heir hotel, leaving their heavy luggage
in the jaws of the custom-house to be rescued later by the general and
Berkeley. As they left the wharf, Pocahontas noticed another steamer
forging slowly in, and preparing to occupy the berth next that of the
Cunarder.

A couple of hours after the arrival of the European travelers at the
St. Andrew's Hotel, a squarely-built young man of medium height, with a
handsome, bronzed face, and heavy, brown mustache, sprung lightly up
the steps of the hotel and passed into the clerk's office. Here he
ordered a room and delivered his valise and umbrella to a porter,
explaining that he should probably remain several days. Then he turned
to the book, pushed toward him by the clerk, to register his name.

"You are late, sir," remarked that functionary, affably; not that he
felt interest in the matter, but because to converse was his nature.

"Late, for what?" inquired the gentleman, without glancing up.

"For nothing, in particular," replied the clerk. "I only made the
remark because the other Cunard passengers got in an hour ago."

"I didn't come by the Cunarder. I'm from down South," responded the
bronzed man. "I saw her discharging as we came in."

Then he ran his eye over the names above his own on the page of the
register. There were only three--Mrs. General Smith, Miss Smith,
Nesbit Thorne. No one he knew, so he slapped together the covers of
the book, and pushed it from him; procured a light for his cigar,
pocketed this key of his room, and sauntered out to have a look at the
city, and possibly to drop in at one of the theaters later on.

The clerk, in idle curiosity, pulled the register toward him, opened
it, and glanced at the name; it was the fourth from the top, just under
Nesbit Thorne's--James Dabney Byrd, Mexico.

CHAPTER XXIV.

No; Blanche was not a clever woman; that could not be claimed for her;
but her essential elements were womanly. Pain, grief, distress of any
sort woke in her heart a longing to give help and comfort.

Since Norma's marriage, Blanche had drawn much nearer to her cousin.
She had always been fond of him in an abstract way, and had felt a
surface sorrow, not unmingled with aesthetic interest, in the dramatic
incidents of his life. She had lived in the same house with him, had
associated with him daily, had taken his hand, had kissed him; but she
had never _known_ him. She had never gauged his nature with the
understanding born of