of feeling which, in spite of her tears, he could not but respect. That
momentary shadow of death had exalted her. He stroked his mustache,
pulled down his white waistcoat and her cry, without saying anything.
He did not know that this most objectionable phase of her misery was her
salvation and his own.

But the stewardess would return in a moment. "You'd better tell me what
to call you," he said quietly. "I ought to know my niece's first name."

The girl caught her breath, and, between two sobs, said, "Sophonisba."

Jack winced. It seemed only to need this last sentimental touch to
complete the idiotic situation. "I'll call you Sophy," he said hurriedly
and with an effort.

"And now look here! You are going in that cabin with Mrs. Johnson where
she can look after you, but I can't. So I'll have to take your word, for
I'm not going to give you away before Mrs. Johnson, that you won't try
that foolishness--you know what I mean--before I see you again. Can I
trust you?"

With her head still bowed over the chair back, she murmured slowly
somewhere from under her disheveled hair:--

"Yes."

"Honest Injin?" adjured Jack gravely.

"Yes."