"All due to my very able teacher," said Mr. Payton, modestly. "Don't you want to try it, Nell?" he asked. "It's more fun than you can imagine. I remember that when I first met you there was no better dancer on the floor, dear. Come on and try."

"I always used to love to dance," Mrs. Payton admitted, and that admission was enough for Lucile.

"I tell you what we'll do," she said. "You take Mother, Phil, and I'll take Dad. Oh, what a lark!"

It was half an hour before the Paytons could bring themselves down to a consideration of the sober and substantial things of life, and then it took Mrs. Payton to do it.

"Lucile," she cried, stopping in the middle of a dance to gaze upon her daughter, "I don't believe you've had a mouthful of anything to eat since you got up, and it's after twelve o'clock."

"Oh, I forgot," said Lucy, and then added naively, "Now I come to think of it, though, I am hungry."

"Of course you are. Run along and tell Mary to make you some toast. That will last you till we all have lunch, which will be pretty soon now."

"I hope so," said Phil, who was always ready for his three good meals a day. "I begin to feel the ravages of famine," he groaned.

"If you are real good, I may give you a piece of my toast," Lucile promised.

"No, don't, Lucy; it will only spoil his dinner," said Mrs. Payton. "Dancing does give you an appetite, though, doesn't it?" she added, at which Lucile smiled to herself, for it was very, very long since she had seen her mother unbend so far.

"If dancing will do it," she decided, on her way to the kitchen, "we'll dance from here to Jericho," and the firm lines of her mouth showed that she meant it.

At half past four Phil put on his hat and announced his intention of going round for the girls.

"You needn't stop for Jessie," Lucile called after him; "nor for Evelyn either, for that matter. All their folks are coming along to see us off."

"I'm going anyway," he replied, briefly, and Lucile called gaily after him, "There's a reason," and shut the door before he could retort.

Mrs. Payton met her in the hall.

"Better get your hat and coat on, Lucy. It's almost time to start."

As Lucile ran lightly up the stairs and into her room, her heart beat fast and her face flamed with excitement.

"We're going, we're going!" she sang, as she slipped into her coat and pulled her hat—a perky little affair with a blue bow at the side, that held in place a black wing set at an aggravating angle—down over one eye and then surveyed herself critically.

"Guess I'm all right," she said, pushing a stray lock into place with experienced fingers. "Now for my gloves and bag and I'll be ready. Coming, Mother!" This last to an impatient command from the lower regions. "Will you ask Dad if he took my Gladstone bag downstairs?"

Mr. Payton replied in person that he had, and Lucile stepped out in the hall and closed the door softly. She paused at the head of the stairs to still the tumultuous beating of her heart, for it seemed to her that it could be heard a mile away. It was all so new and strange and wonderful—and now that their great dream was to be realized so soon, she felt more than ever that it must be a dream and nothing more. She wondered if Jessie and Evelyn were feeling that way, too, and then she heard the clamor of voices on the porch and knew that they had come.

Then a sort of panic seized her, as she realized that Jack Turnbull would be with them. She knew he would, for that had been the last thing he had said to her last night—oh, how very far away it seemed! Half unconsciously, she straightened her little hat and ran downstairs, just in time to answer Phil's urgent, "Where's Lucy?" with a merry, "Here, Phil; bag and baggage!"

Everybody turned to greet the radiant little figure, and Lucile included them all in her bright, "How's everybody?"

"Rather shaky," Evelyn answered, in an awe-struck voice, and everybody laughed good-naturedly.

"Well, what do you say if we start?" suggested Mr. Payton. "We are all here and we might as well have plenty of time. We don't want to have to hurry."

They all agreed, and so, with a great deal of noise and laughter, the party started out. Lucile ran back to say a word of good-by to Mary and Jane, who, good souls, were weeping heartily at the thought of parting with the family for so long. With difficulty she managed to break away from them, and on her way back came face to face with—Jack!

"Oh," she stammered, "I thought they—everybody—had gone!"

"So they have, but I came back to get you and—tell you to hurry," he replied, with a laugh. It was a very frank, nice laugh, Lucile decided, and she was very glad he had come back, so she answered him gaily and they started out to overtake the others.

At least, Lucile did, but, after covering a half-block at a fast walk, that was almost a run, Jack protested.

"What's your awful hurry?" he queried, reproachfully. "You have an hour to catch the train, so why rush?"

Lucile opened her eyes wide in feigned astonishment.

"Why, I'm only following instructions," she teased. "You told me to hurry, and so I'm trying to."

"With great success," he added, with a smile of understanding. "Just the same, you know I didn't mean it that way. I had to see you and I needed some excuse. I won't have a chance to see you for a long, long time, you know."

Lucile looked up quickly, this time in real surprise.

"But I thought you were going back to New York to-day, anyway," she said.

"So I am, but there isn't the width of the Atlantic between New York and Burleigh," he answered meaningly.

Just then Evelyn turned around and, making a megaphone of her hand, shouted, "Better hurry up; we'll miss the train."

"Plenty of time," Jack threw back, pleasantly. "Got half an hour yet."

"Aw, there's something wrong with your watch," Phil retorted. "Next time you buy an Ingersoll, see that you get your money's worth."

"Thanks!" drawled Jack, but Lucile looked anxious.

"Perhaps we would better catch up with the rest of them," she suggested. "The front ranks have quite a start on us, and we don't want to keep them waiting."

"Oh, all right," agreed Jack cheerfully. "Give me your hand and we'll do a hundred-yard dash in record time."

Lucile took the proffered hand and away they went like two happy children, reaching the rest of the party a moment later, out of breath but triumphant.

"Didn't I tell you we'd break the record?" laughed Jack, forgetting for the moment to release her hand. "You're some little runner, too," he added, admiringly.

"Speak for yourself," she threw back gaily. "That was a good run, though. I guess we won't miss the train now."

"Not an unmixed blessing," Jack grumbled, at which they all laughed with such infectious mirth that more than one passer-by turned to smile after them.

They arrived at the station in plenty of time, after all, for it was fully fifteen minutes before a distant toot announced the coming of the train that was to carry them to New York. It had been Mr. Payton's intention in the first place to take passage on one of the smaller steamers, but the girls had been so evidently disappointed, although, to do them credit, they had tried their very best not to let him see it, that he had changed his plans at the last minute and had decided to take passage from New York on the great steamer "Mauretania."

In talking things over, the girls' parents and one or two of their relatives had decided to take the trip with them as far as New York, and from there give them a glorious send-off.

The girls' desire and curiosity to see the great metropolis had been heightened by their guardian's vivid recitals of her experiences, and they were on edge with expectancy.

"I wish we were going to spend some time in New York," Phil was saying. "We just shoot in and then right out again."

"You ungrateful heathen!" Lucile chided. "What do you expect? I'd like to spend a year in New York, too, but we can't do everything at once."

What Jack might have replied will never be known for just then they heard the whistle of the train. The journey had begun.



CHAPTER X

WHIRLED THROUGH THE NIGHT

Mile after mile, the long train rumbled on over shining rails that fell away behind and merged in the far-distant sky-line. The first rays of the morning sun struck on the brilliant metal and gathered up the dazzled sunbeams to scatter them broadcast over hills and fields and flying houses. Now and then the hoarse whistle of the engine broke the early morning quiet, only to be flung back on itself by wood and cave and mountainside in a scornful shout of mockery.

And still the girls slept on in the dreamless, heavy sleep of tired girlhood. Of course, not one of the three had had the least intention of doing anything so commonplace as going to sleep; in fact, the very idea had been vaguely irritating. Had they not looked forward to this very thing for months—at least, so it seemed to them—and it was almost impossible for them to have patience with the idiocy of any one who could calmly suggest slumber at such a time. And Phil—for it was at him that this Parthian shot had been aimed—had evinced remarkable self-control, in that he had refused to argue, but had continued to smile in an aggravatingly superior manner, which had said more plainly than words: "You think you mean it, no doubt, but I, who am wise, know what simpletons you are."

Of course, Phil was right, as they had known in their hearts he would be, in spite of all their resolution, and it was not until the sun struck through the little window and dashed upon Lucile's sleeping face in a golden shower that she stirred impatiently and brushed her hand across her eyes.

Fifteen minutes later, in dressing gown and cap, she pushed aside the curtain into the aisle and crept out, meaning to steal a march on the others. She let the curtain fall with a little gasp of astonishment, for as she looked, two other curtains moved stealthily, animated by unseen hands, and two heads popped simultaneously into the aisle. Jessie and Evelyn looked at each other, then at Lucile, vacantly at first, and then, as the truth dawned upon them, they began to laugh.

"Oh," gasped Lucile, "I thought I was the only one awake, and here you two come along and spoil my well-laid plans."

"The well-laid plans of mice and men Aft gang agley,"

quoted Jessie.

"Stop spouting poetry before breakfast," commanded Evelyn. "You might wait until I get strength to bear it."

"There she goes! First thing in the morning, too," said Jessie, despairingly.

