"An important mission, I should say," ventured Mr. Ridge.

"I'm in the revenue service. It is all new to me, so it doesn't matter much where I begin."

"Where are you to be stationed?" asked Hugh, and something told him what the answer would be before it fell from the other's lips.

"Manila."



CHAPTER VI

HENRY VEATH

Mr. Veath's abrupt announcement that he was bound for Manila was a decided shock to Grace, Hugh escaping because of his intuitive revelation. After the revenue man had gone below to lie down awhile before luncheon the elopers indulged in an animated discussion of affairs under new conditions.

"Well, we can make use of him after we get there, dear," said Hugh philosophically. "He can be a witness and swear to your age when I go for the license."

"But, Hugh, he thinks we are brother and sister, and we cannot tell him anything to the contrary. It would be awfully embarrassing to try to explain."

"That's so," mused he. "I doubt whether we could make him believe that brothers and sisters marry in Manila. There's just one thing to do."

"It seems to me there are a great many things to do that we didn't consider when we started," ventured she.

"We must let him believe we are brother and sister until after we are married. Then we'll have the laugh on him. I know it's not very pleasant to explain your own joke, or to tell the other fellow when to laugh, but it seems to be the only way. We can't escape him, you know. He is to be at his post by the twentieth of May."

"After all, I think we ought to be nice to him. We can't put him off the boat and we might just as well be friendly. How would you enjoy travelling to Manila all alone? Just put yourself in his place."

"Maybe he thinks he's lucky to be travelling alone."

"That's very pretty, sir. Would you rather be travelling alone?"

"Not at all. I'm only saying what he may think. The poor devil may be married, you know."

"Oh, do you really think so?" cried she.

"He looks a little subdued."

"That's because he's seasick."

"But, to return to our own troubles—you think, then, we would better adopt Mr. Veath for the voyage and break the news to him impressively after the deed is done?"

"I think so, don't you? It is sure to be embarrassing, any way you put it, isn't it?" she asked, laughing nervously.

"Oh, I don't know," he replied airily. "People of our nerve should not be embarrassed by anything on earth." He arose and assisted her to her feet. Then, slipping his arm through hers, he started for the companionway. "The prospect of being brother and sister for ten thousand miles is rather obnoxious to me," he went on. She looked at him in surprise and then blushed faintly. As they descended the steps, he put his arm around her shoulder. At the bottom he stopped and glanced around apprehensively, something like alarm appearing in his face. His arm slipped from her shoulder to her waist and contracted suddenly.

"What is the matter, Hugh?" she whispered, looking quickly about as if expecting a calamity.

"Is any one in sight?" he demanded anxiously.

"I don't see a soul," she answered.

"Then I'm going to give up the brother act for a moment or two. This is a good, sequestered spot, and I'm going to kiss you." And he did so more than once. "That's the first chance I've had to kiss you since we came aboard. What an outrage it is that brothers cannot be more attentive to their own sisters than to other men's sisters."

"It seems to be customary for brothers to neglect their sisters," she suggested demurely.

"A brother who neglects his sister ought to be horsewhipped," declared he.

"Amen to that. They use the cat-o'-nine-tails on board ship, you must remember," she said, smiling.

Shortly afterward he dropped in to see Veath and was welcomed gladly. He was lying in his berth, and Hugh sent for a bottle of his champagne. Two glasses of the wine put new life into him and something of a sparkle flew to his dull eyes, as if cast there by the bubbling liquor. His tongue loosened a little, Hugh finding him to be a bright, sensible fellow, somewhat ignorant of the ways of the world, but entirely capable of taking care of himself. Moreover, with the renewed vigor displaying itself, he was far better looking than his new acquaintance had thought. His blue eyes, keen and clear, appealed to Hugh's love for straightforwardness; his wide mouth bespoke firmness, good nature, and the full ability to enjoy the humorous side of things. The lines about his clean-cut, beardless face were a trifle deep, and there was a network of those tiny wrinkles which belong to men of forty-five and not to those of twenty-eight.

Evidently his had not been a life of leisure. As he lounged easily upon the edge of the berth, Hugh could not but admire his long, straight figure, the broad shoulders and the pale face with its tense earnestness.

"Manila, you know, is an important post these days," said Veath. "There's a lot of work to be done there in the next few years. I'm from Indiana. Every able-bodied man in our district who voted right and hasn't anything else to do wants a government job. Of course, most of them want to be consul-generals, postmasters, or heads of bureaus, but there are some of us who will take the best thing that is offered. That's why I am going to Manila. Politics, you know, and my uncle's influence with the administration." Ridgeway observed that wine made loquacious a man who was naturally conservative. "Where are you going?" he continued.

"We are going to Manila."

"What!" gasped Veath. "You don't mean it!"

"Certainly. Why not?" and Hugh smiled delightedly over the sensation he had created.

"Why—why, it seems improbable," stammered Veath. "I had looked upon Manila as the most wretched hole in the world, and yet I find you going there, evidently from choice."

"Well, you'll have to change your opinion now," said Hugh.

"I do—forthwith. It cannot be such a bad place or you wouldn't be taking your sister there. May I ask what is your object in going to Manila?"

Hugh turned red in the face and stooped over to flick an imaginary particle of dust from his trousers' leg. There was but one object in their going and he had not dreamed of being asked what it was. He could not be employed forever in brushing away that speck, and yet he could not, to save his life, construct an answer to Veath's question. In the midst of his despair a sudden resolution came, and he looked up, his lips twitching with suppressed laughter.

"We are going as missionaries."

He almost laughed aloud at the expression on Veath's face. It revealed the utmost dismay. There was a moment's silence, and then the man in the berth said slowly:

"Is Miss Ridge a—a missionary also?"

"The very worst kind," replied Hugh cheerily.

"Going out among the natives, I suppose?"

"What natives?"

"Why,—the Igorrotes, or whatever they are, of course."

"Oh, of course—to be sure," cried Hugh hastily. "I am so d—d absent-minded."

Veath stared in amazement.

"You must not think it strange that I swear," said Hugh, mopping his brow. "I am not the missionary, you know."

"Oh," was the other's simple exclamation. Another pause and then, "You don't mean to say that such a beautiful woman is going to waste her life among savages?"

"She's got her head set on it and we think the only way to break her of it is to give her a sample of the work. I am going with her ostensibly to protect, but really to make her life miserable."

"I rather admire her devotion to the church," said Veath, still a trifle dazed.

"She's a great crank on religion," admitted Hugh. Then he could feel himself turn pale. He was passing Grace off as a missionary, and thereby placing her under restrictions that never before had entered into her gay life. Veath would treat her as if she were of fragile glass and it would not be long until the whole boat would be staring at the beautiful girl who was going to the heathen. Remorse struck him and he tried to flounder out of the position.



"I should not have said that about her views. You would never take her to be an ardent church-member, and she is particularly averse to being called a missionary. The truth about the matter is that very few people home know about this move of hers and there is no one on ship who even suspects. She would not have had me tell it for the world."

"My dear Mr. Ridge, don't let that trouble you. She shall never know that you have told me and I shall never repeat it. Please rest assured; her wishes in the matter are most certainly to be considered sacred," cried Veath warmly.

"Thanks, old man," said Hugh, very much relieved. "Your hand on that. I am not sorry I told you, for I'm sure you will be careful. She objects to the—the—well, the notoriety of the thing, you know. Hates to be glared at, questioned, and all that sort of thing."

"She is very sensible in that respect. I have but little use for the people who parade their godliness."

"That's just the way she looks at it. She would be uncomfortable all the way over if she thought that a single person knew of her intentions. Funny girl that way."

"If I were you, I don't believe I'd tell any one else," said Veath hesitatingly.

"That's all right, Veath. Depend upon me, I'll not breathe it to another soul. It shall not go a bit farther. Grace wants to go about the good work as quietly as possible. Still, I am bound to make her forget the heathen and return to America another woman altogether." Mr. Veath, of course, did not understand the strange smile that flitted over his companion's face as he uttered the last remark. "I'm glad I met you, Veath; we'll get along famously, I'm sure. There's no reason why we shouldn't make the voyage a jolly one. I think we'd better get ready for luncheon," said Hugh, looking at his watch.

Hugh took his departure, and fifteen minutes later was seated at one of the tables in the dining-room with Grace beside him. He had told her of the missionary story and was trying to smile before her display of genuine annoyance.

"But I don't want him to treat me as if I were a missionary," she pouted. "What fun can a missionary have?"

"Oho, you want to have fun with him, eh? That's the way the wind blows, is it? I'll just tell Mr. Veath that you pray night and day, and that you don't like to be disturbed. What do you suppose he'd be if he interrupted a woman's prayers?" demanded he, glaring at her half jealously.

"He'd be a heathen and I should have to enlighten him," she answered sweetly.

Just then Mr. Veath entered the saloon and took a seat beside her. She looked surprised, as did Mr. Ridgeway. They looked to the far end of the table and saw that Veath's original chair was occupied by another man.

"I traded seats with that fellow," murmured Veath, a trifle red about the ears. Miss Vernon's face assumed a stony expression for an instant, but the gleam of pure frankness in his eyes dispelled her momentary disapproval. "You don't mind, do you?" he asked hastily.

"Not at all, Mr. Veath," she said, forgetting that a moment before she had considered him presumptuous. "On the contrary, I think it is so much nicer to have you on this side of the table. We can talk without having everybody in the room hear us."

"I have just heard that we are bound for the same destination and we can certainly speculate among ourselves as to the outcome of our individual and collective pilgrimages. We can talk about shipwrecks, pirates, simoons, cholera, sea serpents—"

"And the heathen," said Hugh maliciously, but not looking up from his plate.

"Ahem!" coughed loyal Mr. Veath.

"Are there any heathen over there?" asked Miss Vernon very innocently but also very maliciously. She smiled at Hugh, who leaned far back in his chair and winked solemnly at the bewildered Veath. That gentleman, manlike, interpreted Hugh's wink as the means of conveying the information that the tactful young lady asked the question merely to throw him off the scent. So he answered very politely but very carefully.

"I hear there are more missionaries than heathen."

