ong enough. Give him the society of his fellow-creatures.
"Put me among cannibals," he said, "and I should make friends with
them. But to live alone--it is the devil! To-morrow we begin our new
flight."

After dinner he lit his cigar, and went on chattering about the future.
Iris remembered the packet she had got at the post-office, and opened
it. It contained a small manuscript book filled with writing and a
brief letter. She read the letter, laid it down, and opened the book.

CHAPTER LXI

THE LAST DISCOVERY

"I SHALL like to turn farmer," Lord Harry went on talking while Iris
opened and began to read Fanny's manuscript. "After all my adventures,
to settle down in a quiet place and cultivate the soil. On market-day
we will drive into town together"--he talked as if Kentucky were
Warwickshire--"side by side in a spring cart. I shall have samples of
grain in bags, and you will have a basket of butter and cream. It will
be an ideal life. We shall dine at the ordinary, and, after dinner,
over a pipe and a glass of grog, I shall discuss the weather and the
crops. And while we live in this retreat of ours, over here the very
name of Harry Norland will have been forgotten. Queer, that! We shall
go on living long after we are dead and buried and forgotten. In the
novels the man turns up after he is supposed to be cast
away--wrecked--drowned--dead long ago. But he never turns up when he is
forgotten--unless he is Rip Van Winkle. By Gad, Iris! when we are old
people we will go home and see the old places together. It will be
something to look forward to--something to live for--eh?"

"I feel quite happy this evening, Iris; happier than I have been for
months. The fact is, this infernal place has hipped us both
confoundedly. I didn't like to grumble, but I've felt the monotony more
than a bit. And so have you. It's made you brood over things. Now, for
my part, I like to look at the bright side. Here we are comfortably cut
off from the past. That's all done with. Nothing in the world can
revive the memory of disagreeable things if we are only true to
ourselves and agree to forget them. What has been done can never be
discovered. Not a soul knows except the doctor, and between him and
ourselves we are going to put a few thousand--What's the matter, Iris?
What the devil is the matter?"

For Iris, who had been steadily reading while her husband chattered on,
suddenly dropped the book, and turned upon him a white face and e