Lucy--I can't call you Miss Strong in such a lovely place as this. We
have an hour or two before we must return, and I want to talk over a few
matters while we have the chance. In the first place, I want you to tell
me where you are going when you leave Ireland. I want to keep track of
you--I don't want to lose you. If your father would not object, I should
like to travel along with you."

"Father may remain here a long time, so long that we may not get to see
much of Europe, and of course, you can't wait here for us."

"Now listen, Lucy. _You_ are Europe to me. I believe you are the whole
world."

She did not turn from him, though she looked down to the grass where the
point of her sunshade now rested. Her face was diffused with color.

"Forgive me for saying so much," he continued, "for I realize I am quite
a stranger to you."

"A stranger?" she asked.

"Yes; we have not known each other long. You don't know much about me."

"I seem to have known you a long time," she said, looking up. "I often
think I have met you before. Sometimes I imagine you look like the
young missionary whom I first heard on the streets of Kansas City; but
of course, that can't be."

"No; I never was on a mission. But I'm glad you think of me as you do,
for then you'll let me come and see you in London, in Paris and wherever