"Indeed? Don't you think that the women who go out as missionaries among those vile creatures are perfect idiots, Mr. Veath?"

"Well,—ahem, ah," stammered Veath, "I can't say that I do. I think, if you will permit me to disagree with you, that they are the noblest women in the world."

"Excellent sentiment, Veath," said the merry Ridgeway, "and quite worthy of endorsement by this misguided sister of mine. She despises the heathen, you know."

"Oh, I am sure she does not despise them," cried Veath.

"But I do—I think they ought to be burned alive!"

A dead silence, during which the two men were unnecessarily intent upon the contents of their plates, followed this explosion. Miss Vernon demurely smiled to herself, and finally kicked Hugh's foot. He laughed aloud suddenly and insanely and then choked. Veath grew very red in the face, perhaps through restraint. The conversation from that moment was strained until the close of the meal, and they did not meet at all during dinner.

"Perhaps we have offended him," said Grace as they strolled along the deck that evening.

"It's probable that he thinks we are blamed fools and does not care to waste his time on us."

"Then why did he change his seat?"

"Evidently did not want us to be staring him out of countenance all the time. I notice, sister, that he took the seat next to yours and not to mine," remarked he insinuatingly.

"Which proves that he is no fool, brother," she retorted.



CHAPTER VII

GLUM DAYS FOR MR. RIDGE

Gibraltar. And the ship stopping only long enough to receive the mail and take on passengers; then off again.

During the voyage in the Bay of Biscay, Veath had done all in his power to relieve Hugh of the boredom which is supposed to fall upon the man who has a sister clinging to him. At first Hugh rather enjoyed the situation, but as Veath's amiable sacrifice became more intense, he grew correspondingly uncomfortable. It was not precisely what he had bargained for. There was nothing in Veath's manner which could have been objectionable to the most exacting of brothers.

When he was trespassing Hugh hated him, but when they were together, with Grace absent, he could not but admire the sunny-faced, frank, stalwart Indianian. When Hugh's heart was sorest, a slap on the back from Veath, a cheery word and an unspoken pledge of friendship brought shame to take the place of resentment.

She was troubled, as well as he, by the turn of affairs; her distress managed to keep her awake of nights, especially when she began to realize there was no escape from consequences. That usually pleasant word "brother" became unbearable to her; she began to despise it. To him, the word "sister" was the foundation for unpublishable impressions.

Poor Veath knew nothing of all this and continued to "show Miss Ridge a good time." On the second night out of Gibraltar, he and Grace were strolling the deck. He was happy, she in deep despair. Down at the other end of the deck-house, leaning over the rail, smoking viciously, was Hugh, alone, angry, sulky. It was a beautiful night, cool and crisp, calm and soft. A rich full moon threw its glorious shimmer across the waves, flashing a million silvery blades along the watery pavement that seemed to lead to the end of the world. Scores of passengers were walking the deck, and all were happy, save two.

For two days Hugh had found but little chance to speak with Grace. She had plotted and calculated and so had he, but Veath gallantly upset the plans.

"This can't go on any longer, or I'll go back," vowed Hugh as he glared with gloomy eyes at the innocent path of silver.

"Your brother is not very sociable of late, is he, Miss Ridge?" asked Veath, as they turned once more up the deck toward the disconsolate relative. "There are a great many pretty young women on board, but he seems to ignore them completely. I haven't seen him speak to a woman in two days."

"Perhaps he is in love," she murmured half sedately. Poor, lonely Hugh! How she longed to steal up from behind and throw her arms about his neck. Even though both fell overboard, it would be a pleasure, it seemed to her.

"We ought to go over and jolly him up a bit," suggested Veath, innocently magnanimous. She hated him at that moment.

"He is probably enjoying himself better than if we were with him," she said rather coldly.

"Lovers usually like moonshine," he said.

"I did not say he was in love; 'perhaps' was the word, I think," said Grace.

"I believe one of the rules of love is that a brother never confides in his sister. At any rate, she is sure to be among the last."

"I think Hugh would tell me of his love affairs," she answered, a merry sparkle coming into her eyes. "He thinks a great deal of my opinions."

"And I suppose you tell him of your love affairs," he said jestingly. She blushed furiously.

"He has a whole book full of my confidences," she finally said, seeking safety in exaggeration.

"Quite an interesting volume. How does it end? With an elopement?"

"Elopement! What do you—oh, ah, I—ha, ha! Wouldn't that be a jolly way to end it?" She laughed hysterically, recovering quickly from the effects of the startling, though careless question. For a few moments her heart throbbed violently.

Hugh came swinging toward them, his cigar tilted upward at an unusual angle because of the savage position of the lower jaw. His hands were jammed into his pockets and his cap was drawn well down over his eyes. He was passing without a word, ignoring them more completely than if they had been total strangers. He would, at least, have glanced at strangers.

"Hello, Mr. Ridge, going below?" called Veath.

"I'm going wherever the ship goes," came the sullen reply.

"Hope she's not going below," laughed the disturber.

"It's my only hope," was the bitter retort from the companionway.

"He's certainly in love, Miss Ridge. Men don't have the blues like that unless there's a woman in the case. I think you'd better talk to your brother. Tell him she'll be true, and if she isn't, convince him that there are just as good fish in the sea. Poor fellow, I suppose he thinks she's the only woman on earth," commented Mr. Veath, with mock solemnity.

"She may be as much at sea as he," she said,—and very truthfully.

"Well, if love dies, there is a consolation in knowing that the sea casts up its dead," was his sage, though ill-timed remark.

Grace slept but little that night, and went early to breakfast in the hope that she might see Hugh alone. But he came in late, haggard and pale, living evidence of a sleepless night. Veath was with him and her heart sank. During the meal the good-natured Indianian did most of the talking, being driven at last, by the strange reticence of his companions, to the narration of a series of personal experiences. Struggle as he would, he could not bring a mirthful laugh from the girl beside him, nor from the sour visaged man beyond. They laughed, of course, but it was the laugh of politeness.

"I wonder if she is in love, too," shot through his mind, and a thrill of regret grew out of the possibility. Once his eye caught her in the act of pressing Hugh's hand as it was being withdrawn from sight. With a knowing smile he bent close to her and whispered: "That's right, cheer him up!" Grace admitted afterward that nothing had ever made her quite so furious as that friendly expression.

But jealousy is jealousy. It will not down. The next three days were miserable ones for Hugh. The green-eyed monster again cast the cloak of moroseness over him—swathed him in the inevitable wet blanket, as it were. During the first two days Veath had performed a hundred little acts of gallantry which fall to the lot of a lover but hardly to that of a brother—a score of things that would not have been observed by the latter, but which were inwardly cursed by the lover. Hugh began to have the unreasonable fear that she cared more for Veath's society than she did for his. He was in ugly humor at lunch time and sent a rather peremptory message to Grace's room, telling her that he was hungry and asking her to get ready at once. The steward brought back word that she was not in her room. She had been out since ten o'clock.

Without a word Ridgeway bolted to Veath's room and knocked at the door. There was no response. The steward, quite a distance down the passageway, heard the American gentleman swear distinctly and impressively.

He ate his luncheon alone,—disconsolate, furious, miserable. Afterward he sought recreation and finally went to his room, where he tried to read. Even that was impossible.

Some time later he heard her voice, then Veath's.

"I wonder if Hugh is in his room?" she was asking.

"He probably thinks we've taken a boat and eloped Shall I rap and see?" came in Veath's free voice.

"Please—and we'll tell him where we have been."

"You will like thunder!" hissed Hugh to himself, glaring at the door as if he could demolish it.

Then came a vigorous pounding on the panel; but he made no move to respond. Again the knocking and a smile, not of mirth, overspread his face.

"Knock! Confound you! You can't get in!" he growled softly but triumphantly. Veath tried the knob, but the door was locked.

"He's not in, Miss Ridge. I'll see if I can find him. Good-by—see you at luncheon."

Then came Grace's voice, sweet and untroubled: "Tell him we'll go over the ship another time with him."

"Over the ship," growled Hugh almost loud enough to be heard. "So they're going to square it by taking brother with them another time—eh? Well, not if I know it! I'll show her what's what!" A minute later he rapped at Miss Vernon's stateroom. She was removing her hat before the mirror, and turning quickly as the irate Hugh entered, she cried:

"Hello, Hugh! Where have you been, dear?"

"Dear! Don't call me dear," he rasped.

"Why, Hugh, dear,—Mr. Veath looked everywhere for you this morning. I said I would not go unless he could find you. You would have enjoyed it so much."

"And you really wanted me?" he asked guiltily.

"Of course, I did—we both did. Won't you ever understand that I love you—and you alone?"

"I guess I'll never understand love at all," he mused.

"Now where were you all morning?" she demanded.

"He didn't look in the right place, that's all."

"Where was the right place?"

"It happened to be in the wrong place," he said. He had been playing a social game of bridge in the room of one of the passengers. At this moment Veath was heard at the door. Hugh heartily called out to him, bidding him to enter.

"Why, here you are! Been looking everywhere for you, old man. Sorry you were not along this morning," said the newcomer, shaking Ridgeway's hand.

"I didn't care to see the ship," said Hugh hastily.

"Why, how funny!" cried Grace. "How did you know we had been over the ship?"

"Instinct," he managed to gulp in the confusion.

Veath started for the dining-room, followed by Grace and Hugh, the latter refraining from mentioning that he had already lunched—insufficiently though it had been; but with the return of reason had come back his appetite and gradually he felt the old happiness sifting into his heart.



CHAPTER VIII

THE BEAUTIFUL STRANGER

They were now well along in the Mediterranean. The air was cool and crisp, yet there were dozens of people on deck watching the sunset and the sailors who were trimming the ship. There were passengers on board for China, Japan, India and Australia. A half hundred soldiers, returning to the East, after a long furlough at home, made the ship lively. They were under loose discipline and were inclined to be hilarious. A number were forward now, singing the battle songs of the British and the weird ones of the natives. Quite a crowd had collected to listen, including Ridgeway and Veath, who were strolling along the deck, arm in arm, enjoying an after-dinner smoke, and had paused in their walk near the group, enjoying the robust, devil-may-care tones of the gallant subalterns.

