you to use the old one."

Miss May seemed agitated by my last remark.

"How can we meet them?" she asked. "Is not our separation from them
final?"

"It is supposed to be; but how can we tell that some may not follow our
example and stop off at one of the islands? In that case it is quite
possible we may encounter them as we proceed on our journey."

She did not seem to like the idea, but remained silent for some minutes.

"Does any person, on the Madiana, know that the name in the passenger
list is not your true one?" she said, finally.

"Yes. Mr. Wesson knows; and Mr. Edgerly."

She put her hand over her mouth with a quick motion, as if to suppress a
scream.

"How could you tell those casual acquaintances what you concealed from
me?" she said, hoarsely.

"What difference can it make? I was introduced to Wesson in the office
of the steamship agent, some time before we sailed, as I remember
telling you. We exchanged cards. When he afterwards saw the way my name
was spelled on the list he asked me how it happened and I ascribed it to
a printer's error. I added, that as all the passengers would probably
call me Camwell, it was easier for him to do so than to explain the
mistake to fifty people."

"Yes," said Miss May, slowly. "And--Edgerly?"

I thought she was awfully pressing, but I wanted to keep on good terms
with her and I proceeded to account for his knowledge also.

"Well, Miss Inquisitive, Edgerly's case was like this: He won a small
sum of money from me at poker and was kind enough to offer to refund it,
and take my check for the amount. Thinking I might want the ready money
to buy you a paper of pins or something of that sort I accepted his
proposal with thanks. Of course, he asked what right I had to sign the
name of Donald Camran to the check, and of course, I told him of the
agent's 'error' on the passenger list. There! Is there anything else you
would like to know?"

Saying this I took the hand nearest me in mine, to show that my
bantering was entirely good natured, and was surprised to find it quite
cold.

"Marjorie!" I exclaimed. "You are ill!"

She smiled faintly and admitted that she had a slight chill. I persuaded
her to take a hot drink and went at once to prepare it. When I returned
she had gone to her room and was bathing her face with cologne water.
Her hair, which she had combed with care half an hour earlier, was much
disarranged and her eyes were swollen.

"Come in and sit down," she said. Then, as I hesitated, she added, "Oh,
you can leave the door open."

The door was a frame affair covered with mosquito bar, there being
nothing more seclusive in the house. Cold weather never reaches St.
Thomas at any time of year. I explained to her that to leave the door
open was to invite the intrusion of insects.

"I am going to lie down," she replied. "My head aches." She drank part
of the liquid I had brought. "We can't be prudish," she said, then. "The
door is practically open at all times, for it is free to admit light and
sound. Are you afraid to be alone with me? Perhaps you had best send for
one of the servants to guard you."

"Or Laps?" I suggested, laughing.

I entered and took a chair, while she arranged herself upon the bed,
with pillows to prop her up into a half-sitting posture.

"Don," she began. "You will let me call you Don?"

"You can call me what you please," I said. "Don or anything else that
begins with D. 'Dear' or 'Darling,' if that suits you better."

I could not make her smile.

"Are you very, very sorry you took me with you?" she asked, earnestly.

"Not very, very."

"But--you wish you hadn't?"

I shook my head decidedly.

"Of what use am I to you?" she asked.

"Women were never made to be of use," I answered. "They are like
bouquets, meant to fill the atmosphere with beauty and fragrance."

"And--do I do that--for you?"

I kissed the fingers she placed in mine. The smile came to her face at
last.

"I shall be ready to begin the typewriting to-morrow," she said. "I
understand the machine now, I think, well enough." (She had practiced on
it in her cabin on the Madiana, several days, for some hours.) "I shall
be glad when I am doing a little to earn the salary you pay me."

I made a grimace. The confounded record of my family's descent was far
from interesting me at that moment.

"You earn more than your salary every hour," I said. "I am immensely in
your debt already. By the way, I must pay you what I owe, before the sum
gets any larger. It is quite three weeks and you have had nothing."

