college, of the men they had both been acquainted with, some of whom
were dead, some settled abroad and some lost to sight in the vistas
of uncertain fate. Catherine took very little part in the
conversation, but she listened intently--her colourless eyes were
for once bright, and she watched the face of Santoris as one might
watch an animated picture. Presently Dr. Brayle and Mr. Swinton, who
had been pacing the deck together and smoking, paused near the
saloon door. Mr. Harland beckoned them.

"Come in, come in!" he said--"Santoris, this is my physician, Dr.
Brayle, who has undertaken to look after me during this trip,"--
Santoris bowed--"And this is my secretary, Mr. Swinton, whom I sent
over to your yacht just now." Again Santoris bowed. His slight, yet
perfectly courteous salutation, was in marked contrast with the
careless modern nod or jerk of the head by which the other men
barely acknowledged their introduction to him. "He was afraid of his
life to go to you"--continued Mr. Harland, with a laugh--"He thought
you might be an illusion--or even the devil himself, with those
fiery sails!" Mr. Swinton looked sheepish; Santoris smiled. "This
fair dreamer of dreams"--here he singled me out for notice--"is the
only one of us who has not expressed either surprise or fear at the
sight of your vessel or the possible knowledge of yourself, though
there was one little incident connected with the pretty bunch of
bell-heather she is wearing--why!--you wear the same flower
yourself!"

There was a moment's silence. Everyone stared. The blood burned in
my veins,--I felt my face crimsoning, yet I knew not why I should be
embarrassed or at a loss for words. Santoris came to my relief.