entanglement,"--and he judged that it was not all conveyed in Martha
Merrick's subtle letter--Louise would surely be free and unhampered by
either love or maternal diplomacy for some time to come. When she
returned home her mother might conduct the affair to suit herself. He
would have nothing to do with it in any way.

As soon as luncheon was finished they rushed for the deck, and you may
imagine that chubby little Uncle John, with his rosy, smiling face and
kindly eyes, surrounded by three eager and attractive girls of from
fifteen to seventeen years of age, was a sight to compel the attention
of every passenger aboard the ship.

It was found easy to make the acquaintance of the interesting group,
and many took advantage of that fact; for Uncle John chatted brightly
with every man and Patsy required no excuse of a formal introduction to
confide to every woman that John Merrick was taking his three nieces to
Europe to "see the sights and have the time of their lives."

Many of the business men knew well the millionaire's name, and accorded
him great respect because he was so enormously wealthy and successful.
But the little man was so genuinely human and unaffected and so openly
scorned all toadyism that they soon forgot his greatness in the
financial world and accepted him simply as a good fellow and an
invariably cheerful comrade.

The weather was somewhat rough for the latter part of March--they had
sailed the twenty-seventh--but the "Irene" was so staunch and rode the
waves so gracefully that none of the party except Louise was at all
affected by the motion. The eldest cousin, however, claimed to be
indisposed for the first few days out, and so Beth and Patsy and Uncle
John sat in a row in their steamer chairs, with the rugs tucked up to
their waists, and kept themselves and everyone around them merry and
light hearted.

Next to Patsy reclined a dark complexioned man of about thirty-five,
with a long, thin face and intensely black, grave eyes. He was
carelessly dressed and wore a flannel shirt, but there was an odd look
of mingled refinement and barbarity about him that arrested the girl's
attention. He sat very quietly in his chair, reserved both in speech and
in manner; but when she forced him to talk he spoke impetuously and with
almost savage emphasis, in a broken dialect that amused her immensely.

"You can't be American," she said.

"I am Sicilian," was the proud answer.

"That's what I thought; Sici