Lucile laughed, and, taking each disputant by an arm, hurried them along the aisle.

"May I ask our destination?" queried Jessie, with the utmost politeness.

"Certainly," Lucile agreed, cheerfully, and then, as no further explanation seemed forthcoming, Jessie added, with an air of indefinite patience, "Well?"

"Go ahead, ask all the questions you like," said Lucile, with a twinkle in her eye. "I'm not going to answer them, though," and, with a little laugh, she pushed her before her into a little room at the farther end of the car.

"A-ha, a mirror!" cried Jessie. "Lucile, I forgive all."

"Thanks," replied Lucile, laconically. "Even at that, you needn't take up the whole mirror, you know."

"Oh, you can look on both sides," said Jessie, serenely.

The girls laughed.

"The only wonder is that we showed almost human intelligence in bringing our combs along," Lucile remarked, after a moment.

"Not at all," observed Jessie, grandly. "We only followed a very obvious line of reasoning."

"A very which?" asked Evelyn, turning round with her comb poised in mid-air. "If you must talk, kindly speak United States, Jessie."

Jessie turned upon her friend a look in which was more of pity than of anger.

"It is evident," she remarked sadly, "that there is one among us who has never grasped the opportunity for learning afforded by our present-day civilization——"

"Jessie, darling," broke in Lucile, sweetly, "if you don't come down from your soap box pretty soon, I'm afraid we'll have to resort to force. Much as we would hate to," she added, apologetically.

Evelyn threw up her hands in desperation.

"You're just as bad as Jessie, Lucy," she accused. "I'm going in and see if I can't find peace. The boys ought to be up by this time," she added, slyly.

The girls laughed as the door slammed behind her, and Lucile exclaimed, with a little flourish of her comb, "Come on, Jess; I'm ready for the fray." And, with arms about each other, girl fashion, they followed Evelyn into the aisle.

How could they know on that morning, when their hearts were full and their heads light with the heady wine of Spring, that before three months had sped, they would feel the strands of the mighty web of nations tighten about them; that they would see the beginning of the greatest war the world has ever known? Perhaps it was just as well that they were not gifted with prophecy, for the grim shadow of war that hung menacingly over all Europe would have darkened this bright morning and would have tinted all the hills and countryside with the grayish hue of impending disaster.

As it was, there was no cloud to darken the horizon of their exuberant happiness and they gave full rein to their high spirits.

As Evelyn had said, the boys were up when they returned, and they were not the only ones, for the train seemed suddenly to have come to life. Voices called merrily to each other from different points in the car, and everywhere was the stir and bustle of awakened and refreshed humanity.

As Lucile and Jessie made their way through the car, they encountered several women, apparently bound for the dressing-room.

"It's good we got there early," said Lucile. "If we hadn't, we never would have gotten a chance at the mirror."

"You're just right," laughed Jessie. "There wasn't room enough for three of us, let alone a half a dozen."

A moment later they joined a group of their own folks at the other end of the car. They flung a merry greeting.

"Well, well, girls," observed Mr. Payton, catching sight of the girls out of the corner of his eye, "we thought you were lost."

"I didn't think so," said Phil. "Evelyn said you might be in there half an hour if you had good luck, so we didn't expect you so soon."

The girls threw a reproachful look at the traitress, who made a defiant little mouth at them.

"Well, I had to get even with you some way," she cried.

Just then Jack, who had been trapped into a discussion with some of the men and had been anxiously watching for a chance to escape, suddenly finding it, excused himself and joined the young folks.

"What's the row?" he asked casually.

"Nothing, save that we have a traitress in our midst," declaimed Jessie, dramatically.

"How exciting!" drawled her cousin. Then, turning to Lucile, he inquired, lightly:

"Did you get any sleep last night, or were the bumps too much for you?"

"The bumps didn't worry me at all," she confessed, as she smiled whimsically. "In fact, I didn't know there were any."

"How about something to eat?"

It was Mr. Payton who voiced the welcome suggestion, and there was a prompt shout of approval from all hands.

"You have said it, Dad," commended Phil. "If we start now, we'll get there before the crowd."

So off went the merry company to the dining-car, where the tempting odors made them more ravenous than before, if such a thing were possible, and Phil kept on ordering until it seemed as though the rest of the passengers would have to go on short commons.

The early morning passed quickly and it was no time at all before Jack announced to Lucile—for he was never very far from her side—that they would reach New York within the next hour.

Then, as Jack had said, at exactly five minutes of nine—the authority for the time being Phil's beloved chronometer, which he declared, and devoutly believed as well, varied hardly a second during the year—the train glided smoothly into the station and they reached—New York!

The girls stood with shining eyes and breath that came and went quickly through parted lips. Then, as the porter shouted in stentorian tones, "New Yawk—all out!" they moved half dazedly through the crowd and out on the great platform, where the din half fascinated, half frightened them.

"Stick close together, everybody," Mr. Payton directed. "It wouldn't be any joke if we got separated!"

Lucile had faced many situations and never turned a hair, but now the roar of the great metropolis, the rumble of the hand-cars on the platform as the heavy baggage was carted to and from the trains, the shrieking of engine whistles, the hoarse cries of the train-hands, all combined in such a menacing roar that for a moment she had a wild desire to run and hide somewhere, anywhere to get away from the thunderous din.

It was only for a second, however, for, as Jack slipped a reassuring arm through hers, she looked up at him with her old, confident smile.

"I'll see that you don't get lost or run over," he said, comfortingly, with that air of protection that all men, even very young ones like Jack, love to assume toward girls and women, especially pretty ones.

And it must be noted that from that instant Jack Turnbull rose forty good points in Lucile's estimation. It gave her a feeling of grateful security to be piloted through the crowd in this masterly fashion. Soon they had covered the length of the platform and had reached the curb, which was lined with cabs and taxis.

"Here, pile in, all of you," Mr. Payton commanded, as he looked around to see if they were all there. "I guess you five young people can manage to squeeze into one car. Come, Nellie," to his wife, "you get right in here," and he proceeded, with the other men, to help the ladies into the two waiting cabs.

"Pretty close quarters," said Jack, as he slipped into the square inch of space between Jessie and Evelyn. "I suppose I might have walked," he was adding, doubtfully, when Lucile broke in with a decided, "Indeed, you shouldn't have thought of such a thing! What difference does it make if we are a little crowded?"

"That's all very well for you, Lucy; you're not having the breath squeezed out of you," Jessie began, when Phil interrupted, mischievously:

"Why don't you change places? Lucy doesn't mind and you do, Jess."

"You have it!" exclaimed Jack, enthusiastically. "The first minute I saw you, I said to myself, 'That fellow has brains.' Come on Jess; vacate," and he slipped his arm about his cousin, gently lifting her from the seat.

"Go ahead, Lucy," urged Evelyn from her corner.

So, with a great deal of merriment, the exchange was made, much to the satisfaction of everyone concerned.

The rest of the journey through the traffic-laden streets to the hotel was so vivid a panorama of shifting scenes that, to the unaccustomed eyes of the girls, it seemed like one confused blur.

"Oh, are we there already?" Lucile exclaimed, regretfully, as the taxi stopped abruptly before the great white pile of the Hotel McAlpin. "The ride has seemed so short!"

"I wish you were going to stay in New York," Jack whispered, as he helped her to alight. "We'd get my car and whiz all around this old city until you'd know it better than Burleigh."

"Oh, if I only could!" she cried, her eyes alight with the very thought. "Wouldn't it be fun?"

"You just bet it would," he agreed, with a warmth that brought even a brighter color to her face.

An instant later they were joined by the others and they passed through the imposing entrance.

In the hotel office the girls drew close together, and Lucile said, in a voice scarcely above a whisper, "So this is New York!"

"Do you like it as much as you thought you would?" asked Phil, overhearing.

The girls turned wonder-filled eyes upon him.

"Oh, much more!" they chorused, with a vehemence that left no room for doubt.



CHAPTER XI

"ALL ASHORE WHO ARE GOING ASHORE!"

Three hours later, refreshed and invigorated by a most delectable lunch, eaten in the beautiful dining-room of the hotel, our travelers were ready for the last stage of the preparatory journey. Nothing remained now but the short ride to the wharf and then—the rapture of embarking on the wonderful "Mauretania," which had hitherto been but a magic name to them, breathing of romance and wonder. Then a final farewell to their friends, and before them stretched the great European continent, holding the unfathomed mysteries of thousands of years.

There was England, upon whose soil, in ancient times the savage Britons fought against great Caesar—and lost. There was France, scene of the bloodiest revolution that has ever dyed red the pages of history—a revolution that proved supreme the tremendous, onrushing power of the masses. And there was Rome itself, where every inch of soil, where every nook and cranny of the famous catacombs marked some great historic drama played in the days when "to be a Roman were better than a king!"

With all the romance of the Old War about to unfold itself to their enchanted eyes, is it any wonder that our girls were eager for the start?

"All ready?" said Jack.