Miss Vernon was in her stateroom trying to jot down in a newly opened diary the events of the past ten days. She was up to ears in the work, and was almost overcome by its enthusiasm. It was to be a surprise for Hugh at some distant day, when she could have it printed and bound for him alone. There was to be but one copy printed, positively, and it was to belong to Hugh. Her lover as he strode the deck was unconscious of the task unto which she had bent her energy. He knew nothing of the unheard-of intricacies in punctuation, spelling and phraseology. She was forced at one time to write Med and a dash, declaring, in chagrin, that she would add the remainder of the word when she could get to a place where a dictionary might tell her whether it was spelled Mediterranean or Mediteranian.

Suddenly, Hugh pressed Veath's arm a little closer.

"Look over there near the rail. There's the prettiest girl I've ever seen!"

"Where?"

"Can't point, because she's looking this way. Girl with a dark green coat, leaning on an old gentleman's arm—"

"I see," interrupted Veath. "By George! she's pretty!"

"No name for it! Have you in your life ever seen anything so beautiful?" cried Ridgeway. He stared at her so intently that she averted her face. "Wonder who she can be? The old man must be her father. Strange we haven't seen them before. I'm sure that she hasn't been on deck."

"You seem interested—do you want a flirtation?"

"Oh, Grace wouldn't stand for that—not for a minute."

"I don't believe she would object if you carried it on skilfully," smiled the other.

"It wouldn't be right, no matter how harmless. I couldn't think of being so confoundedly brutal."

"Sisters don't usually take such things to heart."

Hugh came to himself with a start and for a moment or two could find no word of response, so deeply engrossed was he in the effort to remember whether he had said anything that might have betrayed his secret.

"Oh," he laughed awkwardly, "you don't understand me. Grace is so—well, so—conscientious, that if she thought I was—er—trifling, you know, with a girl, she'd—she'd have a fit. Funniest girl you ever saw about those things—perfect paragon."

"Is it possible? Are you not a little strong on that point, old man? I'm afraid you don't know your sister any better than other men know theirs."

"What's that?" demanded Hugh, suddenly alert and forgetful of the stranger.

"The last person on earth that a man gets acquainted with, I've heard, is his sister," said Veath calmly. "Go ahead and have a good time, old fellow; your sister isn't so exacting as you think—take my word for it."

It was fully five minutes before Hugh could extract himself from the slough of speculation into which those thoughtless words had driven him. What did Veath know about her ideas on such matters? Where did he learn so much? The other spoke to him twice and received no answer. Finally he shook his arm and said:

"Must be love at first sight, Ridge. Are you spellbound?" Hugh merely glared at him and he continued imperturbably: "She's pretty beyond a doubt. I'll have to find out who she is."

"That's right, Veath; find out," cried Hugh, bright in an instant. "Make her have a good time. Poor thing, she'll find it pretty dull if she hangs to her father all the time."

"He isn't a very amusing-looking old chap, is he? If that man hasn't the gout and half a dozen other troubles I'll jump overboard."

The couple arousing the interest of the young men stood near the forward end of the deck-house. The young woman's face was beaming with an inspiration awakened by the singers. Her companion, tall, gray and unimpressionable, listened as if through coercion and not for pleasure. His lean face, red with apoplectic hues, grim with the wrinkles of three score years or more, showed clear signs of annoyance. The thin gray moustache was impatiently gnawed, first on one side and then on the other. Then the military streak of gray that bristled forth as an imperial was pushed upward and between the lips by bony fingers. He was a picture of dutiful rebellion, Immaculately dressed was he, and distinguished from the soles of his pointed shoes to the beak of his natty cap. A light colored newmarket of the most fashionable cut was buttoned closely about his thin figure.

The young woman was not tall, nor was she short; she was of that indefinite height known as medium. Her long green coat fitted her snugly and perfectly; a cap of the same material was perched jauntily upon her dark hair. The frolicking wind had torn several strands from beneath the cap, and despite the efforts of her gloved fingers, they whipped and fluttered in tantalizing confusion. In the dimming afternoon the Americans could see that she was exquisitely beautiful. They could see the big dark eyes, almost timid in the hiding places beyond the heavy fringing lashes. Her dark hair threw the rich face into clear relief,—fresh, bright, eager. The men were not close enough to observe with minuteness its features, but its brilliancy was sufficient to excite even marvelling admiration. It was one of those faces at which one could look for ever and still feel there was a charm about it he had not caught.

"I've never seen such a face before," again murmured Ridgeway.

"Tastes differ," said Veath. "Now, if you'll pardon me, I think Miss Ridge is the more beautiful. She is taller and has better style. Besides, I like fair women. What say?" The question was prompted by the muttered oath that came from Hugh.

"Nothing at all," he almost snarled. "Say, Veath, don't always be talking to me about my sister," he finally jerked out, barely able to confine himself to this moderately sensible abjuration while his brain was seething with other and stronger expressions.

"I beg your pardon, Ridge; I did not know that I talked very much about her." There was a brief silence and then he continued: "Have a fresh cigar, old man." Hugh took the cigar ungraciously, ashamed of his petulance.

By this time the early shades of night had begun to settle and the figures along the deck were growing faint in the shadows. Here and there sailors began to light the deck lamps; many of the passengers went below to avoid the coming chill. In her stateroom Grace was just writing: "For over a week we have been sailing under British colors, we good Americans, Hugh and I,—and I may add, Mr. Veath."

Another turn down the promenade and back brought Ridgeway and Veath face to face with the old gentleman and the young lady, who were on the point of starting below. The Americans paused to let them pass, lifting their caps. The old gentleman, now eager and apparently more interested in life and its accompaniments, touched the vizor of his cap in response, and the young lady smiled faintly as she drew her skirts aside and passed before him.

"Did you ever see a smile like that?" cried Hugh, as the couple disappeared from view.

"Thousands," answered his companion. "They're common as women themselves. Any woman has a pretty smile when she wants it."

"You haven't a grain of sentiment, confound you."

"They don't teach sentiment on the farm, and there's where I began this unappreciative existence of mine. But I am able to think a lot sometimes."

"That's about all a fellow has to do on a farm, isn't it?"

"That and die, I believe."

"And get married?"

"Naturally, in order to think more. A man has to think for two after he's married, you see."

"Quite sarcastic that. You don't think much of women, I fancy."

"Not in the plural."

Captain Shadburn was nearing them on the way from the chart-house, and the young men accosted him, Veath inquiring:

"Captain, who is the tall old gentleman you were talking to forward awhile ago?"

"That is Lord Huntingford, going over to straighten out some complications for the Crown. He is a diplomat of the first water."

"Where are these complications, may I ask?"

"Oh, in China, I think. He is hurrying across as fast as possible. He leaves the ship at Hong Kong, and nobody knows just what his mission is; that's between him and the prime minister, of course. But, good-evening, gentlemen. I have a game of cribbage after dinner with his Lordship." The captain hurried below.

"A real live lord," said Veath. "The first I've seen."

"China," Hugh repeated. "I hope we may get to know them."



CHAPTER IX

MR. RIDGEWAY'S AMAZEMENT

At dinner Hugh was strangely exuberant, jesting gaily and exchanging rare witticisms with Veath, who also appeared immensely satisfied. As they left the saloon he said:

"Let's take a turn on deck, Grace."

"Won't you include me?" asked Veath.

"Certainly," answered Grace promptly.

"Be delighted," echoed Hugh, swallowing as if it were an effort.

"I must get a wrap," said Grace. "I won't delay you more than five minutes."

"I'll get my overcoat and some cigars," added Hugh.

"And I'll write a short letter to post at Malta," said Veath, and they separated.

A short while later, a steward passed Hugh's stateroom, and he called to him to step to the next door and tell Miss Ridge that he was ready.

"Miss Ridge just went up with her gentleman—" the man responded; but Hugh interrupted, slamming the door. For several minutes he stood glaring at the upper corner of his berth; then he said something strong. Every vestige of his exuberance disappeared, his brow clouded and his heart seemed to swell painfully within its narrow confines.

As he was about to ascend the steps of the companionway, he heard the swish of skirts and then a sharp scream. In an instant he was half way up, his arms extended. Lord Huntingford's daughter plunged into them, and he literally carried her to the foot. She was pale and trembling and he was flushed. He had looked up in time to see her falling forward, vainly striving to reach the hand rail.

"Are you hurt?" he asked anxiously. The young lady sat down upon the second step before answering, a delightful pink stealing over her face.

"I—I don't believe I am," she said. "My heel caught on a step and I fell. It was so clumsy of me. I might have been badly hurt if you had not caught me as you did."

"These steps are so uncertain," he said, scowling at them. "Somebody'll get hurt here some day. But, really, are you quite sure you are, not hurt? Didn't you twist your—your—"

"Ankle? Not in the least. See! I can stand on both of them. I am not hurt at all. Let me thank you," she said, smiling into his eyes as she moved away.

"May I assist you?" he asked eagerly.

"Oh, no; I thank you, Mr. Veath. I would not have my preserver perform the office of a crutch. I am not hurt in the least. Good-afternoon."

Hugh, disconcerted and piqued by her confusion of names, answered her wondrous smile with one that reflected bewildered admiration, and finally managed to send after her:

"I wouldn't have lost the opportunity for the world."

That evening he was sitting out on deck in contemplative silence enjoying his after-dinner smoke. Farther down were Grace and Veath. Suddenly turning in their direction, Hugh perceived that they were not there; nor were they anywhere in sight. He was pondering over their whereabouts, his eyes still on the vacant chairs, when a voice tender and musical assailed his ears—a voice which he had heard but once before.

"Good-evening, Mr. Veath."

He wheeled about and found himself staring at the smiling face of the young lady who had fallen into his arms but a few hours before.

"Good-evening," he stammered, amazed by her unexpected greeting. "Have—have you fully recovered from your fall?"

"I was quite over it in a moment or two. I wanted to ask you if you were hurt by the force with which I fell against you." She stood with one hand upon the rail, quite close to him, the moonlight playing upon her upturned face. He never had seen a more perfect picture of airy grace and beauty in his life.