I counted out sixty dollars in gold coin and she took it without a word.
She was always doing something strange and I had ceased to wonder. I had
imagined that she would say it was too much--or that I had reckoned the
date of service too far back, or something of that kind.

"Would you bathe my head a little?" she asked, indicating the cologne.

I bathed her forehead, and found it as much too hot as her hands were
too cold. It had a soothing effect on me, as well as on her, this
action. It made me feel as I had not felt before, that our fortunes
were really for the time running in the same mold.

"Perhaps you could sleep a little before dinner," I suggested, after a
time. "Let me leave you to try."

She thanked me and before my hand left her, she put it gratefully to her
lips. She did not kiss it, but rather breathed upon it a sigh of
appreciation.

Thorwald and Ingeborg had just arrived from town and it was evident that
the former's claim that he remembered me was founded on fact. The little
girl was too young at my former visit to recollect anything about it,
but she seemed to know me in a way and nodded when her mother asked if
she did not remember my face in the photograph that hung in the dining
room. Thorwald was now nine and about the finest specimen of a little
man I have ever seen. His father could not conceal his pride in the boy,
and I did not blame him.

"Ah, I am very happy with that little fellow!" he said, repeatedly.

I looked over the harbor just before dinner was served and saw the
Madiana getting under way, bound for St. Croix (or Santa Cruz, as we are
more apt to call it.) Eggert rigged his powerful telescope for me in the
doorway, where I could see without being seen.

I easily picked out the passengers who were on deck. Mr. and Miss Howes
and Mr. Edgerly were in one group. They were talking earnestly, and I
guessed that Miss May and myself were quite likely the subject of their
conversation.

I imagined them wondering whether our stay on shore was the result of
design or accident. I hoped Howes was getting his money's worth and
that his "niece" was satisfied with the fish she had caught with her
Herald hook. As far as I could judge neither of them had thus far
repented of their bargain.

I could hardly believe the lady had taken Miss May's ring, that she had
entered my room and walked off with my shirt-stud. There was a big
difference, it seemed to me, between a love affair based on natural law
and a deliberate theft. The mysterious disappearance of the jewelry
would probably never be accounted for and I certainly cared very little
about it.

My companion came to the table, but ate sparingly. The meal suited me to
perfection, especially the fresh fish, drawn that day from the
Caribbean, which swarms in the most appetizing varieties. The butter
came in tins from Denmark, and was not bad. There was a ragout, some
cakes, plenty of oranges and "figs," as the small yellow bananas are
called in the Islands, good black coffee and cheese, and a fine _petit
verre_ of brandy to top off with.

Eggert and his wife dined with us at my earnest request.

The quarantine master filled up the time with little reminiscences of my
former stay, which he remembered much better than I. He pointed to the
exact spot where each of the "famous party" sat at the table and laughed
himself nearly into a fit as he spoke of the jokes Mapp played on the
good-natured Haytian Jew we had named from his home town--"Puerta
Plata." One of the guests of that day was the grandson of an American
president and another the son of an American senator, but that did not
harm either. A more diversified party, it is safe to say, were never
placed together in a quarantine, or made the time pass in livelier
fashion.

When dinner ended the Madiana was out of sight. Miss May's headache had
vanished and she passed the evening with me on the veranda, inspecting
the stars through the telescope. They seemed brighter and larger than in
America and what knowledge I had of their names and locations (gained
principally three years before from the grandson of the President, who
was an amateur astronomer of no mean acquirements) I imparted freely.

"You seem ever so much better in health than when we left New York,"
said my companion.

"I am," was my reply. "The sea always does wonders for me. I have lost
entirely the nervous feeling I had before we started."

"I wish I could say as much," she said. "I dread, for instance, going to
bed alone in this strange place. Those shadows dancing on the grass
almost terrify me."

"I will get Eggert to put a lock on your door," I said. "He must have
one somewhere and he is an excellent carpenter."

She shuddered till her teeth chattered.

"Not for the world!" she said. "I could not sleep with the door locked.
I should feel as if I were choking. There is always a chance that one
may be taken ill and have to call for help. With a locked door, what
could I do? No, no! I will conquer my fears, which I admit are foolish
ones."

