ond
compare. She smiled faintly.

"You are very clever with your fingers. Where did you learn it? Have you
a sister who makes you wind her wool for her at home?"

"No. I have no sister. I went to sea once upon a time."

"Were you ever in the navy, Mr. Griggs?"

"Oh no. I went before the mast."

"But you would not learn to unravel wool before the mast. I suppose your
mother taught you when you were small--if you ever were small."

"I never had a mother that I can remember--I learned to do all those
things at sea."

"Forgive me," she said, guessing she had struck some tender chord in my
existence. "What an odd life you must have had."

"Perhaps. I never had any relations that I can remember, except a
brother, much older than I. He died years ago, and his son is my only
living relation. I was born in Italy."

"But when did you learn so many things? You seem to know every language
under the sun."

"I had a good education when I got ashore. Some one was very kind to me,
and I had learned Latin and Greek in the common school in Rome before I
ran away to sea."

I answered her questions reluctantly. I did not want to talk about my
history, especially to a girl like her. I suppose she saw my
disinclination, for as I handed her the card with the wool neatly wound
on it, she thanked me and presently changed the subject, or at least
shifted the ground.

"There is something so free about the life of an adventurer--I mean a
man who wanders about doing brave things. If I were a man I would be an
adventurer like you."

"Not half so much of an adventurer, as you call it, as our friend who
went off this morning."

It was the first mention of Isaacs since his departure. I had said the
thing inadvertently, for I would not have done anything to increase her
trouble for the world. She leaned back, dropping her hands with her work
in her lap, and stared straight out through the doorway, as pale as
death--pale as only fair-skinned people are when they are ill, or hurt.
She sat quite still. I wondered if she were ill, or if it were only
Isaacs' going that had wrought this change in her brilliant looks.
"Would you like me to read something to you, Miss Westonhaugh? Here is a
comparatively new book--_The Light of Asia_, by Mr. Edwin Arnold. It is
a poem about India. Would it give you any pleasure?" She guessed the
kind intention, and a little shadow of a smile passed over her lips.

"You are so kind, Mr. Griggs. Please, you ar