"Oh, I've been ready and waiting for half an hour or more," laughed Lucile. "I do wish the folks would hurry!"

"I'm afraid you don't like our great city, you seem so anxious to leave it—and me," he said, with a reproachful side glance.

"Oh, I do, I do! I love it—the city, I mean!" she added, in some confusion, as he glanced at her inquiringly. "It's all wonderful, and I could spend a year here without getting tired; but as long as we do have to leave it, I wish we would hurry," she added, naively.

"Well, here come your brother and Jessie now, so you won't have much longer to wait—worse luck!" said Jack, with a wry smile. "I suppose I may at least be allowed the privilege of seeing you safely on board?"

Lucile threw him a merry glance as the rest came up. "I suppose you may," she mimicked.

A few minutes later they stepped out of the cab and onto a sun-flooded wharf, where confusion reigned supreme. An immense crowd of people stood upon the dock, talking, laughing and gesticulating excitedly, and every one seemed in the highest of spirits. And, indeed, how could they be anything else, thought Lucile, as she looked about her with dancing eyes; the world had never seemed so essentially a place to laugh in as it did on this glorious morning.

"Well, we haven't very much further to go," said Mr. Payton, beaming genially down upon them. "There's the good ship, 'Mauretania,' mates. Neat little craft, eh?"

And following the direction of his glance, they gazed for a second at the towering bulk of the steamer, scarcely daring to believe the evidence of their eyes.

"Say, that's class!" breathed Phil, reverently, and Jessie added, "You could put all of Burleigh in one corner and never miss it!"

They all laughed, and Lucile started forward. "We can go on board now, can't we, Dad?" she inquired.

"Sure we can go on board. We'll have just about time to look at our staterooms, if we hurry."

Since that was just the very thing everybody was most anxious to do, they wasted very little time in following his suggestion.

Jack kept close to Lucile's side as they threaded their way through the crowd, and Phil took charge of the other two girls.

As Lucile watched the three, she suddenly broke into a little ripple of laughter, and, upon being questioned severely as to the reason of such unseemly mirth, she said, gaily, "I was just wondering what poor Phil will do with three girls, and one his sister, at that."

Jack laughed amusedly. "It will be pretty hard on the poor fellow," he admitted. "I think I ought to go along. I could at least relieve him of his sister."

"For which he would be devoutly thankful," she added.

"No more than I," said Jack, from which we may gather that our friend was much accomplished in the gentle art of flattery. However, to do him justice, he meant it, and even the most confirmed old bachelor, looking at Lucile, must have admitted that he had just and sufficient cause. In fact, there were not many who did not look at Lucile, who, with flushed cheeks and shining eyes, was the very image of radiant happiness.

At last their party had wormed its way through the crowd and were waiting at the foot of the gangplank for them to come up.

"Goodness! I had no idea it was so enormous!" Evelyn was saying. "I'm almost afraid of it."

"You'd better stick close to me," Jessie advised. "Then if we get lost, we'll at least have company."

"Don't let's stand here, at any rate," Mrs. Payton broke in, impatiently. "Our friends won't have a minute to look at our staterooms."

"We had to wait for the young folks, my dear," suggested Mr. Payton, mildly, and then, as Lucile and Jack joined them, he hurried them before him with scant ceremony. "We don't want to lose you," he explained, when they laughingly protested.

And then, at last, they were on deck, where a steward relieved them of their light luggage.

The girls tried to take in everything at once as they followed their guide along the deck and down the cabin stairs, but they had at last to give it up as a bad job.

"I feel as if I must be home in Burleigh, dreaming all this," said Jessie. "I'm getting dizzy trying to take in all the new impressions."

"Stick close to me, then," Phil invited. "I'll be on deck when you faint."

"Much good that will do Jessie when she is in the cabin," remarked Evelyn, with scathing sarcasm.

"Oh-h!" groaned the boys in unison, and Jessie clapped her hands delightedly, crying, "That's right, Evelyn; give it to them whenever you can."

And then all nonsense stopped suddenly as the steward paused and, fitting the key in the lock, disclosed the stateroom engaged for Mr. and Mrs. Payton. They crowded into the room and the girls set about examining everything without more ado.

"Oh, isn't it splendid?" cried Lucile. "You would never dream from the looks of this room that we were on board ship. Why, it's just as complete and comfortable as our rooms at home!"

"Pretty nifty," Phil agreed, as his glance traveled from the neat brass bed to the dresser and the large, inviting chair.

"I hate to hurry you," said Mr. Payton, as he pulled out his watch, "but as time waits for no man, we will have to hustle considerably if we expect to see the other two rooms."

So, reluctant to leave secrets still to be discovered, yet anxious to see their own room, the girls filed out, talking and laughing all at once, till they reached a door a little further down the corridor, which Mr. Payton designated as belonging to their stateroom.

While they waited it seemed to them that never before had simple tasks, such as fitting a key into the lock, been performed with such exasperating slowness, and the girls fairly danced with impatience. The older folks smiled indulgently, and Mr. Sanderson chuckled as he pulled Evelyn's ear and inquired inanely, "if she were having a good time."

He was crushed a moment later by the withering scorn from three pairs of merry eyes, and Mrs. Payton exclaimed, laughingly, "Such a question! All you have to do is just look at them."

Then, at last, the door flew open and they gazed on what was to be their own domain for five days at least; and it is safe to say that, in her heart, each of the girls wished it were to be twice as long.

"Oh, isn't it perfectly, beautiful, wonderfully lovely?" cried Jessie, getting more excited with each adjective, and when the others laughed merrily at the extravagance of her description, she added, defiantly, "I don't care; it is! I'll leave it to any one."

"You are right as far as you went, Jessie," Lucile backed her up, "only you didn't say half enough."

"And there's a full bed and a cot, just as we thought," Evelyn went on with the inventory, "and a bea-utiful dresser, and three darling chairs, and—and——" she finished incoherently.

"I'm sorry you all seem so dissatisfied," said Mr. Payton, with so droll an attempt to look gloomy that Lucile then and there threw her arms about his neck and gave him an ecstatic kiss, crying joyfully, "Oh, you are the most wonderful father in all the world!"

"Lucile!" exclaimed her mother warningly, whereupon Lucile, who was far too happy to consider consequences, promptly kissed the astonished lady. "To say nothing of Mother!" she cried.

Much to every one's surprise, far from being displeased, Mrs. Payton seemed rather to enjoy her daughter's impulsive outburst, merely cautioning her not to overheat and overexcite herself too much, as the day gave promise of being a very hot one.

"The big portholes make it so nice and light, too," said Jessie, again referring to the stateroom. "Why, one wouldn't even mind being seasick here!"

"Oh, Jessie!" cried Lucile and Evelyn, in dismay, and Lucile added, "I guess it doesn't make much difference where you are when you're seasick. From all I have heard, you just about wish you could die."

Mr. Payton laughed, and said, reassuringly, "The probability is that none of us will be sick, but we needn't worry about it till the time comes, anyway. And now," he added, "I guess, if you young people can tear yourselves away, we had better go on deck."

"But we haven't seen Phil's room yet." Lucile began, when that young gentleman, interrupted with a superior, "Don't let that worry you. I wouldn't have a lot of girls making a fuss over my quarters."

"We probably wouldn't anyway," said Jessie, and passed out with her nose in the air.

"I've heard that lemons and salt herring are good for seasickness," Jack teased, as they stepped on deck.

"Oh, don't!" Lucile pleaded, puckering her mouth at the thought of the lemon. "There is only one comfort," she added, triumphantly, "and that is, if I am seasick, you won't be here to know it."

"That's cruel," he laughed back; then added, quickly, "But you are going to write to me, any way, and tell me all about your experiences, aren't you?"

"I don't—know," she answered, doubtfully. "You see, even if Mother were willing, I wouldn't stay in one place very long—and——"

They were standing near the rail, Jack bending toward her very earnestly and she, gazing out over the crowded wharf, a little confused and very uncertain what to do; and yet, in her girl's heart, she knew what she wanted to do!

"If you don't want to get left, Turnbull, you'd better hustle," sang out Phil. "Everybody's off that's going."

Jack leaned forward and took Lucile's hand. "Please," he urged. "Just a little short letter—anything, as long as you write. Won't you please?"

Then Lucile's last little barrier gave way and, with a quick, half-whispered "All right," she ran to join her father and mother, who had caught the little inter-change and had regarded each other with troubled eyes. "Perhaps it's just as well we are going to Europe," Mrs. Payton had said, and Mr. Payton had nodded an unusually grave consent.

Jessie and Evelyn were engrossed in taking leave of their folks, who were half laughing, half crying at the thought of parting with them for so long.

Again the warning cry, "All ashore that are going ashore!" and, with a last hug and kiss and cry of "Take care of yourselves and be good," the ladies, assisted by their impatient escorts, hurried down the gangplank and were instantly lost to sight among the jostling mob down below.

"Phil, run and get the spy-glasses—quick!" directed Mrs. Payton. "They are in the grip in my stateroom. Here's the key—hurry!"