"The station is surrounded by a high fence," I said, "and the gate
cannot be unbarred from the outside. You are perfectly safe. My room is
close by. If the slightest thing alarms you, you have only to speak."

She breathed with difficulty. It was plain that her terrors were
genuine.

"You will come--if I call you?" she asked.

"Assuredly."

"Do you sleep as lightly as that?"

"I sleep like a child, as a general thing; but my name spoken by your
voice will wake me instantly."

We went to her door, where she parted from me with little ceremony and
in twenty minutes I was unconscious. The night passed without the
summons from her that I half expected. In the morning she admitted that
after some delay she had gone to sleep and enjoyed a good rest.

Among the articles we brought was a bathing suit for each of us, for I
remembered the pleasant beach at the foot of the rocks. At five o'clock,
to escape the burning rays of the sun which rises soon after, Miss May
came from her room, looking as pretty as can be imagined. Her sleeveless
arms were even rounder than I had anticipated, and her low-cut vest told
a pleasant tale. The long black hose were filled symmetrically and the
short skirt revealed just enough to make the picture enchanting.

"You look wonderfully well in that costume," she said, evidently to
anticipate what I was going to say. So I contented myself with replying,
"And you."

The water was quite warm enough and we enjoyed the surf hugely. What I
did enjoy however, was the sight of a man on the veranda of Eggert's,
apparently awaiting our return.

No less a person, in short, than Mr. Wesson, our late fellow passenger,
whom we supposed forty miles away at St. Croix!

CHAPTER XIV.

"OH! THIS NAUGHTY BOY!"

As has been intimated once or twice before, I had modified to some
degree the liking I at first entertained for Mr. Wesson. He interfered
in my affairs rather more than was to my taste. I had never placed
myself under his guardianship. He had no right to advise or to warn me
on any subject whatever. As I beheld him on the veranda at Eggert's I
saw in his presence a new impertinence which I was far from relishing.
If there had been any way to avoid him I would have done so gladly.

Of course Miss May had no means of knowing what was in my mind. She
therefore waved her hand to Wesson as soon as she recognized his face
and on coming nearer gave him a cordial welcome.

"Well, this is a surprise!" he exclaimed, glancing from one of us to the
other. "You did not tell me you intended to stop at St. Thomas and I
supposed you still on the Madiana."

"How comes it you are here, yourself?" I asked, pointedly. "I do not
recollect that you expressed any intention of leaving the boat."

"Did I not?" he asked, as if surprised. "I could have sworn I did until
you spoke. I certainly made you talk about this island, for hours at a
time, and I thought you understood it. I feel almost as well acquainted
with Mr. Eggert and his family, through your descriptions, as if I had
actually been here before. Being an early riser I inquired the way this
morning, at the Hotel du Commerce, and walked out to see the place you
had made so attractive. One of the darkies let me in at the gate, and
here I am."

It was plain enough now. He had supposed I understood his intention,
though he had never, I was sure, put the statement into words. He had as
much right there as I, if it came to that. There was really no reason
why I should treat him uncivilly.

Miss May went on to her room and I waited a moment before going to mine.

"Now you are here," I said, "you will of course take breakfast with
me--or at least coffee, if you are in too much haste to wait longer."

"I'm not in the least haste," he responded, "and I accept your
invitation with great pleasure."

"I've found an old friend here, Mr. Eggert," I said, as that individual
appeared in a doorway. "We came on the Madiana together."

Asking Eggert to entertain him for a little while I went to dress. Miss
May heard me come in and spoke through the thin partition between our
rooms.

"You didn't act overjoyed to see Mr. Wesson," she said.

"No. He's a sort of 'third person makes a crowd,' you know."

"You're a selfish fellow. But wasn't that bath delightful!"

"Perfection. Did I overstate it, when I described it to you yesterday?"

"Not in the least--ough!"

"What is the matter?"

"I've stuck a pin in my finger."

