er to begin the new life with, and he was very sure they would soon
possess their share of every other good thing. And Denasia fell asleep
to his hopeful predictions.

In the morning all was changed. The sun was hidden behind banks of
black clouds, the streets were plashy and muddy, the fierce showers
smote the windows like hail, and the view outside was narrowed to a
procession of dripping umbrellas. It was chilly, too, and the hotel
was inexpressibly dreary and uncomfortable. Greatly to Denasia's
astonishment, Roland was already dressed. All his hopes were fled. He
was despondent and strangely woe-begone and indifferent. He said he
had had a miserable dream. He did not think now it was right to go to
America; they would do nothing there. He wished they were at
Broadstairs; he had been a fool to mind the chatter of men who were
probably guying him; he wished Denas had not urged the plan; if she
had only stood firm, etc., etc., etc.

Denasia looked at him with amazement and with some anger. She reminded
him that the American idea was entirely his own. She wondered what
stuff he was made of, to be so dashed and quailed by a dream. She said
that she also had had a bad dream. They had both eaten late; and as
for dreams, everyone knew they went by contraries. And as limp
spirits like to lean, Roland was soon glad to lean upon Denasia's
bravery.

The few last weary hours in England went slowly by. Roland and Denasia
became at last impatient to be off; any place must certainly be better
than that dreary hotel and that storm-beaten town; the cab that took
them to the wharf was a relief, and the great steamer a palace of
comfort. They were not sick, and the storm was soon over. After they
lost sight of land the huge waves were flatted upon the main; the
weather was charming; the company made a fair show of being intensely
happy, and day after day went past in the monotonous pretension.
Nothing varied the life until the last night on board, when there was
to be a concert. Denasia had been asked to take a part in it, and she
had promised to sing a song.

No one expected much from her. She had not been either officious or
effusive during the voyage, and "song by Mrs. Tresham" did not raise
any great expectations. As it was nearly the last item on the
programme, many had gone away before Roland took his place at the
piano and struck a few startling chords. Then Mrs. Tresham stepped
forward and became suddenly Mademoiselle Dena