ver, of no special use to
a poor pirate's bride; as I intend you shall be."

She had turned her back on me now.

"Besides, as to that," I went on, "I am only affording these young
gentlemen the same advantages offered by the advertisements of the
United States navy recruiting service--good wages, good fare, and an
opportunity to see the world. Come now, we'll all see the world
together. Shall we not, Miss Emory--I mean, Helena?"

"We can't live here forever, anyhow," said she.

"I could," was my swift answer. "Forever, in just this quiet scene.
Forever, with all the world forgot, and just you standing there as you
are, the most beautiful girl I ever saw; and once, I thought, the
kindest."

"That I am not."

"No. I was much mistaken in you, much disappointed. It grieved me to
see you fall below the standard I had set for you. I thought your
ideals high and fine. They were not, as I learned to my sorrow. You
were just like all the rest. You cared only for my money, because it
could give you ease, luxury, station. When that was gone, you cared
nothing for me."

I stood looking at her lovely shoulders for some time, but she made no
sign.

"And therefore, finding you so fallen," I resumed, "finding you only,
after all, like the other worthless, parasitic women of the day, Miss
Emory--Helena, I mean--I resolved to do what I could to educate you.
And so I offer you the same footing that I do your nephew--good
wages, good fare, and an opportunity to see the world."

No answer whatever.

"Do you remember the Bay of Naples, at sunset, as we saw it when we
first steamed in on the old _City of Berlin_, Helena?"

No answer.

"And do you recall Fuji-yama, with the white top--remember the
rickshaw rides together, Helena?"

No answer.

"And then, the fiords of Norway, and the mountains? Or the chalk
cliffs off Dover? And those sweet green fields of England--as we rode
up to London town? And the taxis there, just you and I, Helena, with
Aunt Lucinda happily evaded--just you and I? Yes, I am thinking of
forcing Aunt Lucinda to walk the plank ere long, Helena. I want a
world all my own, Helena, the world that was meant for us, Helena,
made for us--a world with no living thing in it but yonder
mocking-bird that's singing; and you, and me."

"Could you not dispense with the mocking-bird--and me?" she asked.

"No," (I winced at her thrust, however). "No, not with you. And you
know in your heart, in the bottom of your t