So Phil raced off as directed and the rest were pushed up against the rail by the crowd that pressed four deep behind them, all striving eagerly for a last sight of the dear ones on the wharf.

"Where are they?" cried Jessie, frantically. "I can't see a soul——Oh, yes; there's Dad's hat, I know—look, he's waving it——"

"And there's your mother, too, Evelyn," Lucile broke in. "See, she's waving her handkerchief——"

"Oh, I can see them all now," said Evelyn, dancing up and down excitedly. "They're all there, oh—oh-h——"

"Here's Phil," said Lucile, making room for him, as he wormed his way through. "He didn't waste much time."

"Bet your life I didn't," said Phil. "How I found the place I don't know—must have been a sort of instinct, I guess. Here you are, Mother."

Then there was a great noise and rattle as the gangplank was pulled up, and a moment later the great ship began to draw away ever so slowly and majestically, and the great whistle shrieked a blatant blast of farewell to the shouting, cheering, handkerchief-waving crowd on the wharf.

"Lucy," whispered Evelyn, squeezing her friend's arm so tightly that it hurt, "did you ever see anything like it?"



CHAPTER XII

MONSIEUR CHARLOIX

"What's the matter, Lucy? You look so—funny——"

It was the morning of the second day out and the three girls were leaning against the rail, gazing dreamily out over the boundless expanse of ocean. They wore natty white middy suits and, with floppy little sailor hats shading flushed cheeks and laughing eyes, they made an alluringly picturesque little group that had attracted much attention from their fellow-passengers.

"I'm glad you think so," said Lucile, dryly, in response to Jessie's question. "If I look the way I feel I must be a very laughable object!"

A quick glance of consternation passed between Jessie and Evelyn, and the latter turned to Lucile with dismay in her uplifted eyebrows.

"Seasick?" she inquired in a still, small voice.

Lucile nodded grimly. "Rather," she answered. "Guess I'm going to die."

"Don't say that," begged the girls, stifling a desire to laugh and cry at once.

"Oh, Lucy, dear, what can we do?" said Jessie, putting a comforting arm about her friend, whose complexion had grown a peculiar, greenish-gray color in the last few moments. "Don't you think you had better go below? Maybe if you lie flat on your back you will feel better. Come, dear."

"I knew I'd go and spoil everything by getting seasick," moaned Lucile, in the same toneless voice, and then, as a flash of her old saving humor came to the front, she turned to the girls with a suggestion of a smile. "I suppose I'll have to come to the lemon and herring," she said.

She was deathly sick all the rest of that day and most of the next, and it was not till near nightfall of the second day that she began to feel the first faint desire to live.

Jessie and Evelyn had wandered about aimlessly all the time, looking, as Phil said, as if some one had just pronounced a death sentence upon them. Though they had become acquainted with a great many of the passengers, no one of them had been able to coax a smile to the girls' long faces. In spite of Phil's uncivil remarks, it must be noted that even the wondrous engine-room had lost much of its charm for him and he had cut his visit short, merely to ask if they, meaning his father and mother, thought it would not help some to get Lucile on deck—fresh air—etc., etc.

Toward evening the cause of all this unrest opened heavy eyes upon a tossing gray world and turned her head languidly toward the porthole.

At the slight sound, Evelyn, who had been sitting, chin in hand, gazing gloomingly out to sea, rose quickly and ran to the side of the bed.

"Are you better, dear?" she said, softly stroking Lucile's dark hair back from her forehead with gentle fingers. "You went to sleep and I was so afraid of disturbing you that I didn't dare move."

Lucile caught her friend's hand and pressed it to her cheek. "You and Jessie have been darling to me—both of you," she cried, warmly, and Evelyn dropped to her knees beside the bed.

"Oh, that sounds like our old Lucy," she exulted. "You are feeling better aren't you, dear?"

"Lots," said Lucile, smiling up at her friend.

Then Jessie came running in and they hugged each other and laughed and cried after the dear and foolish manner of all girls, until a gentle knock disturbed them and brought Jessie to her feet with a start.

"Oh, I promised Phil I'd come right back and tell him if you were awake, and I never did," she cried, in consternation.

But, upon opening the door, the visitors proved not to be a wrathful and avenging young god, but Mr. and Mrs. Payton, coming to inquire after the patient's health.

"Hello!" said Mr. Payton, as Jessie gave a relieved sigh. "We came down to see a sick girl and we find a rank imposter in her place."

"Aren't you disappointed?" gibed his daughter. "Is that you, Mother? It's so dark in that corner I can hardly see."

Her mother's answer was a very comforting one, for she took Lucile in her arms and kissed her gently.

"I'm glad you are feeling better, my dear," she said. "It will do you good to get on deck as soon as possible. The salt air works wonders."

So it was decided that Lucile should have a light supper brought her in the cabin, for she was beginning to develop an appetite, after which she was to go on deck and test the revivifying power of salt sea air, mixed with a little soft moonlight, for Phil had laughingly prophesied that there would be "a peach of a moon to-night."

When Lucile, pale of face and lips and a trifle shaky and trembly on her feet, stepped from her cabin into the full beauty of a cloudless night, she turned to her friends with the first smile they had seen for ages—or so it seemed to them.

"Girls, it's good to be alive again!" she stated, fervently.

"Huh, you haven't been dead yet," grunted Phil.

"Well, I thought I was going to die, which is as bad," she retorted, with spirit. "But I'm going to live now, my brother, if only to disappoint you," she added.

"My, what a disposition!" said Evelyn, with a sad shake of her head, and Jessie murmured, with an encouraging pat, "Cheer up, Lucy; you are far from being a dead one yet."

Lucile sank into the chair they had so carefully prepared for her with a low laugh. "They are all pickin' on me," she said, plaintively. "But what do we care, on such a night? Just look at that sky," and, leaning forward, with her hand on the rail, she let her gaze wander hungrily out over the water, where the long, graceful combers caught the reflected, starry light and passed it on till it merged in the silvery pathway of the moon, which, as Phil had prophesied, was at its height. She sat quite still, realizing as she had never done before the utter grandeur, the awe-inspiring majesty of the ocean.

"It's enough to make one sentimental, isn't it?" said Jessie, at her elbow. "Wouldn't it be nice if Jack were here?" she added, innocently.

"Oh, bother!" said Lucile, leaning back with a contented sigh. "He would spoil everything. He would probably want to talk, and I can't."

"Oh," said Jessie, silenced, but unconvinced.

However, they were not destined to enjoy the beauty of the night in peace, for it was not long before the after-dinner crowd began to pour out on deck and the girls were surrounded by friendly, interested fellow-passengers, who inquired solicitously after Lucile's health.

Lucile was surprised and touched by these demonstrations, and it was not long before she was chatting naturally and merrily with a jolly little group to whom her father had laughingly introduced her as "the convalescent."

"Do you see that young man coming toward us?" said Evelyn, nodding in the direction of a tall, spare young fellow, who, with his shock of black hair, long, aquiline nose, and sensitive, thin-lipped mouth, looked decidedly temperamental, even to the most casual observer.

Lucile nodded. "What about him?" she asked.

"He's a Frenchman," adding, with a mysterious shake of her head, "Thereby hangs a tale."

Much to Lucile's secret annoyance, the young man at her right claimed her attention at that important moment, asking her, inanely, or so she thought, if she could swim.

It was not until an hour later, when most of the passengers had drifted off to different, and often more secluded, parts of the deck, and only three or four remained with them, that Lucile had an opportunity to question her friend.

"I hate mysteries, Evelyn," she whispered. "What did you mean by 'thereby hangs a tale'? Explain yourself."

"I can't just now," answered Evelyn. "He might hear us. Anyway, I don't know very much to tell. He would probably explain for himself if only those old stick-plasters would go away and tend to their own affairs," and she glared belligerently at the three unconscious gentlemen and young Monsieur Charloix, the Frenchman.

"No chance—they're glued!" said Jessie, gloomily, and Lucile looked from one to the other of them despairingly.

"I wish I knew what you were getting at," she sighed.

"Mademoiselle has been very seek?" the voice was low, caressing, with the slightest suggestion of a foreign accent.

Lucile turned her head and found herself looking into the bright, restless eyes of the mysterious stranger.

For the first moment she was startled and a little confused, but the next instant, recovering herself, she answered, gravely, "Yes, I have been rather under the weather for a couple of days," and she added, with her bright smile, "The thing that bothers me most is the thought of what I have missed during that time."

"Mademoiselle is brave," he smiled back. "Most would think only of their sufferings. However, there are still two good days in which to see everything."

"Two days?" sighed Lucile. "It seems to me as if it would take two years to see all I'd like to."

"Ah, but it is Mademoiselle's first voyage." There was an undertone of sadness in the low voice that made Lucile steal a quick glance at him. There was something about the man, perhaps in the tired droop of his shoulders, perhaps something in the wistful way he had of looking far out to sea, as if seeking the solution of his problem there; perhaps it was only the pathos in his low, Southern voice. Be that as it may, Lucile's heart went out to him then and there.

