loon stairway, from
whence she seemed to expect Miss Mangles.

"My sister Jooly, sir," explained Mr. Mangles to Cartoner, "is no doubt
known to you--Miss Julia P. Mangles, of New York City."

Cartoner tried to look as if he had heard the name before. He had lived
in the United States during some months, and he knew that it is possible
to be famous in New York and quite without honor in Connecticut.

"Perhaps she has not come into your line of country?" suggested Mr.
Mangles, not unkindly.

"No--I think not."

"Her line is--at present--prisons."

"I have never been in prison," replied Cartoner.

"No doubt you will get experience in course of time," said Mr. Mangles,
with his deep, curt laugh. "No, sir, my sister is a lecturer. She gets
on platforms and talks."

"What about?" asked Cartoner.

Mr. Mangles described the wide world, with a graceful wave of his cigar.

"About most things," he answered, gravely; "chiefly about women, I take
it. She is great on the employment of women, and the payment of them.
And she is right there. She has got hold of the right end of the stick
there. She had found out what very few women know--namely, that when
women work for nothing, they are giving away something that nobody
wants. So Jooly goes about the world lecturing on women's employment,
and pointing out to the public and the administration many ways in which
women may be profitably employed and paid. She leaves it to the gumption
of the government to discover for themselves that there is many a nice
berth for which Jooly P. Mangles is eminently suited, but governments
have no gumption, sir. And--"

"Here is Aunt Julie," interrupted Miss Cahere, walking away.

Mr. Mangles gave a short sigh, and lapsed into silence.

As Miss Cahere went forward, she passed another officer of the ship, the
second in command, a dogged, heavy man, whose mind was given to the ship
and his own career. He must have seen something to interest him in Netty
Cahere's face--perhaps he caught a glance from the dark-lashed eyes--for
he turned and looked at her again, with a sudden, dull light in his
face.

II

SIGNAL HOUSE

Where Gravesend merges into Northfleet--where the spicy odors of
chemical-fertilizing works mingle with the dry dust of the cement
manufactories which throw their tall chimneys into an ever-gray
sky--there stands a house known as the Signal House. Why it is so called
no one knows and very few care to inquire. It is pr