"I'm _so_ sorry!"

Then followed sounds which indicated that the finger was being placed in
her mouth to assuage the pain.

"What a pity you are not a girl!" she said, a little later. "You could
help dress me and save a lot of trouble."

"I could help dress you without that awful alternative," I replied. "I
am like the pilot in the story, I know every rock in the harbor."

"Oh, I've no doubt. Look out, like that same pilot, you're not wrecked
on one of them some day."

"Can you manage a string tie?" I asked, as a more important subject was
forced on my attention.

I always made a mess of that operation and this morning my luck was
worse than usual.

"Easily," she said. "Do you want me to fix yours?"

"I wish you would."

"I will, with pleasure," she said. "Come in here when you are ready; or,
shall I come there?"

"For goodness' sake don't come just yet!" I exclaimed, thinking I heard
her step. "I am not at all prepared. In fact that tie is about the only
article of dress I have on."

"Don't be afraid," came the mocking tones. "I am in much the same
situation. Fifteen minutes from now we will both be ready, and then I
shall be at your service."

After several minutes of silence I inquired whether any more pins had
proved unruly.

"No, I'm getting on pretty well. Say, can you get at your soap?"

"Why, do you want some?"

"Yes."

"How can I get it to you?"

"Put on your morning gown and come to my door."

I did so, with the cake of soap in my hand and met my companion,
somewhat similarly arrayed, holding out a bare arm. She did look to my
eyes at that moment wonderfully pretty.

"Come, Marjorie," I said, dropping into the affectionate form, "you
might let me in for a minute or two. You don't know how becoming that
attire is."

"I know all about it. I've been looking in the glass. Hurry up and
finish dressing. I will meet you on the veranda."

Wesson came along at that moment with Eggert and smiled. I resented that
smile. It meant a hundred things that he had no right to surmise;
besides, they weren't true.

"It is perfectly lovely here," he commented, to Eggert as much as to me.
"My friend Camwell has not misrepresented it in the least."

"Camran," corrected Eggert, for which I could have punched his head.
Were they going to argue that point over between them?

"Camran, I should have said," corrected Wesson. "Could I make
arrangements to come out here and board while I remain on the island?"

"Damn!" I exclaimed, under my breath, but Marjorie heard me through the
partition.

"What is the matter?" she asked, sympathetically. "Has something pricked
you, too?"

"Yes," I said, for the couple on the veranda had moved out of hearing.
"Something I don't like. What do you think that confounded Wesson is
saying to Eggert?"

"I don't know."

"He wants to come out here and board."

"Well, that idea does credit to his judgment."

"But it will put me to lots of bother."

"I don't see how."

"Why, if he moves out here, you and I will have to move up to the town."

She digested this statement for a while, during which she put the
finishing touches to her toilet. Then she asked if I was in suitable
condition for her to come to my door.

"Come and see," I retorted. "I've got on much more than either of us had
when we strolled down to the beach an hour ago. I think I heard somebody
say yesterday that there was no need of being too prudish."

"But at that time I wasn't feeling well."

"And at this time I'm feeling devilish bad, myself."

She came slowly, with little stops, at which she renewed her inquiries
and asked for fuller information. When she finally arrived I proved to
be completely dressed with the exception of the tie and a morning coat,
and we had a laugh together.

"You didn't really mean that you would leave here just on account of Mr.
Wesson's coming?" she said, interrogatively, as she arranged the tie.

"Yes," I replied, holding up my head to give her fingers full play. Her
breath was in my nostrils, sweet breath that made me think of meadows
and new-mown hay.

"What harm can he do us?"

"He'll be continually in the way."

"He seems very polite always."

"That's just the trouble," I snarled. "If he would only get ugly I could
have it out with him in a minute. If he would keep at one end of the
veranda while we were at the other, all would be well. He won't do that.
He'll be good natured, sociable, all that sort of hateful thing. The
quarantine grounds measure only five acres and there's not room enough
here for any other man, while it is your residence."

She was so near that I could have snatched a kiss before she could stop
me. I would almost as soon have bitten her.

