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295 For the mute she felt only pity, and for his master an even gentler pang.

The young man paused and dropped the spade, surveying the group of seamen, at first in surprise, then with a half-quizzical, half-fatalistic look that concealed his disappointment. She caught and translated his exclamation.

"Voilà! Late as usual. Kismet."

His glances fell on the girl under the trees. He must have guessed her race, for, raising his hat with that courtliness which had amused Carlotta, but which would have both flattered and softened the heart of the average woman, he addressed her in English, perfect except for the elusive accent of the Frenchman, the tongue feathering the syllables as a rower the waves. And yet, for all its music and charm, which was strange to one accustomed to the frank rough speech of New England seafaring folk, the voice was quite as manly as theirs.

"Pardon me, Mademoiselle, are they your friends? It is not often that one sees a living soul on this island."

The girl rose. From the start she liked the stranger, his bearing—a pathetic mingling of forlornness and debonair bravery—and that same fleeting, half-quizzical expression in those sombre eyes, which suggested fires banked with the cold ashes of many burned out ventures, scattered by Patience over the surface to keep the flame of the undaunted spirit still alive. When she looked at him she, too, felt she knew what his mother looked like, and that was no disgrace, no implication of effeminacy—the mother would have been proud of her son. Then the lovely vision of the peace-