d strike the
sailors of a passing brig,--this gay apparition of light and music,
riding the great, dark, solemn sea.

The dance itself was rather a staid, middle-aged affair, for Blythe
was the only young girl on board, and none but the youngest or the
surest-footed could put much spirit into a dance where the law of
gravitation was apparently changing base from moment to moment. Blythe
and her partner, however, took little account of the moving floor
beneath their feet, or the hesitating demeanour of their companions.
One after another, even the most reluctant and self-distrustful of the
revellers found themselves caught up into active participation in the
figure.

In a quiet corner of the deck sat Mrs. Halliday, with little Cecilia
beside her, snugly stowed away in a nest of steamer-rugs; for they
could not bear to take her below, out of the fresh, invigorating air.
Their little guest spoke hardly any English, but, although Mrs.
Halliday was under the impression that she herself spoke Italian, the
child seemed more conversable in Blythe's company than in that of any
one else, not excepting Mr. Grey, about whose linguistic
accomplishments there could be no question.

Accordingly when, the Virginia Reel being finished, Blythe came and
sat on the foot of the little girl's chair, they fell into an animated
conversation, each in her own tongue. And presently, during a pause in
the music, the Italian Count chanced to pass their way, and, stopping
in his solitary promenade, appeared to give ear to their talk.

Suddenly he stooped, and, looking into the animated face of the child,
inquired in his own tongue; "What is thy name, little one?"

But when the pure, liquid, childish voice answered "Cecilia Dopo," he
merely lifted his hat and, bowing ceremoniously, passed on.

Mr. Grey, who had watched the little scene from a distance, joined the
group a moment later and, taking a vacant chair beside Mrs. Halliday,
remarked:

"I think we shall have to cultivate the old gentleman. He might be
induced to lend a hand in behalf of this young person. They are both
Florentines," he added, thoughtfully, "and Florentine society is not
large."

"Then you really believe the nurse is right about the child?" Mrs.
Halliday asked.

"Oh, I shouldn't dare say that the mother was a great lady," he
returned; "but there is certainly something high-bred about the little
thing."

"They often have that air," Mrs. Halliday demurred,--"even th