"Why mention an impossibility? You could not have hurt me in a fall ten times as great."

His tall figure straightened and his eyes gleamed chivalrously. The young woman's dark, mysterious eyes swept over him for a second, resting at last upon those which looked admiringly into them from above. She made a movement as if to pass on, gravely smiling a farewell.

"I beg your pardon," he said hastily. "You called me Mr. Veath a moment ago. It may be of no consequence to you, yet I should like to tell you that my name is Ridge—Hugh Ridge."

"It is my place to beg forgiveness. But I understood your name was Veath, and that you were—were"—here she smiled tantalizingly—"in love with the beautiful American, Miss Ridge."

"The dev—dick—I mean, the mischief you did! Well, of all the fool conclusions I've ever heard, that is the worst. In love with my sister! Ho, ho!" He laughed rather too boisterously.

"But there is a Mr. Veath on board, is there not?—a friend?"

"A Mr. Henry Veath going into the American Revenue Service at Manila."

"How stupid of me! However, I am positive that I was told it was Mr. Veath who was in love with Miss Ridge."

"But he isn't," hastily cried Hugh, turning hot and cold by turns. "He's just a friend. She—she is to marry another chap." Here he gulped painfully. "But please don't breathe it to a soul. She'd hate me forever. Can I trust you?" To himself, he was saying: "I am making a devil of a mess of this elopement."

"This is a very large world, Mr. Ridge, and this voyage is a mere trifle in time. When we leave the ship we may be parting forever, so her secret would be safe, even though I shrieked it all over the East. You will return to America before long, I presume?"

"I'm sure I don't know. We may stay a year or no."

"Then the wedding is not a thing of the immediate future?"

"Oh, yes—that is, I mean, certainly not."

"Pardon me for asking so many questions. It is very rude of me." She said it so penitently that Hugh, unable to find words, could only wave his hands in deprecation. "Isn't it a perfect evening?" she went on, turning to the sea. The light breeze blew the straying raven hair away from her temples, leaving the face clearly chiselled out of the night's inkiness. Hugh's heart thumped strangely as he noted her evident intention to remain on deck. She turned to him swiftly and he averted his eyes, but not quickly enough to prevent her seeing that he had been scrutinizing her intently. What she may have intended to say was never uttered. Instead, she observed, a trifle coldly:

"I must bid you good-night, Mr. Ridge."

"Pray, not yet," he cried; "I was just about to ask if we might not sit in these chairs here for a little while. It is early and it is so charming to-night." He looked into her eyes again and found that she was gazing searchingly into his. A light smile broke into life and she seemed to be satisfied with the momentary analysis of the man before her.

"It does seem silly to stay below on a night like this. Shall we sit here?" She indicated two vacant chairs well forward. The young lady scorned a steamer rug, so he sat beside her, conscious that, despite her charming presence, he was beginning to feel the air keenly. But he could not admit it to this slight Englishwoman.

For half an hour or more they sat there, finding conversation easy, strangely interesting to two persons who had nothing whatsoever in common. He was charmed, delighted with this vivacious girl. And yet something mournful seemed to shade the brilliant face now and then. It did not come and go, moreover, for the frank, open beauty was always the same; it was revealed to him only at intervals. Perhaps he saw it in her dark, tender eyes—he could not tell. He saw Henry Veath pacing the deck, smoking and—alone. Hugh's heart swelled gladly and he spoke quite cheerily to Veath as that gentleman sauntered past.

"Now, that is Mr. Veath, isn't it?" demanded his fair companion.

"Yes; do you think we should be mistaken for each other?"

"Oh, dear, no, now that I know you apart. You are utterly unlike, except in height. How broad he is! Hasn't he a wonderful back?" she cried, admiring the tall, straight figure of the walker.

"He got that on the farm."

"It is worth a farm to have shoulders like his, I should say. You must introduce Mr. Veath to me."

Hugh looked at the moon very thoughtfully for a few moments and then, as if remembering, said that he would be happy to do so, and was sure that Veath would be even happier.

At this moment the tall, lank form of Lord Huntingford approached. He was peering intently at the people in the chairs as he passed them, plainly searching for some one.

"There is Lord Huntingford looking for you," said Hugh, rising. He saw a trace of annoyance in her face as she also arose. "I overheard him telling the captain that Lady Huntingford—your mother—plays a miserable game of crib."

She started and turned sharply upon him.

"My mother, Mr. Ridge?" she said slowly.

"Yes; your father was guying Captain Shadburn about his game, you know."

The look of wonder in her eyes increased; she passed her hand across her brow and then through her hair in evident perplexity, all the while staring at his face. There was a tinge of suspicion in her voice when she spoke.

"Mr. Ridge, don't you know?"

"Know what?"

"You surely know that I am not Lord Huntingford's—"

"You don't mean to say that you are not his daughter," gasped Hugh, dubious as to her meaning.

"I am Lady Huntingford."

"His wife?"

"His wife."

Hugh, too dumbfounded to speak, could do no more than doff his cap as she took the arm of the gray lord and softly said to him:

"Good-night, Mr. Ridge."



CHAPTER X

A SHARP ENCOUNTER

The Tempest Queen carried a merry cargo. The young officers, the Americans and rich pleasure seekers from other lands—young and old—made up a happy company. Of all on board, but one was despised and loathed by his fellow-travellers—Lord Huntingford. Not so much for his manner toward them as for his harsh, bitter attitude toward his young wife.

He reprimanded and criticised her openly, very much as he would have spoken to a child, and always undeservedly. She endured patiently, to all appearances, and her cloud of humiliation was swept away by the knowledge that her new friends saw the injustice of his attacks. She did not pose before them as a martyr; but they could see the subdued and angry pride and the checked rebellion, for the mask of submission was thin, even though it was dutiful.

The two young women, unlike as two women could be, became fast friends. The Englishwoman was refinement, sweetness, even royalty itself; the American, proud, equally refined, aggressive and possessed of a wit, shrewdness and spontaneity of humor that often amazed the less subtle of the two. Tinges of jealousy sometimes shot into Grace's heart when she saw Hugh talking to the new friend, but they disappeared with the recollection of her Ladyship's pure, gentle nobility of character. It is seen rarely by one woman in another.

And Veath? The stalwart, fresh-hearted, lean-faced Indianian was happier than he had dreamed he could be when he drearily went aboard a ship at New York with the shadow of exile upon him. He had won the friendship of all. The brain of the Westerner was as big as his heart, and it had been filled with the things which make men valuable to the world. Men called him the "real American," and women conveyed a world of meaning in the simple, earnest expression—"I like Mr. Veath."

Veath was now unmistakably in love with Grace Vernon. The fact was borne in upon him more and more positively as the sunny days and beautiful nights drew them nearer to the journey's end. Occasionally he lapsed into strange fits of dejection. These came when he stopped to ponder over certain prospects, hopes and the stores of life. At times he cursed the fate which had cast him into the world, big and strong, yet apparently helpless. It had not been his ambition to begin life in the capacity which now presented itself. His hopes had been limitless. Poverty had made his mind a treasure; but poverty had also kept it buried. He saw before him the long fight for opportunity, position, honor; but he was not the sort to quail. The victory would be glorious when he thought what it might bring to him from Grace Ridge—she who was going to be a missionary. A long, hard fight, indeed, from revenue officer to minister plenipotentiary, but it was ambition's war.

And Hugh? As the days went by, his jealousy of Veath became almost intolerable. He dared not speak to Grace about it, for something told him she was not to be censured. Even in his blind rage he remembered that she was good and true, and was daring all for his sake. In calmer moments he could not blame Veath, who believed the young lady to be sister, and not sweetheart.

In view of his misery, Mr. Ridgeway was growing thin, morose, and subject to long fits of despondency which Grace alone could comprehend. Both were dissatisfied with the trip. That they could not be together constantly, as they had expected, caused them hours of misery. They were praying for the twenty-third of May to come, praying with all their hearts. Beside whom did Hugh walk during the deck strolls and at Port Said? With his sister? No, indeed; that would have been unnatural. Who was Grace's natural companion? Henry Veath or any one of a dozen attractive young officers. How could it have been otherwise?

She was popular and in constant demand. There were not many young women aboard and certainly but two or three attractive ones. From morning till far in the night she was besieged by men—always men. They ignored Hugh with all the indifference that falls to the lot of a brother. Time after time they actually pounced upon the couple and dragged her away without so much as "By your leave." They danced with her, sang with her, walked with her and openly tried to make love to her, all before the blazing eyes of one Hugh Ridgeway. On more than one occasion he had gone without his dinner because some presumptuous officer unceremoniously usurped his seat at table, grinning amiably when Hugh appeared.

The sweet, dear little moments of privacy that Hugh and Grace obtained, however, were morsels of joy which were now becoming more precious than the fondest dreams of the wedded state to come. They coveted these moments with a greediness that was almost sinful.

On many nights Grace would whisper to Hugh at the dinner table and would creep quietly on deck, meal half finished, where he would join her like a thief. Then they would hide from interruption as long as possible.

One night they enjoyed themselves more unrestrainedly than ever before in their lives. They were walking self-consciously and almost guiltily near the forward end of the deck-house when they saw Veath approaching far behind. Their speed accelerated, and for half an hour they walked like pedestrians in a racing match, always keeping some distance ahead of poor Veath, who finally, like the sly fox, sat down and waited for them to hurry around and come upon him unexpectedly. He, of course, never knew that they were trying to avoid him, nor could he imagine why brother and sister were so flushed, happy and excited when he at last had the pleasure of joining them in their walk. And, strange to say, although they had been wildly happy in this little love chase, they felt that they had mistreated a very good fellow and were saying as much to each other when they almost bumped into him.

Womanly perception told Grace that Veath's regard for her was beginning to assume a form quite beyond that of ordinary friendship. She intuitively felt that he was beginning to love her. Perhaps he was already in love, and was releasing those helpless little signs which a woman understands, and which a man thinks he conceals impenetrably. The Queen was leaving Port Said and she was leaning on the rail beside the big Indianian.

