er, for the first time in
his recollection, asserted his authority, emphatically refused consent,
and was obdurate to all coaxing. Then Grace played her trump card. Their
friend Mrs. Stuart was going on the same steamer. With a married woman
for a chaperon, what further objection could there be? Seeing that he
was check-mated, and that his daughter, as usual, would have her way in
the end anyhow, Mr. Harmon reluctantly capitulated.

He was down at the steamer to see her off, a tall,
distinguished-looking, silvery-haired old gentleman, conspicuous in the
group of friends who had come to bid his daughter _bon voyage_. It was a
noisy, jolly, unruly crowd. Every one talked at the same time, pushing
and elbowing, blocking the gangway up which rushed each minute fresh
arrivals laden with rugs and handbags. Ten minutes more and the "All
ashore" gong would sound, and then the big ship would slowly pull out
and point her nose for the open sea. Grace stood in the center of the
fashionably dressed throng, herself stylishly attired in a chic, long
gray cloth directoire coat and picture hat, bestowing smiles and
handshakes right and left like a queen holding court. Everybody was in
high spirits, all except Mr. Harmon, who tried to look brave as he
furtively wiped away a tear.

"Don't do that, dad, or I'll spoil my complexion," whispered Grace,
making heroic efforts to swallow a hard lump that arose in her own
throat. "One would think I were going away forever. I'll be back safe
and sound before you imagine--you'll see!"

"I hope so, child, I hope so," murmured the old man, clasping her to his
breast. "It's foolish of me, of course. All the same, I can't help
wishing you weren't going. I have a sort of presentiment that something
will happen."

Grace laughed merrily.

"Nonsense, dad! What can happen? Nothing ever happens on ocean voyages.
They are awfully tame and exasperatingly free from incident. Shipwrecks
and things like that occur only in novels. Sometimes I wish things would
happen."

"Really, Grace!" protested a feminine voice at her side, "I do wish you
wouldn't say such wicked things. You know how nervous I am."

The speaker was Mrs. Wesley Stuart, under whose protective wing Grace
was traveling. She was a willowy and rather attractive blonde, not yet
in the thirties, but with a complexion somewhat the worse for rich
foods, old wines, and late hours. Showily dressed, with a large black
felt mushroom hat and heavy pe