"Eggert?" she said, tentatively. "He's got to go, too, then?"

"No, I make an exception of Eggert. But Wesson--I simply can't have him
here. Either he must go, or I shall."

We had passed the coffee hour, forgetting it in the pleasure of the bath
and the labor of dressing. The regular breakfast was now announced. I
determined to be as agreeable to Wesson as I could, but I did not think
Eggert need to have placed him on the other side of Marjorie, next to
her. Still, how was he to know?

"I have been talking with our host about coming out here for awhile,"
said Wesson, as we were breakfasting. "It is ever so much pleasanter
than in the town."

He must have seen, in spite of my efforts, that I did not enthuse over
the idea, for all I could say was "Ah," and wait for him to proceed.

"I hardly think I will do it, though," Wesson went on to say, eyeing me
narrowly. "I have a very comfortable room at the hotel. If you don't
mind my coming out for a stroll occasionally"--he looked alternately at
Miss May and at me--"I think it would help me get over my lonesomeness."

Marjorie did not wait to consult me, but said she was sure he would
always be welcome. She added that some literary work she and I had to do
would keep us very busy for the present. To my joy, Wesson settled his
plans on the spot, as he had outlined them. We were to be left alone,
after all.

Soon after rising from the table Wesson started back to town. I hoped as
I saw his form disappear that he did not think I had been discourteous
in not endorsing his scheme to make my life a burden.

"Now," said Marjorie, brightly, as he vanished through the gate, "let us
get to work. You can't imagine how happy I shall be to find myself of
use after this long vacation."

I got out the memoranda required, from the bottom of a trunk, and
arranged the writing machine on a little "dressmaker's table" which I
had brought, folded up in a tray. It was exactly the right height, and
took up hardly more room than a chess board--I mean the table, of
course. For an hour I tried to put the genealogy in shape, and then
threw it up with an exclamation of disgust.

"Confound the thing! I'm going to drop it for to-day," I said. "It's
dryer than dust."

Marjorie obediently put away the machine at my suggestion, saying that
perhaps we would begin again after lunch. I told her that the next three
hours after lunch were sacred to Morpheus, and that we were now in a
region where it was impossible to resist the drowsy god with impunity.

We drew our rocking chairs together and talked, and I was very happy.
Sometimes I took one of her hands in mine. It was very sweet to have her
there.

"It is going to be dull for you," I suggested, after a time. "Whenever
you can bear it no longer say so, and we will move on."

"I am in your employ," she answered, "and shall stay or go, as you bid
me."

"Marjorie," I exclaimed, suddenly, "have you ever been in love?"

"I would rather talk on some other subject," she replied, soberly.

"Then I know you have. Tell me, is he living? is he still single? do you
expect to marry him?"

She closed her mouth tightly and I knew no way to open it.

"I am such a foolish fellow!" I added. "Does it surprise you to learn
that? I don't want you to love any one, or even to think of any one
while you are with me. I want you to like me very much indeed."

She turned her face toward me and surveyed me leisurely with those
blue-gray eyes.

"I do like you," she said, kindly, "but--"

"You think I demand too much for my twenty dollars a week," I said, with
an attempt to be merry. "I know I do. I realize that my contract with
you was for typewriting services. There is no doubt you can hold me to
that bond if you so elect. All I want to say is, I am like most
contractors--and mean to better my bargain, if I can."

"What do you want?" she asked, in clear, distinct tones. "We have agreed
not to lie to each other. What do you want?"

I rose and looked out upon the sea. A tiny sail was visible in the
distance.

"I want a closer friendship with you," I replied, after studying the
form of words.

"I think we are pretty close friends already," she said. "I would not
have believed, had I been told by some fortune-teller in New York, that
in ten days we would be on such perfectly intimate terms."

I resumed my seat and stretched my arms above my head.

"Why, this--this is nothing!" I said.

"I was afraid you would take that view of it," she answered, soberly,
"and I hope you will permit me to resume the position called for in what
you term our 'contract.'"

