m of the truth of that last fact," at which scathing
remark, delivered with a twinkle that was lost in the dark, Phil looked
almost cast down, until Jessie declared in a whisper "that she loved
slang," accompanying the declaration with a comforting little pat that
cheered him immensely.

"No apologies, Madame and Monsieur," the Frenchman was saying. "I was
once a boy myself. The slang has many advantages which the more flowery
language has not; it is, at least, much to the point."

"If he would only use it, he might reach the point sooner," complained
Jessie, in an aside.

"I'd be happy if I only knew what point you wanted him to get to," sighed
Lucile. "You see, I am completely in the dark."

"'Listen, my children, and you shall hear,'" Jessie broke in, still in an
undertone. "Methinks the story is about to unfold itself----"

"Sh-h!" said Lucile, warningly. "Listen!"

Mr. Payton was speaking. "You say the will cannot be found?"

Four pairs of bright young eyes centered upon the stranger with eager
intensity as they waited for his reply.

CHAPTER XIII

ROMANCE

The moist, salt-laden breeze fanned their hot faces gratefully. The
musical tap-tap of the waves against the side of the ship came to them as
from a great distance, and even the voices and laughter of the passengers
seemed, somehow, strangely remote.

The stranger brought his gaze back to them with an effort, as he said,
wearily, "Monsieur, I am tired--you cannot know how much. But I had not
meant to bore you with my so selfish perplexities----"

"Sometimes to tell our troubles is half the cure," Mrs. Payton suggested,
gently.

"You are very--good," murmured the stranger, gratefully. "If you are sure
it will not tire----"

Then at their vigorous denials, he proceeded, in his low, even voice:
"Sometimes I have felt the great necessity of telling all to some
one--some one who would understand. If I did not, I felt I should go
mad." He passed his hand over his eyes with an infinitely weary gesture.

"You see, my father and I, we had long been estranged. Not even in my
earliest childhood have I the memory of a gentle word, a fatherly
pressure of the hand. So I grew to young manhood with no knowledge of a
mother's or father's love--for my mother," here his voice lowered,
reverently, "died when I was born. My childhood was of the utmost
loneliness, for my father thought the children with whom I wished to
associate were too far beneath me in