ence
of the group, she went on: "We started from the fort over three hours
ago,--three hours ago, wasn't it, Barker?" (the erect Barker touched his
cap,)--"to go to Captain Emmons's quarters on Indian Island,--I think
you call it Indian Island, don't you?" (she was appealing to the
awe-stricken Princess,)--"and we got into the fog and lost our way; that
is, Barker lost his way," (Barker touched his cap deprecatingly,) "and
goodness knows where we didn't wander to until we mistook your light
for the lighthouse and pulled up here. No, no, pray keep your seat, do!
Really I must insist."

Nothing could exceed the languid grace of the latter part of this
speech,--nothing except the easy unconsciousness with which she glided
by the offered chair of her stammering, embarrassed host and stood
beside the open hearth.

"Barker will tell you," she continued, warming her feet by the fire,
"that I am Miss Portfire, daughter of Major Portfire, commanding the
post. Ah, excuse me, child!" (She had accidentally trodden upon the bare
yellow toes of the Princess.) "Really, I did not know you were there. I
am very near-sighted." (In confirmation of her statement, she put to
her eyes a dainty double eyeglass that dangled from her neck.) "It's a
shocking thing to be near-sighted, isn't it?"

If the shamefaced uneasy man to whom this remark was addressed could
have found words to utter the thought that even in his confusion
struggled uppermost in his mind, he would, looking at the bold, dark
eyes that questioned him, have denied the fact. But he only stammered,
"Yes." The next moment, however, Miss Portfire had apparently forgotten
him and was examining the Princess through her glass.

"And what is your name, child?"

The Princess, beatified by the eyes and eyeglass, showed all her white
teeth at once, and softly scratched her leg.

"Bob?"

"Bob? What a singular name!"

Miss Portfire's host here hastened to explain the origin of the
Princess's title.

"Then YOU are Bob." (Eye-glass.)

"No, my name is Grey,--John Grey." And he actually achieved a bow where
awkwardness was rather the air of imperfectly recalling a forgotten
habit.

"Grey?--ah, let me see. Yes, certainly. You are Mr. Grey the recluse,
the hermit, the philosopher, and all that sort of thing. Why, certainly;
Dr. Jones, our surgeon, has told me all about you. Dear me, how
interesting a rencontre! Lived all alone here for seven--was it seven
years?--yes, I remember n