"Why are you going out to be a missionary?" he suddenly asked. Then he flushed painfully, remembering when too late that he had sworn to Hugh that he would not speak to her of the matter. "I beg your pardon," he hurried on; "I promised—that is, I should not have asked you that question. I forgot, hang my stupidity."

"Mr. Veath, I am not going out to be a missionary. Nothing was ever farther from my mind," she said, rather excitedly.

"Not going to be a—why, Hugh said you were. There I go, giving him away again."

"Hugh was jesting. I a missionary! How could you have believed him?"

"Are you in earnest?" he cried.

"Of course I am in earnest," she said, trying to look straight in those bright eyes, but failing dismally. Something in his glance dazzled her. It was then that she knew the truth as well as if his mind were an open book.

"Why are you going to the Philippines?" he persisted.

She gave him a quick, frightened glance and as hastily looked away. The red of confusion rushed to her cheeks, her brow, her neck. What answer could she give?

"We are—are just taking the trip for pleasure," she stammered. "Hugh and I took a sudden notion to go to Manila and—and—well, we are going, that's all."

"You don't mean to say you are making this as a pleasure trip?" he asked, staring at her with a different light in his eyes.

"A mere whim, you know," she hurried on. "Look at those Arabs over there."

"But a pleasure trip of this kind must be awfully expensive, isn't it?" he insisted.

She hesitated for an instant and then said boldly: "You see, Mr. Veath, Hugh and I are very rich. It may not sound well for me to say it, but we have much more money than we know how to spend. The cost of this voyage is a mere trifle. Please do not think that I am boasting. It is the miserable truth." His face was very pale when she dared to look up at it again, and his gaze was far off at sea.

"And so you are very rich," he mused aloud. "I thought you were quite poor, because missionaries are seldom overburdened with riches, according to tradition, or the gospel, or something like that. This is a pleasure trip!" The bitterness of his tone could not be hidden.

"I am sorry if you have had an idol shattered," she said.

"Something has been shattered," he said, smiling. "I don't know very much about idols," he added. "How long do you expect to remain in Manila?"

"But a very short time," she said simply.

"And I shall have to stay there for years, I suppose," he returned slowly. His eyes came to hers for a second and then went back to the stretch of water like a flash. That brief glance troubled her greatly. Her heart trembled with pity for the man beside her, even though speculation wrought the emotion.

In her stateroom that night she lay, dry-eyed and wakeful, her inward cry being: "It is a crime to have wounded this innocent man. Why must he be made to suffer?"

She could not tell Hugh of her discovery, for she knew that he would be unreasonable, perhaps do or say something which would make the wound more painful. During the days that followed Veath was as pleasant, as genial, as gallant as before; none but Grace observed the faint change in his manner. She was sure she could distinguish a change, yet at times, when he was gayest, she thrilled with the hope that her belief was the outgrowth of a conceit which she was beginning for the first time to know she possessed. Then came the belief again and the belief was stronger than the doubt. She could not be mistaken.

In the meantime an unexpected complication forced itself upon Hugh Ridgeway. Perforce he had been thrown more or less constantly into the society of that charming creature, Lady Huntingford. Not that the young rakes in uniform were content to pass her by, but because she plainly preferred the young American. It had not occurred to Mr. Ridgeway that his Lordship might be expected, with reasonable propriety, to unmask a jealous streak in addition to other disagreeable traits. The British subalterns probably knew the temper of the old diplomat's mind, which, in a degree, explains their readiness to forgo the pleasure of a mild flirtation with her Ladyship. Hugh, feeling like a despised pariah, naturally turned to her in his banishment. She was his friend, his one beacon of light in the dark sea of unhappiness.

Others noticed it; but Hugh was blind to the scowl which never left the face of Lord Huntingford in these days. The old nobleman knew full well that his wife loathed and detested him—just as the whole ship knew it; his pride rankled and writhed with the fear that she was finding more than friendship to enjoy in her daily intercourse with the good-looking Mr. Ridge. Gradually it became noticeable that he was watching her every act with spiteful eyes, and more than one observer winked softly at his neighbor, and shook his head with a meaning unmistakable.

The clash came one night in the Red Sea, just before the ship reached Aden. Hugh, reviling himself and the whole world, had been compelled to stand by and see Lieutenant Gilmore, a dashing Irishman, drag the unwilling Miss Ridge off for a waltz. Her protestations had been of no avail; Gilmore was abominable enough to say that she had no right to stow herself away with a stupid old brother when there were so many "real nice chaps on board." And this in Hugh's presence, too! And he could not resent it! Alone and miserable the pariah sent his unspoken, bitter lamentation to the stars as he stood in savage loneliness far aft, listening to the strains of waltz music.

"'Pon my soul! Of all the assinine idiots, bar none, the enlightened inspirer of this glorious voyage certainly ranks supreme! And I didn't have brains enough to foresee that this would surely happen! Brains? Faugh! Chump!"

Hugh might have apostrophized himself in this fashion until dawn had not a harsh, rasping voice from out of the semi-darkness broken in on his doleful revery.

"Pardon me, sir, do you play cribbage?"

Hugh turned half about and faced the speaker. He could hardly believe his ears, his eyes. Was it possible that the haughty Lord Huntingford had fixed upon him as the next lamb to be fleeced? Ugly stories concerning the government emissary's continuous winnings, disastrous losses of the young subalterns inveigled into gambling through fear of his official displeasure, were not unknown to Hugh. A civil declination was on his lips; but keenly searching the shrivelled face leering into his own, Hugh saw written there something that compelled consideration, challenged a refusal. Promptly and in affirmative speech he reversed his intention.

Slowly the left hand of Lord Huntingford produced from behind his back an exquisitely carved ebony cribbage-board; and assuming the position of host, indicated with exaggerated courtesy and a wave of his free hand the way to the smoking-room.

Hugh, following him along the deck, was hastily reviewing the voyage; and failing to recall any previous occasion wherein the nobleman had addressed him his sense of perplexity increased. Was there some hidden purpose, some crafty machination lurking behind the elaborated manner with which the invitation was delivered? On the other hand, perhaps, his imagination was playing him a trick, and this selection of an adversary was merely accidental.

And yet, had he but known, it was his own absorbing jealousy of Veath that precluded the recognition of a like sentiment directed against him, even surpassing in intensity its owner's lust for gain at play.

The smoking-room was empty, which, to the younger man, appeared as rather extraordinary, and served to augment his supposition that such a condition was presupposed. This, in turn, was dimissed, for he remembered that the usual occupants were either dancing or looking on.

Taking the initiative, as if such a course was incumbent, Lord Huntingford placed his cribbage-board on a table and drew up chairs for both; with equal politeness the proffered seat was accepted, Hugh registering inwardly a determination to force high stakes, and, if possible, recoup the losses of the young officers. Not for an instant did he doubt his ability to detect the slightest irregularities in the count of his discredited opponent.

"Sovereign a point?"

"Done! Five, if you like!"

This answer from the young American caused an avaricious glint to leap into the other's eyes. Plainly, two master passions fought for supremacy: an inordinate greed for money and a choleric determination to prohibit any further attentions to his wife. The struggle was brief, for the vehemence of his enmity, triumphant, the hope of immediate emolument was sacrificed, and the rooking of the young man postponed to some future occasion. Then, subtly concealing his purpose, he nodded an ambiguous acceptance.

Cards were ordered. A steward fetched them and awaited further commands.

Lord Huntingford strangely distrait, it seemed to Hugh, considering the amount at stake, shuffled the pack and offered them for the cut. This conventional operation performed and his Lordship successful, he dealt the hands, at the same time giving the steward a sharp order to leave. The man's reception of his dismissal was so insolent that it attracted Hugh's attention. Looking up, to his surprise, he recognized his room steward.

"With whom have I the pleasure of playing?" came suddenly from Lord Huntingford.

"Ridgeway, Hugh—"

Quick as the thought in the mind preceding it, inevitably connected, the name escaped unwittingly from his lips; for with the discovery of the steward's identity there flashed like a bolt from the blue an appalling recollection! Exposed to view on the table in his stateroom were valuable documents addressed to him by his banker, which he had forgotten to replace in his dispatch-box!

"Eh? What's that? What name?" The interrogation, icily formal, told nothing; but upon its answer hinged limitless consequences.

Hugh was in a dilemma. Should he correct himself, or rely on the slip passing unobserved? The peculiar expression on the steward's face returned to him; and he wondered if the knowledge of his adopting an incognito had been elicited from the garrulous servant, and the Englishman about to take advantage of it? Reddening with anger as much against himself as against the cynical old aristocrat, who was cornering him cavalierly, he decided to brave exposure:

"Ridge! H.B. Ridge is my name, Lord Huntingford!"

There was a reckless disregard of possibilities in the eyes that fastened themselves on the face of the nobleman for a clue, some enlightenment as to the impression produced; but all in vain. The shrewd, small eyes answered the scrutiny impassively, and without as much as the flicker of an eyelid. Taking one of the little ivory pegs, he stuck it in the starting hole at the end of the cribbage-board. Unconsciously, while waiting for the mental move which would determine his future address, Hugh following the other's lead, picked up one and pegged. Then to his infinite relief Lord Huntingford apparently allowed the correction, accepted the alias.

"Ridge!" he pronounced with malicious uncertainty. "Ridge! I am acquainted with the English Ridges;" and the sneer in the voice increased. "Do I understand you to pretend that you are one of that distinguished family?"

Hugh clenched his lips and his blood boiled at the treatment.

"I am an American, Lord Huntingford," spoken easily, his pride showing only by a perceptible lift of the head; "and my ancestors were not Tories in the Revolution. Relationship, if any, would be—er—distant. I claim none."

"A trifle strained," admitted his Lordship, laughing disagreeably.

At that moment the band could be heard in the distance playing the strains of a waltz; also the voices of the couples who were promenading and passing the open door. To Hugh's amazement, Lord Huntingford, obviously heedless of his peculiar action, recommenced shuffling the stack of cards, though the dealt hands remained untouched on the table. Instinctively, Hugh was convinced that no play was intended. There was something on the mind of the wily old diplomat far more momentous than a mere game of cards; yet no chance had been given to him to penetrate into the other's motives.