I was alarmed by her words and the way she spoke them. She might take a
notion to carry that idea into effect, and what a dull existence I would
have then.

"You certainly agreed to act as a 'companion' to me," I reminded her.

"And though I have been much more than that, you are still discontented!
I have acted as if I had known you for years; in fact, that is exactly
the way I feel. You may think me forward--I fear you do--but I have only
tried to be natural. You talk to me as to a friend; I reply in the same
strain. You take my hand in yours; I do not withdraw it. You call me to
arrange a tie; I come as freely as if you were my brother. My head
aches; I ask you into my chamber, lie down and submit to your
manipulations with the cologne. If all this means nothing to you, as you
say, it means very much to me. It means that I like you, trust you,
believe you what you claimed to be--when you first told me of this
plan--a gentleman."

She had put me in the dock and was reading a sort of left-handed
indictment, to which I had no intention of pleading guilty.

"Listen, Marjorie," I replied. "You must not misunderstand. If any cloud
comes between us it will not originate with me, knowingly. If you knew
the life I have led hitherto--which you never will--you would realize
what an ungovernable chap I am, and how much forbearance you are going
to need. I am perfectly contented. If I can make you happy on this
journey my greatest object will be accomplished. Tell me how I can best
secure that result?"

"By not talking about it," she said, with a smile. "And by remembering
at all times that the greatest chivalry is due a woman who has placed
herself absolutely in your power--to make or mar her life."

"If you would only give me one kiss when you say that so prettily," I
began--

"Breaking the rules already?" said Miss May, with an admonishing finger.
"Oh, this naughty boy! what shall be done with him?"

CHAPTER XV.

WESSON BECOMES A NUISANCE.

It did not seem as if we were likely to have any serious trouble. After
a couple of days we actually got down to work on the family tree and
began to make some progress. Miss May showed an astonishing aptitude on
the unfamiliar instrument, as well as a grasp of the subject we were
trying to put into shape. Her white fingers flew over the keys, her
quick mind suggested improvements in my phraseology, and she never
exhibited the slightest sign of fatigue. Once at it we made a regular
thing of working from seven in the morning till eleven, except for a
fifteen minute rest, and made the progress that such devotion warranted,
to the immense satisfaction of us both.

Those days were much alike. We always rose in time to take our ocean
plunge at five and the bath never grew less exhilarating. We took coffee
at half past five, breakfast at half past six, lunch at twelve, slept
from one till four; strolled about the grounds or up to the town--or
took a boat ride till seven; dined; talked nonsense on the veranda or
played a game of whist with Eggert and his wife till ten, and then went
to bed.

On Sunday we went to church, for Miss May wanted to go and I could not
let her go alone. She had a nice little prayer book which she carried
in a most becoming way and she was certainly the prettiest woman in the
house. Wesson was there and looked devotional, though his eyes wandered
in our direction more than I liked. I began to have an incipient
jealousy of the man.

It got to be almost a regular thing that he came out to breakfast.
Sometimes he stayed and talked with Eggert for an hour after Miss May
and I had fastened ourselves down to work. Eggert liked him, which was
natural, for he was always bringing something for the children. He had a
cigar case, too, that was at anybody's call, filled with Havanas that
were mighty good and had paid no duty, St. Thomas being a free port.
Then, of course, he paid for his breakfasts, no doubt liberally. One
evening when I walked up to town alone, I found him on my return
chatting with Miss May in altogether too confidential a manner.

I wondered how long he intended to stay at St. Thomas. He acted quite as
if he had been naturalized there. Well, we should certainly see the last
of him on February 6th, when the "Pretoria" would arrive and bear us
away.

Wesson stayed to dinner, though I don't know that any one invited
him--probably he found the item in his bill. But he went early to town,
which was better than nothing.

That evening something strange happened. I was looking over a small
stock of books that Eggert kept in a case. There was not much choice,
for the subjects were mostly dry ones, though I don't know as he will
thank me for saying so. I happened to light on the only modern work in
the lot, after a long hunt, and brought it to the lamp.

