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They were so happy in these new relations that it occurred to Miss Bessy one day to take James North to task for obliging her to ask to be his pupil. “You knew how ignorant I was,” she added; and Mr. North retorted by relating to her the doctor’s criticism on her independence. “To tell you the truth,” he added, “I was afraid you would not take it as kindly as he thought.”

“That is, you thought me as vain as yourself. It seems to me you and the doctor had a great deal to say to each other.”

“On the contrary,” laughed North, “that was all we said.”

“And you didn’t make fun of me?”

Perhaps it was not necessary for North to take her hand to emphasize his denial, but he did.

Miss Bessy, being still reminiscent, perhaps, did not notice it. “If it hadn’t been for that ar–I mean that thar–no, that baby–I wouldn’t have known you!” she said dreamily.

“No,” returned North, mischievously, “but you still would have known Hank Fisher.”

No woman is perfect. Miss Bessy looked at him with a sudden–her first and last–flash of coquetry. Then stooped and kissed–the baby.

James North was a simple gentleman, but not altogether a fool. He returned the kiss, but not vicariously.

There was a footstep on the porch. These two turned the hues of a dying dolphin, and then laughed. It was Joe. He held a newspaper in his hand. “I reckon ye woz right, Mr. North, about my takin’ these yar papers reg’lar. For I allow here’s suthin’ that may clar up the mystery o’ that baby’s parents.” With the hesitation of a slowly grappling intellect, Joe sat down on the table and read from the San Francisco “Herald” as follows: “‘It is now ascertained beyond doubt that the wreck reported by the Aeolus was the American brig Pomare bound hence to Tahiti. The worst surmises are found correct. The body of the woman has been since identified as that of the beau-ti-ful daughter of–of–of–Terp–Terp–Terpish’–Well! I swow that name just tackles me.”

“Gin it to me, Dad,” said Bessy pertly. “You never had any education, any way. Hear your accomplished daughter.” With a mock bow to the new schoolmaster, and a capital burlesque of a confident school girl, she strode to the middle of the room the paper held and folded book-wise in her hands. “Ahem! Where did you leave off? Oh, ‘the beautiful daughter of Terpsichore–whose name was prom-i-nently connected with a mysterious social scandal of last year–the gifted but unfortunate Grace Chatterton’–No–don’t stop me–there’s some more! ‘The body of her child, a lovely infant of six months, has not been recovered, and it is supposed was washed overboard.’ There! may be that’s the child, Mr. North. Why, Dad! Look, O my God! He’s falling. Catch him, Dad! Quick!”

But her strong arm had anticipated her father’s. She caught him, lifted him to the bed, on which he lay henceforth for many days unconscious. Then fever supervened, and delirium, and Dr. Duchesne telegraphed for his friends; but at the end of a week and the opening of a summer day the storm passed, as the other storm had passed, and he awoke, enfeebled, but at peace. Bessy was at his side–he was glad to see–alone.

“Bessy, dear,” he said hesitatingly, “when I am stronger I have something to tell you.”

“I know it all, Jem,” she said with a trembling lip; “I heard it all–no, not from THEM, but from your own lips in your delirium. I’m glad it came from YOU–even then.”

“Do you forgive me, Bessy?”

She pressed her lips to his forehead and said hastily, and then falteringly, as if afraid of her impulse:–

“Yes. Yes.”

“And you will still be mother to the child?”

“HER child?”

“No dear, not hers, but MINE!”

She started, cried a little, and then putting her arms around him, said: “Yes.”

And as there was but one way of fulfilling that sacred promise, they were married in the autumn.