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 my father was correct in his prophecy. Only the noise of our progress interrupted us. The sand dunes were becoming something more than a shadow. My father walked in tranquil silence at the bridle, while I trudged beside him.

"Are you hurt, Captain?" Mademoiselle demanded.

"Indeed not," he replied. "What was there to hurt me? I was thinking. That is all; but why do you ask, my lady?"

"Only," said Mademoiselle, "because you have been silent for the past five minutes, and you never are more gay than when you embark on an adventure. I never heard you say two words, Captain, until that night on the Loire."

"Let us forget the Loire," replied my father. "Shall I be quite frank with you, Mademoiselle?"

"It would be amusing," she admitted, leaning from the saddle towards him, "if it were only possible," she added.

"Then listen, Mademoiselle," he continued, "and I shall be very frank indeed. It must be the sea air which makes me so. I seldom talk unless I feel that my days for talking are nearly over, and at present they seem to stretch before me most intermin-