ng that comforted
me in the mouth of another when I lost my mother. It was an old
clergyman who said it. 'Think what the dead would wish and try to
please them.' It doesn't sound much; but if you consider, it is
helpful."

The boat was speedy and she soon slipped out between the historic
castles that stood on either bank of the entrance to the harbour.

Mrs. Pendean spoke.

"All this loveliness and peace seem to make my heart more sore. When
people suffer, they should go where nature suffers too--to bleak,
sad regions."

"You must occupy yourself. You must try to lose yourself in work--in
working your fingers to the bone if need be. There is nothing like
mental and physical toil at a time of suffering."

"That is only a drug. You might as well drink, or take opium. I
wouldn't run away from my grief if I could. I owe it to the dead."

"You are not a coward. You must live and make the world happier for
your life."

She smiled for the first time--a flicker, that lightened her beauty
for a moment and quickly died.

"You are good and kind and wise," she answered. Then she changed the
subject and pointed to the man in the bows. He sat upright with his
back to them at the wheel forward. He had taken off his hat and was
singing very gently to himself, but hardly loud enough to be heard
against the drone of the engines. His song was from an early opera
of Verdi.

"Have you noticed that man?"

Mark shook his head.

"He is an Italian. He comes from Turin but has worked in England for
some time. He looks to me more Greek than Italian--not modern Greek
but from classical times--the times I used to study as a schoolgirl.
He has a head like a statue."

She called to the boatman.

"Stand out a mile or so, Doria," she said. "I want Mr. Brendon to
see the coast line."

"Aye, aye, ma'am," he answered and altered their course for the open
sea.

He had turned at Jenny Pendean's voice and shown Mark a brown,
bright, clean-shorn face of great beauty. It was of classical
contour, but lacked the soulless perfection of the Greek ideal. The
Italian's black eyes were brilliant and showed intelligence.

"Giuseppe Doria has a wonderful story about himself," continued Mrs.
Pendean. "Uncle Ben tells me that he claims descent from a very
ancient family and is the last of the Dorias of--I forget--some
place near Ventimiglia. My uncle thinks the world of him; but I hope
he is as trustworthy and as honest in character as he is hand