The curtain before one mystery was torn aside, and she saw in reality what lay behind the impulse that had led her into the young man's room. And this time the departure had a tremendous effect of finality. There was no one to be seen. The stores, the drying bins, McClintock's bungalows and the native huts sprawled around an exquisite landlocked lagoon. The terrific mental tension of the past few months —that had held his bodily nourishment in a kind of strangulation—became as a dream; and now his vitals responded rapidly to food and air. The name of this damsel was Edgeworth Bess; and, as her fascinations will not, perhaps, be found to be without some influence upon the future fortunes of her boyish admirer, we have thought it worth while to be thus particular in describing them. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated.
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