It was not long forthcoming.

Suddenly, clear as a bell, Hugh distinguished the laughter of Lady Huntingford, and involuntarily he smiled. This seemed to enrage his Lordship. Hatred and menace shone from his eyes as he glanced at the man opposite him. With an oath he rose, walked to the door and closed it. Then ruthlessly laying aside the last vestige of his assumed courtliness, he picked up his stick from the table, leaned far over, shook it in Hugh's face, and became an irascible, shouting old man.

"Look here, young man—Ridge—Ridgeway—or whatever your blasted name—do you think I'll allow you to carry on an affair with my wife—my wife, sir?" he vociferated. "Henceforth, I forbid you to speak to her! Do you hear me?"

It was debatable whether Hugh was more astonished at the mention of Lady Huntingford's name in connection with his own, or at the stick in dangerously close proximity to his countenance. It was some time before he could find words; but his face from red went white.

"And if I decline?"

There was that in the low tone that should have warned the aggressor from further insult; but forgetting that the swaggering domination he had been accustomed to exercising over his own countrymen, officially his inferiors, would not for a moment be tolerated by one of another nationality, he again broke out:

"You bounder! Yankee upstart! I'll thrash you, and then have the captain put you on shore at the first port—you infernal impostor!"

In an instant Hugh was over the table. He tore the stick from Lord Huntingford's hand and clutched his throat, forcing him down on the seat cushions. With the exception of the younger man's hard breathing and some gasps from the other, the struggle was noiseless. Not until Lord Huntingford was growing black in the face did Hugh come to his senses. Then releasing one hand from the throat, he pinned him with the other and a knee.

"You old scoundrel!" Hugh began, jerking out the scathing words; "if it were not for your old age and your wife I'd drag you on deck and make you apologize on your knees before them all. I'll spare you that degradation; but if I ever hear of you mentioning the name Ridegway—I've my own reasons for concealing it, and they don't concern you—I'll make some charges in regard to your card playing that will bar you from every club in the world, and, unlike your poor dupes, I am in a position to substantiate them without fear of consequences."

Lord Huntingford grudgingly mumbled a throttled promise, and Hugh allowed him to regain his feet. At that instant Veath, with Grace and Lady Huntingford, standing behind him, opened the door of the smoking-room.

"Here, Veath!" called out Hugh to the astonished Indianian. "I want you to bear witness that Lord Huntingford has promised to keep absolutely quiet about a little altercation of ours, and—"

The quick gesture of caution from Veath came too late. Lady Huntingford with astonished eyes was gazing into the room at them. Hugh promptly went over to her.

"You must pardon me, Lady Huntingford; I am sorry to cause you any pain or annoyance. In a dispute over the cards with your husband I forgot myself for a moment. Pray forgive me."

Ridgeway quietly strode away with Grace and Veath. Lady Huntingford directed a look of unutterable contempt at her husband, turned on her heel and left him to slink away as quickly as possible, like a cur that has felt the whip.



CHAPTER XI

DISCOVERED

Lord Huntingford could not forgive the man who had put his aristocratic nose out of joint in such an effective manner. He was, however, as polite as nature would permit him to be to Miss Ridge and Mr. Veath. As for Hugh, that young gentleman thought it the wiser plan, when unavoidably relating a mild description of last night's encounter, to abstain from acquainting Grace with Lord Huntingford's discovery of his name—whether accidental or otherwise. Quite rightly he surmised that it would unnecessarily distress her, and he preferred not to cross the bridge until he came to it.

It was the evening following the conflict. As night approached, the sun fell behind the shores of the Red Sea, the stars twinkled out through the blackness above, and yet they had not caught a glimpse of her Ladyship. At dinner, he and Grace had agreed that she had either renounced them entirely, or had been compelled to avoid him in particular. Veath was less concerned. He was thinking of another woman.

Hugh and Grace again stole away for a few moments of seclusion on deck. They found chairs and sat down, neither very talkative.

"Oh, Hugh, just think where we are," she murmured at last. "Thousands of miles from home, and no one the wiser save ourselves. Chicago is on the other side of the world."

"Are you sorry you came, dear?"

"I am glad. But isn't it awful to consider how far we are from everybody we know? We might just as well be dead, Hugh." She was very solemn and wide-eyed.

"I am afraid you are losing heart," he said disconsolately.

"Why, Hugh Ridgeway—Ridge, I mean,—how can I afford to lose heart now? Don't ever say that to me again."

"Yes; we are a long way from home, dear," mused he after a while.

"How far are we from Manila?" she asked suddenly.

"A million miles, judging by the way time goes. We'll be there in twenty days, the captain says."

"What do you suppose Mr. Veath will say when he hears of our marriage?" This question was propounded after a longer interval of silence than usual.

"Why should we care what Mr. Veath says? If he doesn't approve, let him go to—" but Hugh checked his fiery speech as abruptly as he began it.

"He will be awfully shocked to learn how we have deceived him," she went on, as if he had not spoken.

"Well, do you care?" demanded Hugh.

"Yes, I care," she cried. "I shall be very sorry if he loses the good opinion he may have formed. He is the kind of a man who would not understand such an affair as this."

"But, then, we are not obliged to tell him. We can get married and leave Manila at once without ever seeing him again. After that we will be Mr. and Mrs. Ridgeway, and he could never find the people known as Hugh Ridge and sister."

"That would be a shameless way to treat him. He has been so true, so good, Hugh," she cried reproachfully. For quite a while their eyes lingered upon the dark water without seeing it, their thoughts centred upon the fast approaching end of their relationship with Henry Veath.

"I wish he could be told," murmured she, her voice far away.

"I couldn't do it to save my soul. What would he say?" There was an awed anxiety in his voice.

"I don't care what other people say, but I do care what he says. He seems so honest, so far above tricks of this kind."

"What's one man's opinion, anyhow, especially when he's to be buried in Manila for years?"

"Oh, Hugh! How lonely he will be in that strange place. And how dreadful it will be in us to sneak away from him like cowards, just as if we cared nothing for him at all. He doesn't deserve that, does he?"

"No, he doesn't, that's a fact. We can't treat him like a dog."

"I wish he could be told," sighed she pensively.

"When?"

"You might try to tell him at any time," she said, a perceptible strain in her voice.

"I'll tell you what I'll do," said he, taking her hand in his. "I will tell him the day before we reach Manila."

"I'm afraid it will be too late," she cried, all a-flutter.

"Too late? Why?"

"I mean," she went on confusedly, "he might think we had waited too long." She was thinking of Veath's wistful eyes.

"Hello! Here you are," cried a strong voice, and Veath loomed up through the shadows. Hugh released her hand and dropped back in the chair from which he had half risen to kiss her. "You hide away like a pair of silly lovers. There's nothing prosaic about this brother and sister. Do you know, I have often marvelled over one thing in connection with you. You don't look any more like brother and sister than the sea looks like dry land."

The pair caught breath sharply and Hugh almost snorted aloud. Grace could do nothing but look up to where she saw the red fluctuating glow of a cigar tip in the darkness. It made her think of a little moon which could breathe like herself.

"It all goes to show how deceptive appearances can be," went on Veath easily. "Don't you want to walk, Miss Ridge? I'm sure you need exercise."

"I promised Hugh I would drive away his blues, Mr. Veath. Thank you, but I believe I'll sit here for a while and then go below," she said, a trifle disconnectedly.

"We'll take Hugh along," said Veath obligingly. "Come along, both of you."

"Excuse me, Henry, but I don't feel like walking," said Hugh, a tinge of sullenness in his manner.

"Lazy, eh? Well, I'll bring Miss Ridge back in half an hour. You wouldn't have me wander about this dismal old boat alone, would you? Smoke a cigar, Hugh, and I'll take care of your sister while you count the stars." He offered Hugh a cigar.

Hugh rose suddenly and started away.

"Hugh!" called she, "come and walk with us." He could distinguish the loving entreaty, the trouble in her tones, but he was unreasonable.

"Never mind me," he sang out with an assumption of cheerfulness. Grace flushed hotly, her heart swelling with injured pride. Without another word she rose and walked away with Veath. Indignation burned within her soul until she went to sleep, hours afterward.

Ridgeway stamped the full length of the promenade before he came to an understanding with himself. On reaching that understanding, he whirled and walked back to where he had left them, expecting to find Veath occupying the chair he had vacated. Of course they were not to be found, so he threw himself on one of the chairs, more miserable than he had been since they started on their voyage. The lady in the chair to his left stirred nervously and then a soft laugh came from her lips.

"Are you sleepy, Mr. Ridge?" she asked. Hugh turned quickly and looked into the face of Lady Huntingford.

"Not at all," he replied. "But how strange it seems that you should always appear like the fairy queen when I am most in need of a bracer. Oh, I beg your pardon," he went on, rising in some perturbation. "I forgot that there is a—a barrier between us. War has been declared, I fear."

"I am ready to make friendly overtures," she said gaily. "Isn't there some such thing as a treaty which requires a strong power to protect its weaker ally in time of stress?"

"You mean that we may still be friends in spite of all that happened last night?" he cried. She nodded her head and smiled, and he shook her hand as only an impulsive American would.

"But Lord Huntingford? What will he say?" he asked.

"His Lordship's authority can be carried to a certain limit and no farther," she said, and her eyes flashed. "He knows when to curse and abuse; but he also knows when that attitude might operate against him. He is not in a position to push me to the wall."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean he knows enough not to drive me to the point where I would turn and fight." Hugh never had seen her so entrancing as she was in that dim light, her face the picture of proud defiance.

"I wonder not a little that you have not asked for a divorce long before this."

"You are not a woman or you would not ask that."

"Lots of women ask for divorces."

"It should be the last resort with any woman. But let us talk of something else. Where is your sister? I have not seen her to-day."

This question was particularly ill-timed, for it restored the forgotten bitterness to the position from which it had been temporarily driven by the interruption.

"I don't know," he answered.

