ght, there's not a soul--" said
Jenny, sorrowfully.

"That's just my case, too," interrupted Lovibond.

"Ah!" they said together.

They looked into each other's eyes with a mournful expression, and
sighed again. Also their hands touched as their arms hung by their
sides.

"Ninety pounds! Did you say ninety? Two berths?" said Jenny. "What a
shocking waste! Couldn't somebody else use them?"

"Just what I was thinking," said Lovibond; and he linked the lady's arm
through his own.

"Hadn't you better get the tickets from Capt'n Davy, and--and give them
to somebody before it is too late?" said Jenny.

"I've got them already--his boy Quarrie was keeping them," said
Lovibond.

"How thoughtful of you, Jona--I mean, Mr. Lovi--"

"Je--Jen--"

"Ben-my-chree! Sweet Ben-my-chree, I love but thee--"

"O, Jonathan!" whispered Jenny.

"O, Jenny!" gasped Jonathan.

They were on the dark side of the round house; the band was playing
behind them, the sea was rumbling in front; there was a shuffle of feet,
a sudden rustle of a dress; the lady glanced to the right, the gentleman
looked to the left, and then for a fraction of an instant they were
locked in each other's arms.

"Will you go back with me, Jenny?"

"Well," whispered Jenny. "Just to keep the tickets from wasting--"

"Just that," whispered Lovibond.

Three quarters of an hour later they were sailing out of Douglas harbor
on board the Irish packet that was to overtake the Pacific steamship
next morning at Belfast. The lights of Castle Mona lay low on the
water's edge, and from the iron pier as they passed came the faint sound
of the music of the band:

"Mona, sweet Mona,
Fairest isle beneath the sky,
Mona, sweet Mona,
We bid thee now good-by."

CHAPTER X.

The life that Davy had led that day-was infernal At the first shaft of
Lovi-bond's insinuation against Mrs. Quiggin's fidelity he had turned
sick at heart. "When he said it," Davy had thought, "the blood went from
me like the tide out of the Ragged Mouth, where the ships lie wrecked
and rotten."

He had baffled with his bemuddled brain, to recall the conversation he
had held with his wife since his return home to marry her, and every
innocent word she had uttered in jest had seemed guilty and foul.
"You've been nothing but a fool, Davy," he told himself. "You've been
tooken in."

Then he had reproached himself for his hasty judgment. "Hould hard, boy,
hould hard; a