her head. Once again she seized
Wilson's arm and bade him look beyond the thicket in front of them.

"I saw something move. I am sure of it."

"You are a bit nervous, I'm afraid," he said tenderly. "If only you
would lie down for the rest of the night."

"No, no, David. I am sure this time."

"Only a shadow. There is a light breeze."

"I couldn't see anything but--it didn't _feel_ like a shadow, David."

"You felt it? Has the image----" he asked a bit anxiously.

"No--oh, I can't make you understand, but I'm sure something moved in
the bushes."

"Stay close to me then," he laughed quietly.

He turned back to Manning who was turning the image over and over in
his hands with indifferent interest. To him it was nothing more than a
curio--a metal doll. But when he caught the glint of a moonbeam on the
jeweled eyes, he bent over it with keener concern. He raised it in his
hands and stared steadily back into the cold eyes. This stare soon
became fixed and Manning began to grow slightly rigid. Wilson snatched
the object from his hands. For a moment the man remained immovable;
then he rubbed his hand over his brow, muttering incoherently to
himself. This nervous symptom disappeared and Manning apparently
instantly forgot the idol again. He called for his daughter. She came
closer to his side and he rested his head against her shoulder.

"Dear father," she murmured affectionately.

"I--I can't think," he said.

"Don't try, Daddy. Wait until we get out of here and you are all well
again."

"If I could reach my ship," he muttered.

"What ship, Daddy?"

"Why, my own--the 'Jo Manning.'"

That took her back to the time she was a very little girl. She
remembered now that he had named the ship after her,--the last ship
which he had sailed out of Newburyport. Poor old daddy! What a
different man he was this moment from him who had held her in his arms
and kissed her with tears rolling down his bronzed cheeks. It wrenched
her heart to watch him sitting there so listlessly--so weakly--so
little himself. The fear was growing in her heart that he never would
be the same again. Almost--almost it was better to remember him as he
was then than to know him as he sat there now. Had it not been for the
comfort, for the joy of another order, for the safety she felt in this
younger man by her side, her heart would have broken at the sight. If
only she could have found him during those few days he was in
Boston--when the crystal