"I thought I heard her talking to you here a few moments ago—in fact, I saw you."

"Where were you?"

"I passed within a dozen feet of you. Neither of you saw me, I am sure. You would not have cut me intentionally, would you?"

"I should say not. You walked past here?"

"Yes, you were tying her shoe-string."

"What!" exclaimed he, starting to his feet, "tying Grace's shoe-string?" The first thought that rushed to his mind was that Veath had knelt to plead his love to Grace Vernon.

"Lady Huntingford, let us walk," he exclaimed. It was a fierce, impatient command instead of a polite invitation. The pretty young woman calmly lay back in her chair and laughed. "If you won't come, then please excuse me. I must go."

"Why are you so eager to walk, Mr. Ridgeway?" she asked.

"Because I want—what was that you called me?" he gasped, his heart almost turning upside down.

"Ridgeway. That's your name, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, a great many things," she said with a serious face.

Hugh was visibly annoyed. There was to be more trouble from the nobleman; evidently he did not intend to keep his promise.

"In the first place," she continued, "I must acknowledge that I forced from my husband an account of last night's affair; he also told me your name. But, believe me, it will go no further. I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Ridgeway," the color stealing into her cheeks.

Ridgeway bowed.

"In the next place," she went on playfully, "you are very jealous of Mr. Veath. Tut, tut, yes you are," with a gesture of protest. "He thinks Miss Ridge is your sister, and she is not your sister. And lastly, nobody on board knows these facts but the very bright woman who is talking to you at this moment."

"But you are mistaken, madam," with a last attempt at assumption of dignity.

"Would I say this to you if I were not positive? You think you are very clever; I'll admit that you are. Your secrets came to me through an accident. Do not think that I have pried into your affairs. They really forced themselves upon me."

"Tell me what you know, for Heaven's sake," cried the dismayed Ridgeway.

"I was in your sister's room earlier in the day. Her trunk was open and I saw a portfolio with Vernon in silver lettering; and I was more mystified than ever when I observed that the initials on her trunk were 'G.V.' All day yesterday I tried to solve the problem, taking into consideration the utter absence of family resemblance between you, and I was almost sick with curiosity. To-day I was convinced that her name is not Ridge. She inadvertently signed her name to the purser's slip in my presence, and she did not sign the—yours. She scratched it out quickly and asked him to make out another one. Now, what is this mystery?" She bent her gaze upon his face and he could not meet it.

"Do you want to know the reason why I did not see you yesterday?" she continued.

"Yes," he murmured, mopping his brow.

"Because I was so distressed that I feared I could not face either of you, knowing what I do."

"What do you mean?"

"I know you are running away." Not a word was spoken for a full minute. He could scarcely breathe. "You do not deny it?" she questioned gently. "Please do not fear me."

"I do not fear you," he half whispered, sinking his chin in his hands. Another long silence.

"There are some circumstances and conditions under which a woman should not be condemned for running away," she said in a strained, faraway voice. "Has—has she children?"

"Good Heaven!" cried Hugh, leaping to his feet, horror-struck.



CHAPTER XII

THE HARLEQUIN'S ERRAND

Lady Huntingford, alarmed by his manner, arose and steadied herself against the deck-house. His exclamation rang in her ears, filling them with its horror. At length he roughly grasped her arm, thrusting his face close to hers, fairly grated out the words:

"You think she is a wife?"

"I feared so."

"She is not! Do you hear me? She is not!" he cried so fiercely that there was no room for doubt. "She is the purest, dearest girl in the world, and she has done all this for me. For God's sake, do not expose us." He dropped back in the chair. "It's not for my sake that I ask it, but for hers," he went on quickly.

"I'm sure I have wronged her and I have wronged you. Will you believe me?"

He did not answer at once. His turbulent brain was endeavoring to find words with which to convince her of the innocence of the escapade. Looking up into her eyes, he was struck by their tender staunchness. Like a flash came to him the decision to tell her the true story, from beginning to end.

"Lady Huntingford, I will tell you everything there is to tell. It is not a long tale, and you may say it is a very foolish one. I am sure, however, that it will interest you."

"You shall not tell me a word if you do so in order to appease my curiosity," she began earnestly.

"I think it is best that you should know," he interrupted. "One favor first. You will earn my eternal gratitude if you do not allow Grace to feel that you have discovered our secret."

"You have my promise. I have kept many secrets, Mr. Ridge." He drew his chair quite close to hers. Then he told her the full story of the adventure, from first to last. She scarcely breathed, so deeply was her interest centred in this little history of an impulse. He spoke hurriedly, excitedly. Not once did she take her eyes from his earnest face, almost indistinguishable in the darkness; nor could he remove his from hers.

"And here we are approaching Aden, your Ladyship," he concluded. Her big dark eyes had held him enthralled, inspiring him to paint in glorious colors every detail of the remarkable journey. As he drew to a close, her hand fell involuntarily on his knee. A tremor dashed through his veins, and his heart throbbed fiercely.

"How glorious it must be to love like that," she almost whispered. There was a catch in her voice, as she uttered that soft, dreamy sentence, almost a sigh. She turned her face away suddenly and then arose, crying in tones so low and despairing that he could hardly believe they came from the usually merry lips: "Oh, how I envy her this life and love! How wonderful it all is!"

"It has its drawbacks," he lamented. "As a brother I am a nonentity, Lady Huntingford; it's not altogether relishable, you know. It's a sort of pantomime, for me, by Jove. I'm the fool, and this seems to be the fool's errand."

"If you will play a part in the pantomime, Mr. Ridge, let an Englishwoman suggest that you be the harlequin. How I loved the harlequin in the Drury Lane pantomimes at Christmas time! He was always the ideal lover to me, for there was no trick, no prank this bespangled hero could not play to success. He always went incognito, for he wore his narrow mask of black. He performed the most marvellous things for his Columbine,—and was she not a worthy sweetheart? No, no, Mr. Ridge:—not the fool, I pray. Please be the harlequin," she cried in rare good humor.

"As you like it," he said, reflecting her spirits. "I am the harlequin and this is, perforce, the harlequin's errand." They were silent for a long time, then he said soberly:

"It was such a foolish thing to do, after all." She looked up at him for a moment, the bitterness fading from her hungry eyes, a smile struggling feebly into power. Then came the radiance of enthusiasm.

"Foolish!" she exclaimed, with eyes sparkling and breast heaving. "It was magnificent! What a brave girl she is! Oh, how clever you both are and how much you will enjoy the memory of this wonderful trip. It will always be fresh and novel to you—you will never forget one moment of its raptures. How I wish I could have done something like this. If I dared, I would kiss that brave, lucky girl a thousand times."

"But you must not let her suspect," cautioned he.

"It would ruin everything for her if she even dreamed that you had told me, and I would not mar her happiness for the world. Really, Mr. Ridge, I am so excited over your exploit that I can scarcely contain myself. It seems so improbable, so immense, yet so simple that I can hardly understand it at all. Why is it other people have not found this way to revolutionize life? Running around the world to get married without the faintest excuse save an impulse—a whim. How good, how glorious! It is better than a novel!"

"I hope it is better than some novels."

"It is better than any, because it is true."

"I am afraid you are trying to lionize me," he jested.

"You have faced a British lion," she said slowly.

"My only regret is that he is old and clawless."

"We are retracing our steps over dangerous ground," she said with a catch in her breath.

"You would have me to believe that I am a brave man, so I am determined to court the danger of your displeasure. How did you happen to marry this old and clawless lion?"

She did not exhibit the faintest sign of surprise or discomfiture, certainly not of anger. Instead, she looked frankly into his eyes and answered: "That is what I thought you would ask me. I shall not refuse to answer. I married because I wanted to do so."

"What!" exclaimed he incredulously. "I had hoped—er—I mean, feared that you had been—ah—sort of forced into it, you know."

"Since my marriage I have discovered, however, that there is no fool like the ambitious fool," she went on as if he had not spoken. "Do you understand what I mean?"

"That you married for position?"

"That I married simply to become Lady Huntingford."

"And you did not love him at all?" There was something like disgust, horror in Hugh's voice.

"Love him?" she exclaimed scornfully, and he knew as much as if she had spoken volumes. Then her face became rigid and cold. For the first time he saw the hard light of self-mastery in her eyes. "I made my choice; I shall abide by it to the end as steadfastfully as if I were the real rock which you may think me to be. There is nothing for me to tell—nothing more that I will tell to you. Are you not sorry that you know such a woman as I? Have you not been picking me to pieces and casting me with your opinions to the four winds?"

"I am truly sorry for you," was all that he could say.

"You mean that you despise me," she cried bitterly. "Men usually think that of such women as I. They do not give us a hearing with the heart, only with the cruel, calculating brain. Think of it, Mr. Ridge, I have never known what it means to love. I have been loved; but in all my life there has been no awakening of a passion like that which sends Grace Vernon around the world to give herself to you. I know that love exists for other people. I have seen it—have almost felt it in them when they are near me. And yet it is all so impossible to me."

"You are young—very young," he said. "Love may come to you—some day."

"It will be envy—not love, I fear. I threw away every hope for love two years ago—when I was transformed from the ambitious Miss Beresford to Lady Huntingford, now thoroughly satiated. It was a bad bargain and it has wounded more hearts than one. I am not sorry to have told you this. It gives relief to—to something I cannot define. You despise me, I am sure—"

"No, no! How can you say that? You are paying the penalty for your—of your—"

"Say it! Crime."

"For your mistake, Lady Huntingford. We all make mistakes. Some of us pay for them more bitterly than others, and none of us is a judge of human nature except from his own point of view. I am afraid you don't feel the true sympathy I mean to convey. Words are faulty with me to-night. It shall be my pleasure to forget what you have confessed to me. It is as if I never had heard."

"Some men would presume greatly upon what I have told to you. You are too good, I know, to be anything but a true friend," she said.

"I think I understand you," he said, a flush rising to his temples. After all, she was a divine creature. "You shall always find me the true friend you think I am."

"Thank you." They were silent for a long time, gazing out over the sombre plain of water in melancholy review of their own emotions. At last she murmured softly, wistfully, "I feel like an outcast. My life seems destined to know none of the joys that other women have in their power to love and to be loved." The flush again crept into his cheek.

