t was
singing a little paean of joy at the vagaries of Fate's methods.

"Yes; a will or testament. But a death letter is so infinitely more
explanatory. Don't you think, so?"

Antony laughed.

"Of course," he agreed, light breaking in upon him.

"Take the book if you care to," she said. "I know it nearly by heart. But
I had it by me, and brought it on deck to look at it again. I didn't want
to get absorbed in anything entirely new. It takes one's mind from all
this, and seems a loss." A little gesture indicated sunshine, sea, and
sky.

"Yes," agreed Antony, "it's waste of time to read in the open." And then
he stopped. "Oh, I didn't mean--" he stammered, glancing down at the
book, and perceiving ungraciousness in his words.

"Oh, yes, you did," she assured him smiling, "and it was quite true, and
not in the least rude. Read it in your berth some time; you can do it
there with an easy conscience."

She gave him a little nod, which might have been considered dismissal or
a hint of emphasis. Antony, being of course aware that she could not
possibly find it the same pleasure to talk to him as he found it to talk
to her, took it as dismissal. With a word of thanks he moved off down the
deck, the blue book in his hands.

He found a retired spot forward on the boat. A curious shyness prevented
him from returning to his own deck-chair, and reading the book within
sight of her. In spite of his little remark against reading in the open,
he was longing to make himself acquainted with the contents immediately.
Had it not been her recommendation? Death letters! He laughed softly and
joyously. He had never even given the things a thought before, and here,
twice within ten days, they had been brought to his notice in a fashion
that, to his mind, fell little short of the miraculous. And it is not at
all certain that he did not consider their second queer little entry on
the scene the more miraculous of the two.

He opened the book, and there, facing him from the fly-leaf, was the
answer to the question he had erstwhile sought to fathom,--Pia di
Donatello. His lips formed the syllables, dwelling with pleasure on the
first three little letters--Pia. Oh, it was right, it was utterly and
entirely right. Every other possibility vanished before it into the
remotest background, unthinkable in the face of what was. Pia di
Donatello! Again he repeated the musical syllables. And yet--and
yet--he'd have sworn she was English. There was