d her strange
chant, the song of which her father made light, but feared so much; her
quick insight into the workings of his own thought; her courage in the
face of danger and sharp physical miseries; her charm, her mastery. What
was he to make of them? Lastly, why did he think so much about her?
It was not his habit where strangers were concerned. And why had she
awakened in his somewhat solitary and secluded mind a sympathy so
unusual that it seemed to him that he had known her for years and not
for hours?

Pondering these things and the fact that perhaps within the coming weeks
he would find out their meaning, Morris went to sleep. When he awoke
next morning his mood had changed. Somewhat vaguely he remembered his
perturbations of the previous night indeed, but now they only moved him
to a smile. Their reasons were so obvious. Such exaggerated estimates
and thoughts follow strange adventures--and in all its details
this adventure was very strange--as naturally as nightmares follow
indigestion.

Presently Thomas came to call him, and brought up his letters, among
them one from Mary containing nothing in particular, for, of course,
it had been despatched before her telegram, but written in her usual
humorous style, which made him laugh aloud.

There was a postscript to the letter screwed into the unoccupied space
between the date line and the "Dearest Morris" at its commencement. It
ran:

"How would you like to spend our honeymoon? In a yacht in the
Mediterranean? I think that would do. There is nothing like solitude in
a wretched little boat to promote mutual understanding. If your
devotion could stand the strain of a dishevelled and seasick spouse, our
matrimonial future has no terrors for your loving Mary."

As Morris read he ceased to laugh. "Yes," he thought to himself,
"'solitude in a wretched little boat' does promote mutual understanding.
I am not certain that it does not promote it too much." Then, with an
access of irritation, "Bother the people! I wish I could be rid of them;
the whole thing seems likely to become a worry."

Next he took up a letter from his father, which, when perused, did not
entertain him in the least. There was nothing about Lady Rawlins in it,
of whom he longed to hear, or thought that he did; nothing about that
entrancing personality, the bibulous and violent Sir Jonah, now so meek
and lamblike, but plenty, whole pages indeed, as to details connected
with the estate. Also i