ats, and the writer of this history the chance of
displaying a profound knowledge of the names of ropes and spars. On
the contrary, she glided on upon a sea so still that even Miss Terry
was persuaded to arouse herself from her torpor, and come upon deck,
till at last, one morning, the giant peak of Teneriffe, soaring high
above its circling clouds, broke upon the view of her passengers.

Here they stopped for a week or so, enjoying themselves very much in
their new surroundings, till at length Arthur grew tired of the
islands, which was of course the signal for their departure. So they
returned, reaching Madeira after an absence of close upon a month. As
they dropped anchor in the little bay, Mildred came up to Arthur, and,
touching him with that gentle deference which she always showed
towards him, asked him if he was not glad to be home again.

"Home!" he said. "I have no home."

"Oh, Arthur;" she answered, "why do you try to pain me? Is not my home
yours also?"

So soon as they landed, he started off to "Miles' Hotel," to see if
any letters had come for him during his absence, and returned, looking
very much put out.

"What is the matter, Arthur?" asked Miss Terry, once again happy at
feeling her feet upon solid soil.

"Why, those idiots at the hotel have returned a letter sent to me by
my lawyer. They thought that I had left Madeira for good, and the
letter was marked, 'If left, return to Messrs. Borley and Son,' with
the address. And the mail went out this afternoon into the bargain, so
it will be a month before I can get it back again."

Had Arthur known that this letter contained clippings of the newspaper
reports of the inquest on George Caresfoot, of whose death even he was
in total ignorance, he would have had good reason to be put out.

"Never mind, Arthur," said Mildred's clear voice at his elbow--she was
rarely much further from him than his shadow; "lawyers' letters are
not, as a rule, very interesting. I never yet had one that would not
keep. Come and see if your pavilion--isn't that a grand name?--is
arranged to your liking, and then let us go to dinner, for Agatha here
is dying of hunger--she has to make up for her abstinence at sea."

"I was always told," broke in that lady, "that yachting was charming,
but I tell you frankly I have never been more miserable in my life
than I was on board your _Evening Star_."

"Never mind, dear, you shall have a nice long rest before we start for
the coas