It was entitled "Our Rival, the Rascal," if I do not mistake, and was
made up of letter-press and illustrations relating to prominent
criminals of the day, the work of some heads of a police department, I
believe. On the principle of any port in a storm it was worth spending a
half hour over. I asked Eggert where he got it and he said it had been
given him by a quarantined American not many months before. He looked
over my shoulder for awhile as I turned the leaves, and commented openly
on the villainy in the great world outside his quarantine fence and
little lighthouse, with an air of simplicity that was charming. There
were the lineaments of bank robbers, murderers, sneak thieves,
shoplifters, etc., by the score, evidently photographed in some cases
against their will, with a sketch of the career that entitled each to
this dizzy seat of fame. Once in awhile I recognized a name, that had
appeared in the newspapers, but the majority were rascals with whom I
was wholly unfamiliar.

Marjorie was working with a needle at the other end of the room, talking
in a low tone with Mrs. Eggert. It occurred to me presently that the
book might interest her, and I asked her to come to me. Mrs. Eggert went
to see about some household duty and Miss May and I were left quite
alone.

"Are you interested in criminology?" I asked my companion, as she took
the chair by my side. "If you are, here is entertainment for you."

She stared at me vacantly, and when I turned one of the pages to her
she caught at her throat as if choking.

"Oh, this is awful!" she gurgled. "How could you show a thing like that
to me?"

"My darling," I protested, soothingly, "I did not know you would feel
that way. This is a book that Eggert has just lent me and I thought it
might interest you."

"It is horrible!" she said, going to the open door as if for air. "The
one glance I took was quite enough. What good can it do to print the
faces of those unhappy people? It seems like catching a rat in a trap
and bringing it out for dogs to tear."

She shut her eyes and stood there, still panting. What a nervous
organism she had, to be sure!

"I will put it back on the shelf," I said, "and you shall never think of
it again. I seem fated to wound your tender feelings. Dear little girl,
you know I do not mean to."

But it was she who would not drop the subject.

"It is shameful to print such a book," she repeated. "It is like a
proposal made just before we left America, to publish the names on the
pension roll."

I had an opinion on the latter suggestion, decidedly in its favor. So I
explained that it was feared there were names on the list that ought not
to be there and believed that a publication of the roll would result in
weeding these out.

"And at the same time expose the honest poverty of half a million brave
men!" she said. "All my people were on the Southern side, but I admire
courage and devotion, wherever it is found. To expose the recipient of
these pensions merely in the hope of detecting a few dishonest ones is
shameful! So with that awful book. Some of the men pictured there may be
trying to redeem themselves. What chance will they have with their faces
exhibited everywhere? Oh, Don, Don! You seem a tender hearted man. How
can you endorse such a wicked, cruel thing?"

I said I did not wish to argue the matter, but I understood from the
preface that only persons belonging to the criminal class by profession
were pictured in the book. The miserable man who had made his one error
was not in the list at all.

"But who can tell," she said, growing earnest, "that even some you
mention have not repented of their acts and are trying to redeem
themselves? Did you never read these words of Shakespeare?

    "Why, all the souls that were were forfeit once,
     And He that might the vantage best have took
     Found out the remedy!"

We went to the other side of the veranda, where the moon was shining
beautifully, and took chairs side by side. I gradually succeeded in
turning my companion's thoughts from the disagreeable trend into which I
had brought them, and for several hours we discussed other matters. We
spoke in low tones, for after a short time we were the only persons
awake on the premises.

We both grew to feel the spell of the Queen of Night, nowhere more
lovely than over the Caribbean. Our hands wandered together and I felt
strange thrills that made me wish I were even closer to the lovely being
at my side. In spite of the promises I had made--to her and to
myself--I could not help talking nonsense.

"What harm would it do," I said, at 11 o'clock, "when I leave you at
your door at night, if you gave me just a little--a very little--kiss?
It would sweeten my slumbers, I am sure, and it wouldn't hurt you."

