"I went through something of the sort last year on board the

Florida," he added. "People insist on regarding it as marvelous that

a man should strive to do his simple duty."

Suddenly it occurred to him that the topic was unpleasantly analogous

to the little French count's cowardly escapades. If one talks of duty,

and recognizes its prior claim, what of the man who, in his selfish

frenzy, is prepared to leave others to their fate, whether on a wrecked

ship or a barren island? So he turned to Elsie again.

"By the way, you have never seen those letters," he said. "I was

hunting for them when the alarm was raised last night. Shall I bring

them now?"

Elsie gave him a glance of subtle meaning. Her eyes telegraphed "What

matters it whether I see them to-day or in half a century? Do I not

trust you?" But she only murmured: "Not now, I am telling Mrs. Somerville and Isobel all the news."

He squeezed her shoulder. Any excuse would serve for those slight

pettings which mean so much during early days in wonderland.

"Then I shall resume my rounds. I expect to be received reproachfully

by Walker. He made great progress yesterday. Let me whisper a secret.

Then you may pass it on, in strictest confidence."

He placed his lips close to her ear.

"I am dreadfully in love with you this morning," he breathed.

"That is no secret," she retorted.

"It is. You and I together must daily find new paths in Eden. But my

less poetic tidings should be welcome, also. Walker says he hopes to

get steam up to-morrow."

"Well, tell us quickly," cried Isobel, with a show of intense interest,

when Courtenay had gone. She had decided on a line of conduct, and

meant to follow it carefully. The more sympathy she extended towards

her friend's love idyll, the less likelihood was there of disagreeable

developments in other respects. That trick of calculating gush was

Isobel's chief failing. She was so wrapped up in self that her own

interests governed every thought. Courtenay's reference to letters

sent a wave of alarm pulsing through each nerve. Though his manner

betokened that the affair was something which concerned Elsie alone,

she was on fire until she learnt that his "secret" alluded to the

restored vitality of the ship.

For once, her expressions of gratitude were heartfelt. Mrs. Somerville

even wept for joy. This poor woman after living twenty-five years in

the oasis of a mission-house, was a strange subject for storm-tossed

wandering and fights with cannibals. Seldom has fate conspired with

the fickle sea to sport with such helpless human flotsam, save,

perhaps, in that crowning caprice of the waves which once cast ashore a

live baby in a cradle.




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