"When one has been back and forth, back and forth, many times," he went on, "he is bound to lose that so fresh enthusiasm and long only for the shore where something may be done. At such times the days, they seem to have no end. But I transgress," he interrupted himself, with a little deprecatory laugh. "Mademoiselle should have reminded me."

"You speak of having crossed the ocean many times," said Mr. Payton, who, with his wife, had approached the absorbed little group unknown to them.

Monsieur Charloix arose from his chair quickly and offered it, with a Frenchman's elaborate courtesy, to Mrs. Payton. When they were again seated, this time in a cozy little semicircle, Mr. Payton repeated his question and the girls listened eagerly for the reply.

"Didn't I tell you?" Jessie managed to whisper. "Now we are going to have the story."

"Yes," came, in the gentle, modulated tones, "Monsieur is right; I am not a stranger to America."

"And you like our country?" said Mrs. Payton, adding, with a laugh, "Do not be afraid to tell the truth; we shall not be offended."

"Ah, but that is where Madam does me great injustice," said the stranger, with a smile. "There is no country in the world for which I have so great respect and admiration as I have for your great America. It has been my misfortune that, in my flying visits, I have had so little time and opportunity to make the acquaintance of so great a nation."

"Hip-hip-hooray!" cried Phil, the irrepressible, taking possession of the chair next to Jessie. "It's good to have the old country boosted when you're so far away."

"Phil," protested his mother, "I do wish you could get along without so much slang."

"He'll be engaging an interpreter next," murmured Jessie, at which the culprit looked his reproach.

"I hope you will pardon the interruption, Monsieur Charloix," said Mrs. Payton, apologetically, and her husband added, "Our excuse for Phil is that he is young and still has much to learn, although it is mighty hard to convince him of the truth of that last fact," at which scathing remark, delivered with a twinkle that was lost in the dark, Phil looked almost cast down, until Jessie declared in a whisper "that she loved slang," accompanying the declaration with a comforting little pat that cheered him immensely.

"No apologies, Madame and Monsieur," the Frenchman was saying. "I was once a boy myself. The slang has many advantages which the more flowery language has not; it is, at least, much to the point."

"If he would only use it, he might reach the point sooner," complained Jessie, in an aside.

"I'd be happy if I only knew what point you wanted him to get to," sighed Lucile. "You see, I am completely in the dark."

"'Listen, my children, and you shall hear,'" Jessie broke in, still in an undertone. "Methinks the story is about to unfold itself——"

"Sh-h!" said Lucile, warningly. "Listen!"

Mr. Payton was speaking. "You say the will cannot be found?"

Four pairs of bright young eyes centered upon the stranger with eager intensity as they waited for his reply.



CHAPTER XIII

ROMANCE

The moist, salt-laden breeze fanned their hot faces gratefully. The musical tap-tap of the waves against the side of the ship came to them as from a great distance, and even the voices and laughter of the passengers seemed, somehow, strangely remote.

The stranger brought his gaze back to them with an effort, as he said, wearily, "Monsieur, I am tired—you cannot know how much. But I had not meant to bore you with my so selfish perplexities——"

"Sometimes to tell our troubles is half the cure," Mrs. Payton suggested, gently.

"You are very—good," murmured the stranger, gratefully. "If you are sure it will not tire——"

Then at their vigorous denials, he proceeded, in his low, even voice: "Sometimes I have felt the great necessity of telling all to some one—some one who would understand. If I did not, I felt I should go mad." He passed his hand over his eyes with an infinitely weary gesture.

"You see, my father and I, we had long been estranged. Not even in my earliest childhood have I the memory of a gentle word, a fatherly pressure of the hand. So I grew to young manhood with no knowledge of a mother's or father's love—for my mother," here his voice lowered, reverently, "died when I was born. My childhood was of the utmost loneliness, for my father thought the children with whom I wished to associate were too far beneath me in social station. My sole companion was the old dame who took care of the house—the one person in the world of whom my father seemed to have fear. So the miserable years dragged by. When I had just begun to make some plans by which I might escape from this dungeon they so falsely called my home—just at the time I was most despairing—like a joyful, radiant rift of sunlight in a clouded sky, came—my Jeanette. Oh, if you could but see her!"

Under cover of the dark the girls' hands sought and clasped convulsively, but no one spoke.

"I cannot attempt to describe one so gay, so beautiful, so lovely. She seemed like a spirit from another world—a far dearer, happier world than I had ever thought to exist. Ah, how I loved her, and she—ah, she loved me, and for a while we were, oh, Monsieur, so divinely, so unthinkably happy——" His voice broke and again his gaze wandered dreamily out into the night.

"And who was the girl?" Lucile prompted, eagerly.

"Ah, Mademoiselle, that was the rock upon which all our dreams were wrecked. My father would but reply sourly to any question I might venture that my fair Jeanette was the ward of a friend who, on his death-bed, had bequeathed her to his clemency—the fool!"

"As for my Jeanette herself, she told me all she knew about herself, which, in fact, was little enough. She had lived with her guardian and his faithful old servant for ever since she could remember, and had been very happy. The chateau where she lived was a pretty, open place, with gardens all about and beautiful woods on either side, where one could roam for hours, becoming acquainted with the little folk of the wood—this my little Jeanette did, not feeling the need of human companionship as had I. When, upon rare occasions, she had questioned her guardian as to the identity of her parents, he had answered with a most strange reticence that she must not bother her head about such matters, but to wait till she was twenty-one, when she would know all. Naturally, the child believed and did as she was bid, but the maiden wondered and began to brood in secret. In time she began to form great plans wherein she might discover her identity, and perhaps, who knows, she might find herself to be a duke's daughter—such things happened with the utmost frequency in the books which she read.

"So spoke my little Jeanette, and I encouraged her in this fancy and became, if anything, more eager than herself to solve the mystery of her parentage.

"So the days and weeks fled by so happy, till once again those plans began to take form and shape that had so long laid dormant after the arrival of Jeanette. The voice of my manhood urged me insistently to throw off the fetters that bound me and advance bravely into the seething world of men and from it wrest the so well-earned fruit of my endeavor—for I was ambitious and rebelled at being shut within four walls, where each detail of my life was arranged for me as if I had still been a child.

"Yet I liked little the thought of leaving my sweet Jeanette alone in that gloomy house. But, on the other hand, how could I aspire to help if I remained at home?"

"That night Jeanette and I talked long—ah, I shall never forget it!—and it was then she urged, with tears of earnestness in her dear eyes, not to think of her, but to do as I judged best. I have seen her as she looked that night so many, many weary days!"

Here there was a long pause in the narrative, and it was not till Mr. Payton prompted, softly, "And then——"

"Well, then, Monsieur, events flowed along easily enough till it was about a week to the time we had set for my departure. Then, one night, I came upon Jeanette suddenly and, to my great alarm and dismay, I discovered her in tears.

"'Jeanne!' I cried. 'My little Jeanne, tell me what is wrong!'

"But she would not answer me, only sobbing out in a way that broke my heart that 'I must go away, and never, never see her again!'

"Then it was, while I was still stunned and stupefied by the change in her, that a servant brought me a message from my father. He wished to see me on the instant.

"I made one last, agonized appeal to Jeanette, but she kept her face averted and answered me nothing, and I, stricken, bewildered, hardly knowing what I did, followed the servant to my father's rooms.

"I found him pacing the room with an angry scowl upon his face and an air that augured ill for me. Far from being taken aback, I welcomed this attitude of my father. I felt, somehow, that he was to blame for the tears of my Jeanette. I could have fallen upon him, doing him bodily injury, so great and terrible was my anger. With an effort, I conquered this first mad impulse and waited, with hands so tightly clenched that the nails bit deep into the flesh.

"I had not long to wait. At the sound of the opening door my father whirled and, with an imperious gesture, ordered the servant to retire. When the door was closed behind the man, my father burst out, furiously, 'So you have been deceiving me, lying to me in my own house. You need not start and look surprised, for what I have not seen with my own eyes has been faithfully retailed to me through one I can trust.'

"I fear I must have appeared stupid, for suddenly my brain refused to act naturally. How was it for my father to find out this—my so great secret? Surely, I had taken every precaution. But my father's voice broke in rudely upon my bewilderment.

"'Have you nothing to say?' said he, furiously. 'Must you stand there like a dog, a monkey, a piece of wood, and make no attempt to defend yourself? Ah, to have reared such a son?'

"Suddenly, in a flash, came my wits again. In an instant I had drawn myself to my full height and stood regarding calmly my enraged father. Ah, that I have not one kind thought—one gentle memory——" Again the stranger paused, and the girls felt the undernote of tragedy in his voice. Instinctively, Lucile glanced at her own father where he sat, knees crossed, cigar in hand, listening attentively, and her heart gave a great, warm throb as she whispered, "Dear old Dad!"

