"My! Why, I always allowed that was only the cross stuck up in the Lone
Mountain Cemetery," she said.

"You are a Catholic?"

"I reckon."

"And you are an Italian?"

"Father is, but mother was a 'Merikan, same as me. Mother's dead."

"And your father is the fisherman yonder?"

"Yes,--but," with a look of pride, "he's got the biggest boat of any."

"And only you and your family are ashore here?"

"Yes, and sometimes Mark." She laughed an odd little laugh.

"Mark? Who's he?" he asked quickly.

He had not noticed the sudden coquettish pose and half-affected
bashfulness of the girl; he was thinking only of the possibility of
detection by strangers.

"Oh, he is Marco Franti, but I call him 'Mark.' It's the same name, you
know, and it makes him mad," said the girl, with the same suggestion of
archness and coquetry.