"It would sweeten your slumbers--perhaps," she replied, soberly. "And it
would drive mine away entirely. Do you think that a fair transaction?"

I chose to answer that I thought she was acting cruelly and added that
if she was going to treat me in that way I would go to bed at once. She
was evidently agitated by my manner, for when we reached her door she
stopped.

"I am going to tell you something," she said, impressively. "Yes, at the
risk of lowering myself in your estimation, unless you bid me pause."

"How can I, when I do not know what you are going to say?" I demanded.

"Then you wish to hear it?"

I nodded, curious to learn what was in her mind.

Looking with eyes that scintillated into mine she said, impressively,
"Don, you cannot possibly want that kiss more than I want to give it!"

"Well," I answered, delighted at her communication. "What prevents you?
I promise, on my honor, not to scream--nor even to tell."

"If I leave you to decide," said Miss May, with lips that whitened at
the words, "what will you advise me?"

A chilly breeze swept along the veranda. The figure of Statia Barton
came across my vision, with her finger uplifted in warning. Out on the
ocean I saw a wave that was transparent and beneath it a beautiful
figure, cold and dead.

I raised one of her hands to my lips and breathed a sigh upon it. I was
quieted so easily!

"Good night," I said, with emotion.

"Good night," she replied. "You do not--no, you do not hate me?"

I had turned away, but I faced her again.

"I am--afraid--I love you," I said. "It was not in the compact, I did
not mean to do it, but I'm afraid--I love you."

She entered her door and I passed to my room. Pulling off my clothes at
haphazard I threw them on a chair and donned my pajamas. The bed was
hard. I turned every way to no purpose. Sleep would not come. At last I
sat up, then opened my door noiselessly and stepped barefooted upon the
veranda.

Marjorie's light was still burning. The objects in her room showed with
perfect distinctness through her screen door.

I paused as if petrified at the sight before me. In her white nightrobes
she was kneeling by the bedside, her face buried in her hands.

It was beauty prostrate before its God, doubtless uttering a petition
that he would protect her from evil.

I paced up and down the veranda noiselessly for half an hour. When I
paused again before Miss May's door, the light was extinguished and I
could see nothing.

"Marjorie," I whispered.

"Yes, Don."

"Forgive me. I will not offend you again."

"Yes, Don. Would--would you like to come in and bathe my head? It aches
a little."

"I cannot, Marjorie. Shall I call Mrs. Eggert?"

"Her hands are not like yours."

It was a severe struggle, but I told her I must not come in-that if she
would think a minute she would see I must not. She said "Very well," and
we exchanged good-nights. I went to my couch very proud of the victory I
had won over myself--prouder than it seems to me now I should have been.

We must both have slept some, for I was aroused by hearing Laps barking,
and Marjorie had not made her appearance when the hands of my watch
pointed to half past five. She told me through the partition that she
did not feel like bathing that morning, and I decided to omit the bath
myself.

The barking of Laps was caused by the arrival of Mr. Wesson, whom I
blamed without much reason for the headache I had awakened with. The
fellow irritated me exceedingly and I made up my mind to get away from
the Island without waiting for the Pretoria, if there was any feasible
way to do it.

CHAPTER XVI.

IT IS FROM A GIRL.

The arrival of letters, both for myself and Miss May, the next day, made
me forget everything else till mine were read and answered. I had not
looked for them so soon and do not know yet what course they took to
reach us. It is supposed to be a rule of the postal department to
forward all mail by the most expeditious route, but previous experience
in the Caribbean had taught me that the rule is reversed there in most
cases.

Eggert brought the things to us, having had sense enough to inquire at
the office when he knew a steamer was in. Miss May had taken the
precaution to have hers addressed "Care Miss M. Carney," after I told
her she would be weighted with this title, and her friends supposed, no
doubt, that the unfamiliar name represented the proprietress of a hotel
or boarding house. She gave a joyful cry as I held two letters out to
her, made the usual feminine inquiry if that was all, and retired to a
corner by herself to read them, like a dog with a bone.

The first letter I opened was from Tom Barton, the second from his