n saw the notice, she was
assured that she had done the right thing. For ten days that
advertisement stared her in the face whenever she visited the office,
and then, to her great satisfaction, it disappeared. Rose Bonnifay's
message from across the sea had gone to the place of "dead" letters,
but Nelly believed that it had at last found its rightful owner.

On the very evening of Peveril's departure Miss Nelly's old
sweetheart, Mike Connell, joined her for a walk, and, after much
preliminary conversation, finally plucked up courage to ask if Mr.
Peril had told her anything of importance before going away.

"What should he have to tell me?" asked the girl, evasively.

"He might have tould you that he liked you better than any other girl
in the world," was the diplomatic answer.

"You know he'd never say a thing like that, Mr. Connell," cried Nelly,
blushing furiously.

"Well, then, he might have said he was already bespoke."

"I don't believe it."

"It's true, all the same."

"What right have you to say so?" asked Nelly, whose face was now quite
pale.

"The right of his own words, for he telled me so himself."

"Who is she?"

"He didn't say."

"Where does she live, then?"

"Divil a bit do I know."

"I don't believe you know anything at all about it. You are just
making up a story to tease me."

"T'asing you is the last thing I'd be thinking of, Nelly darlin',
except it was t'asing ye to marry me. No, alanna, it's the truth I'm
telling you, and if you can't believe me just ax him. At the same
time, I'm sore hurted that ye should be caring whether he's bespoke or
no."

"I will ask him," answered the girl, "and until I do I'll thank you,
Mr. Connell, never to mention Mr. Peril's name again."

"Not even to tell you what a brave, bowld lad he is, and how
handsome?"

"You'd not be telling me anything I don't know."

"But, darlin', when he tells you with his own mouth that he's already
bespoke and not to be had at all, you'll not refuse a bit of hope to
one who loves the very ground trod by your two little feet."

"Good-night, Mr. Connell. Here's the door, and I'm going in."

In the meantime Peveril, after bidding good-bye to Mrs. Trefethen, had
been whirled away by the little timber train to a landing on the lake
shore, where he found the tug _Broncho_ awaiting him. Towing behind it
was a light double-ended skiff, and on its narrow deck he saw three
men, dressed very much as he was himself, whom h