"Well," said the Frenchman, with a shrug of his shoulders, "there is not much more to tell, though it may mean the wrecking of two lives, mine and that of Jeanette. My father and I had many words, calm on my part, enraged on his, and during the interview I learned that our great secret had been discovered by that old witch, the housekeeper, the week before, when Jeanette and I had had our never-to-be-forgotten conversation. For some unknown reason she had kept the discovery to herself till the day before.

"'So you meant to marry Jeanette?' my father flung at me.

"'Oui, Monsieur, mon pere,' I answered, still calmly, 'and if Jeanette will do me the great honor to become my wife, I have not in the least altered my determination.'

"'Ah!' cried my father, stung by my calm. 'But she will not have you—Jeanette. She has too much pride!'

"'What do you mean?' I cried, shaken out of my composure for the first time. 'Explain quickly; my patience is almost at an end.'

"'Ah, if that is all, my impatient son,' said my father, lowering his voice, craftily, 'you will soon know far too much for your peace of mind!'

"'Explain!' I cried, my wrath rising to fever heat. I towered above him, white with rage, and he, seeming to realize for the first time I was no longer a child, retreated nervously.

"'You have often asked about the parents of Jeanette, and now I think it is but right you should know all.'

"'Ah!' I cried, joyfully. 'At last!'

"'But there is little cause for rejoicing,' said my father, lowering his voice till it was scarce above a whisper. 'What would you say, my son, if I were to tell you that the father of your fair Jeanette was—a thief?' Ah, the evilness of that smile! How I hated him at that moment!

"'Sir,' said I, 'no such statement will I give belief till it has been proven to me beyond all doubt, and——' I leaned forward, speaking with intensity, 'you have yet to understand that were Jeanette's father doubly a thief, still would Jeanette be Jeanette, and the more obstacles you set in our path, only the more determined shall I become to wed her—if she will have me.'

"'Ah, but that is the question,' sneered my father. 'It seems you know not your Jeanette so well, after all, for you have left her natural pride outside your fine calculations. Suppose she will not have you, what then, eh?'

"'Ah, then you have told her!' I cried, choking with rage at my father—with pity and a great longing to hold my love in my arms and dry away her tears. 'Why could you have not have spared the child that knowledge? Oh, Jeanette!' I cried, and flung myself against the door; then, turning, met my father's sneering look with one of bitter defiance. 'I will see Jeanette first,' I said, tensely. 'And then, my father, we will have a short reckoning,' and going out, I slammed the door upon his sneering face and flung myself down the stairs in search of my love.

"'Jeanette,' I cried, implored, 'Come to me!' and ran from room to room, when, not finding her, I became frantic and knocked wildly upon the door of her own room, calling to her aloud. But she was not there, nor could I find her anywhere. Her room showed evidence of a hurried packing—small things strewn here and there; but her sweet presence, that had filled the gloomy house with sunshine, had fled, where, where, I could not tell!" Here the speaker's voice trailed off and came to a stop. Then he turned to the group about him, saying, half questioningly, half apologetically, "I fear to tire you with this so long tale. After all, I suppose it is interesting only when applied to one's self."

"Oh, no!" cried Lucile, impulsively, while her eyes shone with eagerness. "Please go on!"

"You are good, Mademoiselle," murmured the Frenchman, and went on with his story:

"Well, I sat down outside her door and wept like a child, for to me the world seemed ended; but then, drawing myself together, and angry at what I termed my miserable weakness, I set to work earnestly, doggedly, to find some way out of this great chain of circumstances that bound me. Where to find Jeanette? My brain reeled with the schemes and plans that came crowding upon me, only to be rejected one by one as improbable, fantastic, children of an overwrought imagination.

"At last, one idea became fixed in my mind. The thought came to me and stayed persistently that, in her great extremity, she would naturally fly to the one place of refuge which she knew—the old chateau where she had spent her so happy childhood.

"I knew the place to be still occupied by the old servant and his wife—this scrap of information my father had thrown to me—but, alas! I knew not the location, and there were so many chateaux of the kind in the province! How could I hope to find it?

"I sprang to my feet, while a new determination and resolve took possession of me, and I uttered a solemn oath, swearing that I would leave the house that night, not returning till I should bring Jeanette with me—my wife!"

Little chills of excitement chased themselves all over the girls in a highly disconcerting manner, and even scoffing Phil leaned forward in his chair to miss not one word of this remarkable story.



CHAPTER XIV

A VAIN QUEST

"So I packed what few belongings I had and took the money which I had managed to save from my father's so meager allowance," the low voice continued; "and when night came and all was still in the house, I stole quietly away and turned my back upon what was the only refuge I have ever known.

"I will not dwell upon the days and weeks that followed. Suffice it to say that they were very, very hard, and I was dangerously near giving up all hope, when, one day, I chanced to come across an old, old man, full three score ten he must have been, perhaps more, who seemed to know something of the people I sought. When I had described them to the best of my ability, he nodded sagely and directed me up a side road near by. Three miles of steady travel would bring Monsieur to the chateau where lived the old caretaker and his wife. Aye, he remembered the old gentleman, who was now dead, and the little, fairy-like creature, his ward, whom all had loved.

"I thanked him with great warmth, for he had brought a little spark of hope to a heart that before had lain heavy as lead.

"Wearily I trudged along till I was rewarded by the vision of a small chateau, almost surrounded by dense woodland. My unruly heart throbbed violently at the thought that in these very woods my sweet Jeanette had played when a child and earned the name throughout the countryside of the fairy child, whom every one loved. My heart yearned toward the little home which I was convinced must shelter my love, and, weary as I was, in my impatience I began to run, covering the remaining distance with feet as light as air and a heart that sang with dawning hope and joy.

"As I neared the door of my heart's desire, it opened and out stepped a plump, middle-aged little person, looking very trim and neat in her spotless white attire.

"To her I appealed. 'Madame,' said I, 'will you be so kind as to allow me the privilege of a few words of conversation? You have it in your power either to raise me to the heights of joy or to sink me in the very depths of despair.'

"She gazed upon me as she would upon a madman, and perhaps, after all, it was not so strange that she should do so, I being footsore and weary and all covered with the stains and dust of travel—or perhaps it was merely my so strange form of address which startled her. However, she retreated several steps toward the house and stood with her hand clasping the latch, as though making ready to fly should I attempt any violence.

"'May I ask sir,' she said, with great primness, not unmixed with fear, 'who comes so early in the morning with so strange, so unusual, requests?'

"'Aye, Madame,' said I, with most reassuring manner, 'if you will but allow me, I will soon make all clear. Give me but a hearing,' I cried, frantically, as I saw she was about to retire.

"To my great surprise, when she spoke it was in so much different and more gentle a tone that I could have gone on my knees to her, so great was my gratitude for a little kindness!

"'Oh, Monsieur, I believe you are honest,' she said, gently. 'I will listen to what you have to say.'

"'Ah, Madame, you are good!' I cried from my heart. 'I am sure your good opinion will be strengthened when you hear all.'

"Then did I pour out my story, while the good soul listened attentively, nodding now and then or uttering little exclamations of surprise or sympathy. 'And, oh, Madame,' I finished, 'if you have seen her; if, as I believe, she is here, I beg you, take me to her. Let me but see her, and all, I am convinced, will be well.'

"Then, what was my great horror, my boundless despair, when the good woman slowly and sadly shook her head, saying, in a voice full of sympathy and commiseration, 'How loath I am to shatter your hopes and add more trouble to your already much overheavy sorrows, you cannot know, Monsieur, but I fear I can give you little encouragement.'

"'Ah, Madame,' I cried, wildly, beseechingly, 'surely, you cannot be so cruel; surely, you must give me some hope! If Jeanette is not here now, surely, you have heard from her, seen her, can give me some clue to her present whereabouts!'

"It seemed to me as though she hesitated for the fraction of a second, but when her answer came, though gentle and sympathetic as before, it contained decision and finality which I could not but respect.

"'Monsieur, she is not here, and neither have I seen her.'

"'Merci, Madame,' I murmured, wearily, and was turning away with sinking heart and feet that seemed weighted with lead, when she called to me softly:

"'Monsieur is weary. Will he not rest and partake of some refreshment before continuing his journey?'

"Apathetically, scarce knowing where I went, nor caring, I followed her into a great, homelike, airy room, with flowers all about, even in the broad-silled, open windows. In the fragrance of the flowers it seemed that I could see Jeanette, and I had a strange impression she was near me. But I pushed it aside, thinking it but one of the many fancies that had beset me unceasingly of late.

"It was not long before the good dame set before me a steaming dish, and I, who, a few minutes before, had thought I could never eat again, fell upon it ravenously and never stopped until the last delicious morsel had disappeared. Thus refreshed and strengthened, my courage returned as by magic and I began again to make my plans for the future.

"An hour later, leaving the house upon which I had based such high hopes, I again turned my steps toward the city. Of course, I was now—what you call it?—more in the dark than ever about Jeanette, but in my heart was a great and dogged determination to find her somehow, somewhere, if I had to search the city through.

