ned books; yours, Sir Charles!" were the first words
the girl caught.

"Mine! Bless my soul!" Her uncle's surprised voice broke in. "You don't
mean to tell me that all those volumes I had boxed for Australia and
which I thought lost on the _Lord Nelson_ came ashore on your little
coral isle?"

Came ashore on his coral isle; the girl caught at the words. Of course
he had been saved, he who had saved her from the wild sea; she had
realized that after their last meeting at Strathorn House. But how? He
had reached an island, then--by what means? Some day her uncle would
tell her; she understood now why he had sent for Sir Charles, the motive
that had prompted him to an ordeal, not at all easy. She was glad; she
would never have told herself, and yet she could realize, divine, the
poignant pain this lifting of the curtain, this laying bare the past,
must cost him. She, too, seemed to feel a part of that pain; why? It was
unaccountable.

"Exactly!" said John Steele succinctly. "And never were angels in
disguise more foully welcomed!"

"Bless my soul!" Sir Charles' amazed voice could only repeat. "I
remember most of those books well--a brave array; poets, philosophers,
lawmakers! Then that accounts for your--! It is like a fairy tale."

"A fairy tale!" Jocelyn Wray gazed around her; at books, books, on every
side. She regarded the door leading out; was half-mindful to go; but
heard the man-servant in the hall--and lingered.

"Nothing so pleasant, I assure you," John Steele answered Sir Charles
shortly. Then with few words he painted a picture uncompromisingly; the
girl shrank back; perhaps she wished she had not come. This, truly, was
no fairy tale, but a wild, savage drama, primeval, the picture of a soul
battling with itself on the little lonely isle. She could see the hot,
angry sun, feel its scorching rays, hear the hissing of the waves. All
the man's strength for good, for ill, went into the story; the isle
became as the pit of Acheron; at first there were no stars overhead. The
girl was very pale; she could not have left now; she had never imagined
anything like this. She had looked into Greek books, seen pictures of
men chained to rocks and struggling against the anger of the gods--but
they had appeared the mere fantasies of mythology. The drama of the
little coral isle seemed to unfold a new and real vista of life into
which she had unconsciously strayed. She hardly breathed; her hand had
leaped to her breast; s