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“Didn’t you like Jack? I hope you did. Oh, say you did–do!”

“You mean Captain John Dornton?” said Randolph, a little confused.

“Yes, of course; HIS brother”–glancing toward Sir William. “We always called him Jack, though I was ever so little when he went away. No one thought of calling him anything else but Jack. Say you liked him!”

“I certainly did,” returned Randolph impulsively. Then checking himself, he added, “I only saw him once, but I liked his face and manner–and–he was very kind to me.”

“Of course he was,” said the young girl quickly. “That was only like him, and yet”–lowering her voice slightly–“would you believe that they all say he was wild and wicked and dissipated? And why? Fancy! Just because he didn’t care to stay at home and shoot and hunt and race and make debts, as heirs usually do. No, he wanted to see the world and do something for himself. Why, when he was quite young, he could manage a boat like any sailor. Dornton Hall, their place, is on the coast, you know, and they say that, just for adventure’s sake, after he went away, he shipped as first mate somewhere over here on the Pacific, and made two or three voyages. You know–don’t you?–and how every one was shocked at such conduct in the heir.”

Her face was so girlishly animated, with such sparkle of eye and responsive color, that he could hardly reconcile it with her first restraint or with his accepted traditions of her unemotional race, or, indeed, with her relationship to the principal guest. His latent feeling of gratitude to the dead man warmed under the young girl’s voice.

“It’s so dreadful to think of him as drowned, you know, though even that they put against him,” she went on hurriedly, “for they say he was probably drowned in some drunken fit–fell through the wharf or something shocking and awful–worse than suicide. But”–she turned her frank young eyes upon him again–“YOU saw him on the wharf that night, and you could tell how he looked.”

“He was as sober as I was,” returned Randolph indignantly, as he recalled the incident of the flask and the dead man’s caution. From recalling it to repeating it followed naturally, and he presently related the whole story of his meeting with Captain Dornton to the brightly interested eyes beside him. When he had finished, she leaned toward him in girlish confidence, and said:–

“Yes; but EVEN THAT they tell to show how intoxicated be must have been to have given up his portmanteau to an utter stranger like you.” She stopped, colored, and yet, reflecting his own half smile, she added: “You know what I mean. For they all agree how nice it was of you not to take any advantage of his condition, and Dingwall said your honesty and faithfulness struck Revelstoke so much that he made a place for you at the bank. Now I think,” she continued, with delightful naivete, “it was a proof of poor Jack’s BEING PERFECTLY SOBER, that he knew whom he was trusting, and saw just what you were, at once. There! But I suppose you must not talk to me any longer, but must make yourself agreeable to some one else. But it was very nice of you to tell me all this. I wish you knew my guardian. You’d like him. Do you ever go to England? Do come and see us.”

These confidences had not been observed by the others, and Miss Avondale appeared to confine her attentions to Sir William, who seemed to be equally absorbed, except that once he lifted his eyes toward Randolph, as if in answer to some remark from her. It struck Randolph that he was the subject of their conversation, and this did not tend to allay the irritation of a mind already wounded by the contrast of HER lack of sympathy for the dead man who had befriended and trusted her to the simple faith of the girl beside him, who was still loyal to a mere childish recollection.