"Five days later I found myself again before the city, infinitely more dusty, infinitely more hungry, infinitely more footsore and more weary than when I had encountered Madame Vidaud at the chateau.

"As I turned a corner, a great, whirling streak rushed by me, so close as to make me jump quickly to the side of the road. To my great surprise, the automobile stopped a few yards from where I was standing and two men, one tall, one short, jumped out and hurried toward me.

"'Hello!' cried the tall one, in a big, rumbling voice. 'Aren't you the son of Charloix?' he said. 'I thought I recognized you, even through the dust. Just the man I'm looking for!'

"'I would be pleased, sir, if you would name your business with me,' I replied, not being in the best of humors to bandy words with this stranger who seemed so familiar with my name and ancestry.

"'Certainly, certainly,' said the big man, with a heartiness that made me ashamed of my bad humor. 'That's exactly what I stopped for. I am your father's solicitor.'

"I started and drew back. 'You come from my father?'

"'Yes; and you must prepare yourself for a great shock, my son,' said he, laying a great hand upon my shoulder. 'Your father is very ill.'

"'Dead!' I gasped, feeling myself turn white. 'When?'

"'Four days ago,' said the little man, who had not yet spoken. 'Apoplexy.'

"'Ah, I had forgotten! My friend M. Abbott, M. Charloix.'

"I bowed, scarcely acknowledging the introduction, for my mind was a whirling turmoil of hopes and fears. 'You say,' I began, still much dazed, 'that my father died four days ago. And have you been looking for me since then, Monsieur?'

"'Yes, Monsieur, we have scoured the country and, before this fortunate meeting to-day, had almost given up hope of finding you.'

"'But why did you take this so much trouble to find me Monsieur?' I had asked. 'I had not thought myself of such importance.'

"'There were many good reasons for our search, Monsieur,' said my big friend, a trifle stiffly, for I doubt not he was amazed at my lack of emotion, not knowing my father as I had known him. 'In the first place, we thought you might possibly wish to know of your father's death. Also, there are several important matters relative to his decease that we thought might interest you.'

"'Pardon, Monsieur,' said I. 'I had not meant to be abrupt. As you may see, I have had a long and wearisome journey and am—what you call—fagged. I must rest, Monsieur; then I can talk.'

"'Quite right, quite right!' he agreed, in his hearty manner. 'If I had had any brains instead of being a great empty-headed fool of an attorney, I should have seen to that before,' and, linking his arm in mine, he led me in spite of all protests on my part, to his great touring car and bade me enter.

"'But, Monsieur,' I protested, gazing despairingly down upon my torn and dusty clothing, 'I am not fit——'

"'But me no buts, young man. As your attorney and rightful executor of your estate, I have the right to demand an interview, and I am going to take advantage of that right.'

"There being nothing more to say, and it seeming only natural and right to obey the commands of this great, blustering attorney, I submitted, and lounged back against the soft, upholstered seat with a great sigh of relaxation.

"My father's attorney talked incessantly until we reached our destination, giving me no time to think. At his home he directed me to a large room, saying that in an hour's time he would meet me in his study, where, over a good dinner and a bottle or two of choice Madeira, we could talk in comfort.

"Ah, the luxury of that bath and the subsequent putting on of a clean, whole suit of clothes placed upon the bed by the so obsequious man servant, who said his master had sent these clothes with his compliments and the hope that they would fit. The clothes I accepted thankfully enough, for I had decided to ask M. Cartier the address of a shop in the city in which I might purchase myself a cheap but respectable suit, for I had still a little money left.

"In Monsieur Cartier's study again that night I learned many things. I learned, among other things, that my father had long been suspected of being somewhat of a miser—that he was thought to possess a great deal more money than he cared to let people know about. Also, I learned that, several days before his death, he had made a flying visit to a little chateau which had been owned by a friend of his—I must have started, for the lawyer asked if I had heard of the place. 'Yes, I had heard of it—but please go on.'

"'Well, he stayed over night that night,' the lawyer continued, 'saying that he had come in search of his ward, who had run away from home.'

"'Yes, yes,' I cried; 'go on! What then?'

"'Well it seems that in the night the good dame heard a noise, and, rising to investigate, came upon your father in the attic, bending over something, the nature of which she could not make out.'

"'But, Monsieur, you mean to say my father——' I began, but he interrupted me with an admonitory wave of the hand.

"'If you will but wait till I have finished, Monsieur Charloix,' he said, 'I will be glad to answer any and all of your questions. As I have said, your father was bending over some object and was so absorbed that he did not hear our good friend till she ventured a gentle cough by way of introduction. At the slight sound, your father sprang forward with an oath, leveling the pistol at the good dame's head——'"

"Oh!" breathed Jessie, and Lucile's hand went out instinctively to silence the interruption. "Sh-h!" she warned, but the Frenchman seemed not to have heard and continued his narrative, while his hand beat a nervous tattoo on the arm of the chair.

"I sat fascinated, my eyes fixed strainingly on the face of the lawyer, while he continued to speak, calmly, nonchalantly, as though that of which he spoke were of every-day occurrence. 'Of course, the good dame screamed, but the next instant her fear turned to terror when the weapon fell from your father's hand and he reeled, falling upon the ground with a strangling, choking cry, and lay motionless. She thought him dead, but ran for assistance nevertheless. It was some hours before the doctor arrived, and not long afterward your father passed away, quietly and painlessly, for he had lain in a coma since the stroke.'

"'But, Monsieur,' I cried, forgetful of his admonition, 'you say this was a week ago?' He nodded consent. 'But I myself but left the chateau three days ago, and Madame Vidaud made no mention of the tragedy to me, who am most concerned.'

"Then it was Cartier's turn to have surprise. 'You mean,' said he, leaning his arm on the table and eyeing me steadily. 'You mean that you were actually at the chateau three days ago and that the Vidaud woman said nothing to you of your father's death? Are you sure that it was the right chateau?'

"'Oui, Monsieur, I am sure,' said I.

"Then ensued a silence, during which the lawyer seemed to ponder, and I, impatient though I was, must needs respect his silence and await his pleasure.

"'Aye, it is strange—very strange,' said he at last, with a thoughtful frown. 'However, it is only one more snarl in the tangled thread of circumstances, and, with good luck, we ought to be able to get at the root of all this mystery soon. But, my young friend,' said he, bringing his gaze back from the wall and long line of books and centering it once more upon me, 'there is one more very important matter which requires our careful consideration.'

"'And that?' I cried.

"'That,' he continued, 'is the matter of the will,' and then, seeing that I was about to interrupt, he continued, quickly, 'Just a moment, if you please, and you will know everything; then I will be in a position to discuss whys and wherefores. Your father's last will, the will which I myself drew up about a year ago, is strangely missing. One has been found, however, dating back two years, and in the event of the first will not being found, will, of course, become valid.'

"'Well?' said I.

"'Well,' he continued, calmly launching his thunderbolt, 'in that case, you, Monsieur, will be left penniless.'

"'Ah!' I cried, aghast, and the lawyer nodded, 'I trust that you now see the seriousness of the situation, Monsieur.'

"'Ah, but there is one point of far greater importance than you have mentioned,' I cried, with such earnestness that he leaned back in his chair with a sigh of resignation, saying, 'Great heavens! What could be more important than that?'

"'Many things, Monsieur, which, when you have heard of them, will cause you to agree with me.'

"My manner may have impressed him, perhaps my earnestness; for he bade me speak out freely, leaving nothing untold. This I did, to the most minute details, save, of course, those things sacred only to Jeanne and me. When I had finished, we had a long talk, during which I came to know the value of this new ally of mine.

"So it was finally decided that I was to travel to America for the purpose of hunting up one of the chief witnesses of my father's will and beg him to return to France with me. Meanwhile, my father's attorney assured me he would not be idle."

"And did you find him—the witness, I mean?" said Mr. Payton.

"No, Monsieur, I did not; but, after a long and exhaustive search, I learned that the one I sought had sailed a week ago on the steamer 'Baltic,' so all my journey has been for nothing."

"What difference does it make? At least, you accomplished your purpose."

"That is true, Madame, but he would have sailed without aid of mine, and it maddens me to think that all this time I have been wasting in a fruitless search, my Jeanette is still unfound. Where may she not be? Dead—perhaps——" His voice trailed off into silence and they sat motionless, fascinated by the spell of romance, tragedy and mystery he had woven.



CHAPTER XV

"LAND, HO!"

Lucile opened her eyes slowly, lazily, and let them rove aimlessly about the bright cabin; then, chancing to come upon Jessie and Evelyn sleeping sweetly and peacefully, they stopped and focused resentfully.

"Nothing to do but sleep," she murmured, pushing back her rumpled curls and yawning prodigiously. "I wonder why it is I always have to wake up first," and then, her eyes happening to fall on Evelyn at this precise moment, she cried, "Oh, I saw you wink, Evelyn; you can't fool me! You're playing possum," and, springing quickly out of bed, she gave that young lady a vigorous shake, which caused her to open her eyes rather suddenly.