"You have not met the right man, Lady Huntingford," he said.

"Perhaps that is true," she agreed, smiling faintly.

"The world is large and there is but one man in it to whom you can give your heart," he said.

"Why should any man desire possession of a worthless bit of ice?" she asked, her eyes sparkling again.

"The satisfaction of seeing it melt," he responded.

She thought long over this reply.



CHAPTER XIII

THE CONFESSION OF VEATH

"Hugh, have you observed anything strange in Mr. Veath lately?"

The interrogation came suddenly from Grace, the next morning, on deck. They had been discussing the plans for a certain day in May, and all the time there was evidence of trouble in her eyes. At last she had broached a subject that had been on her mind for days.

"Can't say that I have." The answer was somewhat brusque.

"I am convinced of one thing," she said hurriedly, coming direct to the point. "He is in love with me."

"The scoundrel!" gasped Hugh, stopping short and turning very white. "How dare he do such—"

"Now, don't be absurd, dear. I can't see what he finds in me to love, but he has a perfect right to the emotion, you know. He doesn't know, dear."

"Where is he? I'll, take the emotion out of him in short order. Ah, ha! Don't look frightened! I understand. You love him. I see it all. It's as—"

"Stop! You have no right to say that," she exclaimed, her eyes flashing dangerously. His heart smote him at once and he sued humbly for pardon. He listened to her views concerning the hapless Indianian, and it was not long before he was heart and head in sympathy with Veath.

"Poor fellow! When I told him last night that I was to be married within a year he actually trembled from head to foot. I never was so miserable over a thing in my life," she said dismally. "Really, Hugh, I can't bear to think of him finding out how we have played with him."

"Shall I tell him all about it?" asked he in troubled tones.

"Then I should not be able to look him in the face. Dear me, elopements have their drawbacks, haven't they?"

Other passengers joined them, Veath and Lady Huntingford among them. In the group were Captain Shadburn, Mr. and Mrs. Evarts, Mr. Higsworth and his daughter Rosella, Lieutenant Hamilton—a dashing young fellow who was an old and particularly good friend of Lady Huntingford. Hugh noted, with strange satisfaction, that Hamilton seemed unusually devoted to Miss Higsworth. In a most casual manner he took his stand at the rail beside her Ladyship, who had coaxed Captain Shadburn to tell them his story of the great typhoon.

Presently, a chance came to address her.

"Grace tells me that your name is an odd one, for a girl—woman, I mean—Tennyson. Were you named for the poet?"

"Yes. My father knew him well. Odd, isn't it? My friends call me Lady Tennys. By the way, you have not told Grace what I told you last night on deck, have you?" she asked.

"I should say not. Does she suspect that you know her secret and mine?" he asked in return.

"She does not dream that I know. Ah, I believe I am beginning to learn what love is. I worship your sweetheart, Hugh Ridgeway."

"If you could love as she loves me, Lady Huntingford, you might know what love really is."

"What a strange thing it must be that you and she can know it and I cannot," she mused, looking wistfully at the land afar off.

At Aden everybody went ashore while the ship coaled at Steamer Point, on the western side of the rock, three miles from the town proper. Multitudes of Jewish ostrich-feather merchants and Somali boys gave the travellers amusement at the landing and in the coast part of the town. The Americans began to breathe what Hugh called a genuinely oriental atmosphere.

They were far from Aden when night came down and with it the most gorgeous sunset imaginable. Everybody was on deck. The sky was aflame, the waters blazed and all the world seemed about to be swept up in the wondrous conflagration. Late in the afternoon a bank of clouds had grown up from the western line, and as the sun dropped behind them they glowed with the intensity of fiercely fanned coals of huge dimensions. At last the fiery hues faded away, the giant holocaust of the skies drew to an end, and the soft afterglow spread across the dome, covering it with a tranquil beauty more sublime than words can paint.

Grace looked eagerly among the impressed spectators for Henry Veath. Somehow she longed for him to see all this beauty that had given her so much pleasure. He was not there and she was conscious of a guilty depression. She was sitting with Hugh and Lady Huntingford when, long afterward, Veath approached.

"I'd like a word with you, Hugh," he said after the greetings, "when the ladies have gone below."

"It is getting late and I am really very tired," said Grace. It was quite dark, or they could have seen that her face was pale and full of concern. She knew instinctively what it was that Veath wanted to say to Hugh. Then she did something she had never done before in the presence of another. She walked quickly to Hugh's side, bent over and kissed his lips, almost as he gasped in astonishment.

"Good-night, dear," she said, quite audibly, and was gone with Lady Huntingford. The astounded lover was some time in recovering from the surprise inspired by her unexpected act. It was the first time she had ever been sisterly in that fashion before the eyes of others.

"I hope I have said nothing to offend them," said Veath miserably. "Was I too abrupt?"

"Not in the least. They've seen enough for one night anyhow, and I guess they were only waiting for an excuse to go below," replied Hugh. To himself he said, "I wonder what the dickens Grace did that for? And why was Lady Huntingford so willing to leave?"

Veath sat nervously wriggling his thumbs, plainly ill at ease. His jaw was set, however, and there was a look in his eyes which signified a determination to brave it out.

"You know me pretty well by this time, Hugh," he said. Hugh awoke from his abstraction and displayed immediate interest. "You know that I am straightforward and honest, if nothing else. There is also in my make-up a pride which you may never have observed or suspected, and it is of this that I want to speak before attempting to say something which will depend altogether upon the way you receive the introduction."

"Go ahead, Henry. You're serious to-night, and I can see that something heavy is upon your mind."

"It is a very serious matter, I can assure you. Well, as you perhaps know from my remarks or allusions on previous occasions, I am a poor devil. I have nothing on earth but the salary I can earn, and you can guess what that will amount to in Manila. My father educated me as best he could, and I worked my way through college after he had given me to understand that he was unable to send me there himself. When I was graduated, I accepted a position with a big firm in its engineering service. Within a year I was notified that I could have a five months' lay-off, as they call it. At the end of that period, if matters improved, I was to have my place back. Out of my wages I saved a couple of hundred dollars, but it dwindled as I drifted through weeks of idleness. There was nothing for me to do, try as I would to find a place. It was a hard pill to swallow, after four years of the kind of work I had done in college, but I had to throw every plan to the winds and go to the Philippines. My uncle, who is rich, sent me money enough to prepare for the voyage, and here I am, sneaking off to the jungles, disgusted, discouraged and disappointed. To-night I sit before you with less than one hundred dollars as the sum total of my earthly possessions."

"By George, Veath, just let me know how much you need—" broke in Hugh warmly, but the other silenced him, smiling sadly.

"I'm greatly obliged to you, but I don't believe it is money that I want now—at least, not borrowed money. When you told me that your sister was to become a missionary, I inferred that you were not burdened with worldly goods, and I felt at home with you both—more so than I should, I believe—"

"Oh, the devil!"

"But a few days ago your sister told me that she is not to be a missionary and that she is rich enough to make this trip to the Orient for mere pleasure—oh, well, you know better than I how rich you both are." His voice was low and unsteady. "I don't know why you should have told me that she—she was to be a missionary."

"It was—I did it for a little joke on her, honestly I did," mumbled Hugh.

"And it was a serious one for me. Before I knew of her real position she seemed more approachable to me, more as if I could claim her friendship on the grounds of mutual sympathy. I was deceived into believing our lots not vastly unequal, and I have suffered more than I can tell you by the disparity which I now know exists."

"But what difference can it make whether we are rich or poor? We can still be friends," said Hugh eagerly.

"It was when I believed your sister to be a missionary that I learned to love her better than all else in this world. Now do you understand?"

"Great Scott!" gasped his listener, starting from his chair. Now he realised that she had not been mistaken in her fears. "Does she know this?" he managed to ask.

"No, and I dare not tell her—I cannot. I had to tell some one, and to whom should I confess it if not to the brother of the woman I love? It is no disgrace, no dishonor to her. You cannot blame me for being honest with you. Some day after you have gone back to America you can tell her that I love her and always will. She has intimated to me that she is to marry another man, so what chance is there for a poor wretch like me? I don't see how I have endured the awakening from the dreams I have had. I even went so far as to imagine a little home in Manila, after I had won her from the mission field and after I had laid by the savings of a year or two. I had planned to fairly starve myself that I might save enough to make a home for her and—and—" but he could say no more. Hugh heard the sob and turned sick at heart. To what a pass their elopement had come!

Above all things, how could he comfort the unfortunate man? There was no word of encouragement, no word of hope to be given. The deepest pity he had ever felt went out to Henry Veath; the greatest remorse he had ever known stung his soul. Should he tell Veath the truth? Could he do it?

"Do you see my position?" asked Veath steadily, after a long silence. "I could never hope to provide for her as she has been accustomed to living, and I have too much pride to allow my wife to live other than the way in which I would have to live."

"She may not love you," said Hugh, suddenly hopeful.

"But I could win her love. I'm sure I could, Hugh. Even though she is pledged to another man, I could love her so powerfully that a new love would be inspired in her for me. You don't know how I love her. Hugh, you are not angry with me for having told you this?"

"Angry? Great Heavens, no! I'm heartbroken over it," cried Hugh. There were traces of tears in his eyes.

"You know how hopeless it is for me," went on Veath, "and I hope you will remember that I have been honest and plain with you. Before we part in Manila I may tell her, but that is all. I believe I should like to have her know that I love her. She can't think badly of me for it, I'm sure."

Hugh did not answer. He arose and silently grasped the hand of the other, who also had conic to his feet.

"I would to God that I could call you brother," said he.

"Don't say it! It is too wild an improbability," cried Veath.

"Yes; it is more than that: it is an impossibility."

"If in the end I should conclude to tell Miss Ridge of my feelings, will you tell me now that I may do so with your permission?"

"But there is no hope," cried Hugh miserably.

"I do not ask for hope. I shall not ask her to love me or to be my wife. I may want to tell her that I love her, that's all. You can have no objection to that, Hugh."