said, "I knew there would be a copy on board, but I am more bewildered than ever; the frontispiece is an exact portrait of you, only you are dressed differently and do not look—" the girl hesitated, "so ill as when you came on board."
Ormond looked up at the girl with a smile, and said—
"You might say with truth, so ill as I look now."
"Oh, the voyage has done you good. You seem ever so much better than when you came on board."
"Yes, I think that is so," said Ormond, reaching for the volume she held in her hand. He opened it at the frontispiece and gazed long at the picture.
The girl sat down beside him and watched his face, glancing from it to the book.
"It seems to me," she said at last, "that the coincidence is becoming more and more striking. Have you ever seen that portrait before?"
"Yes," said Ormond slowly. "I recognise it as a portrait I took of myself in the interior of Africa which I sent to a dear friend of mine; in fact, the only friend I had in England. I think I wrote him about getting together a book out of the materials I sent him, but I am not sure. I was very ill at the time I wrote him my last letter. I thought I was going to die, and told him so. I feel somewhat bewildered, and don't quite understand it all."
"I understand it," cried the girl, her face blazing with indignation. "Your friend is a traitor. He is reaping the reward that should have been yours, and so poses as the African traveller, the real Ormond. You must put a stop to it when you reach England, and expose his treachery to the whole country."
Ormond shook his head slowly and said—
"I cannot imagine Jimmy Spence a traitor. If it were only the book, that could be, I think, easily explained, for I sent him all my notes of travel and materials; but I cannot understand him taking the medals or degrees."
The girl made a quick gesture of impatience.
"Such things," she said, "cannot be explained. You must confront him and expose him."
"No," said Ormond, "I shall not confront him. I must think over the matter for a time. I am not quick at thinking, at least just now, in the face of this difficulty. Everything seemed plain and simple before, but if Jimmy Spence has stepped into my shoes, he is welcome to them. Ever since I came out of Africa I seem to have lost all ambition. Nothing appears to be worth while now."
"Oh!" cried the girl, "that is because you are in ill-health. You will be yourself again when you reach England. Don't let this trouble you now—there is plenty of time to think it all out before we arrive. I am sorry I spoke about it; but, you see, I was taken by surprise when you mentioned your name."
"I am very glad you spoke to me," said Ormond, in a more cheerful voice. "The mere fact that you have talked with me has encouraged me wonderfully. I cannot tell how much this conversation has been to me. I am a lone man, with only one friend in the world—I am afraid I must add now, without even one friend in the world. I am grateful for your interest in me, even though it was only compassion for a wreck—for a derelict, floating about on the sea of life."
There were tears in the girl's eyes, and she did not speak for a moment, then she laid her hand softly on Ormond's arm, and said, "You are not a wreck, far from it. You sit alone too much, and I am afraid that what I have thoughtlessly said has added to your troubles." The girl paused in her talk, but after a moment added—
"Don't you think you could walk the deck for a little?"
"I don't know about walking," said Ormond, with a little laugh, "but
I'll come with you if you don't mind an encumbrance."
He rose somewhat unsteadily, and she took his arm.
"You must look upon me as your physician," she said cheerfully, "and I shall insist that my orders are obeyed."
"I shall be delighted to be under your charge," said Ormond, "but may I not know my physician's name?"
The girl blushed deeply when she realised that she had had such a long conversation with one to whom she had never been introduced. She had regarded him as an invalid, who needed a few words of cheerful encouragement, but as he stood up she saw that he was much younger than his face and appearance had led her to suppose.
"My name is Mary Radford," she said.
"Miss Mary Radford?" inquired Ormond.
"Miss Mary Radford."
That walk on the deck was the first of many, and it soon became evident to Ormond that he was rapidly becoming his old self again. If he had lost a friend in England, he had certainly found another on board ship to whom he was getting more and more attached as time went on. The only point of disagreement between them was in regard to the confronting of Jimmy Spence. Ormond was determined in his resolve not to interfere with Jimmy and his ill-gotten fame.
As the voyage was nearing its end, Ormond and Miss Radford stood together leaning over the rail conversing quietly. They had become very great friends indeed.
"But if you will not expose this man," said Miss Radford, "what then is your purpose when you land? Are you going back to the stage again?"
"I don't think so," replied Ormond. "I shall try to get something to do and live quietly for awhile."
"Oh!" cried the girl, "I have no patience with you."
"I am sorry for that, Mary," said Ormond, "for, if I can make a living,
I intend asking you to be my wife."
"Oh!" cried the girl breathlessly, turning her head away.
"Do you think I would have any chance?" asked Ormond.
"Of making a living?" inquired the girl, after a moment's silence.
"No. I am sure of making a living, for I have always done so; therefore answer my question. Mary, do you think I would have any chance?" and he placed his hand softly over hers, which lay on the ship's rail. The girl did not answer, but she did not withdraw her hand; she gazed down at the bright green water with its tinge of foam.
"I suppose you know," she said at length, "that you have every chance, and you are merely pretending ignorance to make it easier for me, because I have simply flung myself at your head ever since we began the voyage."
"I am not pretending, Mary," he said. "What I feared was that your interest was only that of a nurse in a somewhat backward patient. I was afraid I had your sympathy, but not your love. Perhaps such was the case at first."
"Perhaps such was the case—at first, but it is far from being the truth now—Sidney."
The young man made a motion to approach nearer to her, but the girl drew away, whispering—
"There are other people besides ourselves on deck, remember."
"I don't believe it," said Ormond, gazing fondly at her. "I can see no one but you. I believe we are floating alone on the ocean together, and that there is no one else in the wide world but our two selves. I thought I went to Africa for fame, but I see I really went to find you. What I sought seems poor compared to what I have found."
"Perhaps," said the girl, looking shyly at him, "Fame is waiting as anxiously for you to woo her as—as another person waited. Fame is a shameless hussy, you know."
The young man shook his head.
"No. Fame has jilted me once. I won't give her another chance."
So those who were twain sailed gently into Southampton Docks, resolved to be one when the gods were willing.
Mary Radford's people were there to meet her, and Ormond went up to London alone, beginning his short railway journey with a return of the melancholy that had oppressed him during the first part of his long voyage. He felt once more alone in the world, now that the bright presence of his sweetheart was withdrawn, and he was saddened by the thought that the telegram he had hoped to send to Jimmy Spence, exultingly announcing his arrival, would never be sent. In a newspaper he bought at the station,