"Wh-what's the matter? Can't you let a fellow sleep?" she began, but the laughter in her eyes belied the sleepy tone, and Lucile hugged her and pulled her out of bed. "I'll admit you're a dabster, Evelyn, dear," she cried, "but you will have to get up early in the morning to get the best of your little friend."

Evelyn laughed merrily. "You whirlwind!" she cried. "Nobody has a chance to sleep when you're around."

"Don't be too sure of that; look at Jessie. She is still sleeping the sleep of the just."

"All right; let's make her get up, then. Even if she does want to sleep, why should we worry?"

"Evelyn," cried Lucy, shocked, "you're getting most horribly slangy."

"Oh, Lucy, you look so funny, trying to be severe in that rig! It can't be done!" And, with a laugh, she plumped down on something hard and lumpy, which proved to be Jessie's feet. The outraged owner objected promptly and emphatically.

"Oh, Jessie, I'm so sorry! Are those your feet?" cried Evelyn, in concern.

"No; they are Lucy's," said Jessie, coldly, rubbing the injured members gingerly.

Lucile laughed merrily. "Don't you go slandering my poor feet," she cried. "Anyway, it serves you right for being so lazy, Jess."

"Oh, does it? Well, I'll just prove you wrong by beating you all on deck, One, two, three—we're off!"

Then ensued a great amount of talk and laughter and wild scrambling for clothing that would get out of sight, until at the end of half an hour, our girls made a dash for the door at precisely the same instant.

"Oh, that's not fair," cried Evelyn, as Lucile wrenched open the door and ran straight into the arms of the rather stout, middle-aged matron who happened to be passing.

"Oh," she gasped, "I—I beg your pardon! I——"

"Look first, and you will save your apologies," said the sweet-tempered lady, who, to do her justice, was considerably shaken by the impact.

Lucile flushed scarlet, but walked on with her head in the air, thankful she had not expressed the thought that had rushed to her lips.

"Cranky old curmudgeon!" murmured Evelyn, vindictively. "It's lucky there aren't so many of them in the world."

To their surprise, Lucile began to laugh with great enjoyment. "Girls," she said, "did you hear her say 'woof' when we clashed?"

Two hours later they sighted the harbor, and on board pandemonium broke loose. Questions and answers were fired back and forth like bullets from a Gatling gun, and everywhere field glasses were glued to eager eyes.

"So that's England?" said Lucile. "Oh, Jessie, pinch me!"

"Won't. Love you too much," said Jessie, gazing intently toward the harbor, which became more and more distinct with every passing moment.

"Don't let any such soft scruples stand in your way," said Phil, administering the desired pinch with such good effect that Lucile jumped almost a foot and lowered her glasses to gaze reproachfully at him.

"Phil, that will be black and blue for a month," she said, with conviction. "You needn't have done it so hard."

"You didn't say not to," said Phil, with the air of injured innocence that sat so comically upon him. "Here comes old Charlie," he added, a minute later. "Wonder if he's found anything since last night."

"Who in the world is old Charlie?" inquired Jessie, mystified.

"Old Charlie? Why, old Charlie is short for Monsieur Charloix, of course," elucidated Phil, with the patronizing air of one speaking to a peculiarly stupid child.

Instantly the girls' interest in Liverpool harbor waned, as they turned smilingly to greet the historian of last night.

"I see Mademoiselle is entirely recovered from the seasickness," said he, turning to Lucile. "It is good to see you looking so well."

"Thank you, Monsieur. I suppose you will be glad to get back to France?"

"Oh, very glad, for, though I admire your America, it is not to me like my own country," said he, smiling.

It was not long before they were joined by other excited fellow-passengers, all talking at once about what they intended to do upon reaching land, and in the babble it was impossible to carry on any but a disjointed conversation, so the girls wisely gave up trying.

Nevertheless, Lucile had been more deeply impressed than any of the rest by the recital of Monsieur's tragic romance. It seemed, somehow, like the plays their guardian had described to them. Phil, the skeptical, had seemed inclined to think the story over-drawn, but the girls had emphatically disagreed with him, overwhelming him by sheer force of numbers. And way down in Lucile's heart was the hope that she would, sooner or later, hear the finishing chapter of the romance. Whether this premonition was inspired partly by her own desire or partly by the fact that, sooner or later, they would be in France itself, where they would have the opportunity of following the fortunes of the disconsolate Frenchman, cannot be determined, but certain it was, the premonition was there. As she had said to Jessie at the end of a long and excited discussion the night before, "Stranger things have happened."

And so, in the girl's eyes, and, in fact, in the eyes of all who had heard his story, even Phil, the stranger had taken on an added importance, the importance of the chief actor in a romantic drama.

"I would like to help," Lucile murmured, as the Frenchman excused himself and moved off down the deck. "I never saw any one look so wistful in all my life."

"No wonder," said Jessie, in the same tone. "If I had been through all he has, I'd never have lived to tell about it."

"And poor Jeanette!" Lucile mused on. "I'd give almost anything if I could bring them together again."

Jessie glanced at her friend curiously. "Perhaps you will tell me now that my dear old novels always exaggerate," she challenged.

"A little more of this sort of thing and I'll be able to believe anything," Lucile answered, with a rueful smile. "It surely is wonderful!"

"Oh, Lucy, dear, I may convert you yet," Jessie was crying gleefully, when she was interrupted by another crowd of fellow-voyagers, who, for the time being at least, cut her triumph short.

Later came the call to luncheon, and everybody hurried down to the dining-room, where the atmosphere of excitement and unrest prevailed to such a degree that people almost forgot to eat, or else bolted their meals in half the ordinary time, anxious not to miss a moment above decks.

Then, toward one o'clock in the afternoon, Mrs. Payton advised the girls to get everything ready, and see that nothing was left in the stateroom.

"We will dock in a few minutes," she explained, "and we don't want to leave everything until the last instant."

Down rushed the girls to the stateroom obediently, treading on each other's heels and not even bothering to apologize, for what was so everyday a thing as politeness at such a time?

Jessie and Evelyn waited in undisguised impatience while Lucile fumblingly fitted the key into the lock with fingers that trembled rebelliously.

"Oh, for goodness' sake, let me have it!" said Jessie, in desperation.

"Hold on a minute; there it is!" And as the door swung open, they tumbled rather than walked into the room.

"Oh, bother! Where did I put my comb?" moaned Evelyn, searching wildly under the dresser for the missing article. "You might know it would disappear just when I haven't any time to look for it. Are you sure you're not sitting on it, Lucy?"

"Of course not," denied Lucile; "but if you don't get off my suitcase this minute, Jessie Sanderson, I'll know the reason why."

"Here's your comb, Evelyn! Catch!" said Jessie, throwing the missing article toward her friend. "If you would only keep it over on your side instead——"

"Oh, if you talk so much you will never be ready, Jessie! Do hurry!" And so on in this fashion until, finally, the last thing was ready and they tumbled up on deck again, only to be swallowed up by a jostling, gesticulating throng intent, apparently, on getting nowhere in particular, and doing it, withal, with a perseverance that was truly admirable.

"Hello!" said Phil, elbowing his way through the crowd. "We dock in ten minutes. Just look at the harbor now;" and he was off again.

With difficulty they made their way to the rail and stood gazing at the scene with wondering eyes and parted lips. Craft of all sizes and descriptions plowed and snorted through the ruffled water, and everywhere was life and bustle and activity. And further back, past the lines of docks and warehouses, the girls could discern the spires and steeples of—England!

"Well," came Mr. Payton's gruff, hearty voice from just behind them, "how do you like your first glimpse of the Old World, eh? It won't be any time at all before you set foot upon it."

"Oh, Daddy, isn't it magnificent?" said Lucile, drawing a long breath. "It all looks just exactly the way I dreamed it would, though. Oh, I can't wait!" and she leaned far over the rail, as if by that means to bring it so much the nearer.

Her father's strong hand drew her back to safety, and he said, reprovingly, "Don't do that again, Lucy. Accidents will happen, you know."

"Even in the best-regulated families," finished Lucile, gaily.

Her father laughed, and pinched the tip of one pink ear fondly. "I suppose there is no use trying to make any of you serious at such a time," he said, with the resigned air of one giving up all hope; "but there is one little phrase that it will be well for you to remember, and that is, 'Safety first.'"

And with that fatherly admonition he left them, bidding them wait where they were until he could rejoin them. In a few minutes he returned, bringing his wife and Phil, declaring that nothing now remained to be done but walk off the ship when the time came.

The great "Mauretania" was very near her destination now, and was nosing her way carefully through the traffic, convoyed by two snorting and puffing tugs. The raucous shouts and cries of sailors and watermen came to their ears, with now and then a snatch of song from the decks of some tall, four-masted freighter. There were shouts of "aye, aye, sir" and "ship, ahoy," mingled with the rasping of cables and the clatter of cargo cranes—and behind all this noise and confusion lay the quaint, historic streets of Liverpool, and later, London, filled with the glory of ancient times.