girls' nerves. Why can't you be cheerful?"

"I never am—on Friday," grumbled Mr. Sneed.

"No, and on very few other days," commented Russ, as he went below to take the film out of his camera in readiness to ship it back to New York for development.

Ruth and Alice had done much traveling with their father when he was engaged in the legitimate drama, for he was with a number of road companies, that went from place to place. Water journeys were, however, rather a novelty to them, and now that the excitement of the rescue was over they went about the ship, looking at the various sights.

The Tarsus was not a big vessel, but it was a new and substantial craft engaged in the coast trade. A fairly large passenger list was carried and, as this was the winter season, many tourists were heading for the sunny South—the warm beaches of the coast, or the interior where the palms waved their graceful branches in the orange-scented breezes.

"How is your throat, Daddy?" asked Ruth, as Mr. DeVere joined his daughters in a stroll about the deck.

"Much better, I think," he said. His voice was always hoarse now, totally unlike the vibrant tones in which he was used to speak his lines. "The pain seems less. I have hopes that the warm air of Florida may improve, and even cure it, in connection with the medicine I am taking."

"Oh, wouldn't that be just great!" cried Alice, as she clasped her arms about his neck. "Perhaps you could go back to the real theaters then, Daddy."

"I might," he replied with a smile at her; "but I do not know that I would. I am beginning to like this silent 'drama.' It is a rest from the hard work we old actors used to have to do. There is much less strain. And if I went back to the legitimate, I would have to take you with me," he added.

"Never, Daddy!" cried the younger girl. "I am going to remain with the 'movies'! I would be lost without them."

"Assuredly, they have been a great blessing to us," observed Ruth, quietly. "I do not know what we would have done without them, when you were stricken the second time," and she looked fondly at her father. She thought of the dark days, not so far back, when troubles seemed multiplying, when there was no money, and when debts pressed. Now all seemed sunshine.

"Yes, it would be a poor return to the movies, to desert them after all they did for us," agreed Mr. DeVere. "That is, as long as they care for us—those audiences who sit in the dark and watch us play our little parts on the lighted canvas. A queer proceeding—very queer.

"I little dreamed when I first took up the profession immortalized by Shakespeare, that I would be playing to persons whom I could not see. But it is certainly a wonderful advance."

Down the bay, out through the Narrows and so on out to sea passed the Tarsus, carrying the moving picture players. The day was cold, and a storm threatened, but soon the frigid winter of the North would be left behind. This was a comforting thought to all, though Alice declared that she liked cold weather best.

Mr. Towne came up on deck, again faultlessly attired. His unexpected bath had not harmed him, in spite of the fact that it was cold, for he had at once taken warm drinks, and been put to bed, for a time, in hot blankets.

He could talk of nothing, however, save the fact that he was to be shown in the wet clothing he so despised.

"It is a shame!" he declared. "If I could find that film I would destroy it myself."

"It is safely put away," laughed Russ.

The day passed, and evening came. On through the darkness forged the Tarsus, while about her were the flashing beams from lighthouses, or the bobbing signal lamps from other ships.

Ruth and Alice were in their stateroom, talking together before retiring. Alice had that day's paper and was idly glancing over it. She yawned sleepily, when an item suddenly caught her eye.

"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed. "That must be dreadful!"

"What is it?" asked Ruth, who was letting down her long hair.

"Why here's an item from some place in Florida. It says that two girls went out in a motor boat, to gather specimens of rare swamp flowers, and have not been heard of since. It is feared they may have been upset and drowned, or that alligators attacked them. Oh, how dreadful!"

"Don't let Mr. Sneed hear about that," cautioned Ruth. "Where in Florida was it?"

"The item is dated from Winterhaven, but it says that the girls started from some place near Lake Kissimmee."

"Oh!" cried Ruth, pausing with the comb half way through a thick strand of hair, "suppose it should be those two girls we met?"

"I don't imagine it could be," reasoned Alice. "They did not look like girls who would be bold enough to go off after swamp blooms. But think of the poor girls, whoever they are, out all alone at night, with maybe alligators around their boat! Oh, I hope we don't have to go too far into the wilds."

"We may," remarked Ruth, uneasily, as she reached for the paper to read for herself the disquieting item.

CHAPTER IV

FIRE ON BOARD

Ruth sat for some moments in silence after she had read in the paper the short account of the missing girls. She had come to a pause in arranging her luxuriant hair for the night and, with it only half combed, leaned back in the small chair the stateroom afforded. Alice was reclining on her berth.

"Does it worry you, Ruth?" the younger girl finally asked.

"A little, yes." Ruth was unusually quiet, and there was a far-away look in her deep blue eyes.

"Oh, don't take it so seriously," rallied Alice, in her vivacious way, though at first she, too, had been affected by what she read.

"But it is serious."

"Oh, it may be only one of those 'newspaper yarns,' as Russ calls them."

"Alice, your language, of late—"

"There, sister mine! Please don't scold—or lecture. I'm too sleepy," and she finished with a yawn that showed all her white, even teeth.

"I'm not scolding, my dear, but you know I must look after you in a way, and—"

"Look after yourself, my dear. With your hair down that way, and that sweet and innocent look on your face, and in your eyes—you are much more in need of looking after than I. Someone is sure to fall in love with you, and then—"

"Alice, if you—"

"Don't throw that hair brush at me!" and the younger girl covered herself with a quilt, in simulated fear. "I—I didn't mean it. I'll be good!" and she shook with laughter.

Ruth could not but smile, though the serious look did not leave her face. She was very like her father. The least little matter out of the ordinary affected him, and usually on the sad, instead of on the "glad" side. He, like Ruth, was of a romantic type, inclined to anticipate too much. Alice was more matter of fact, not to say frivolous, though she could be very sensible at times.

"Well, I suppose we must go to bed," sighed Ruth at length. "But I'm afraid I sha'n't sleep."

"On account of thinking of those girls?"

"Yes, just imagine them out all alone in some dismal swamp, perhaps, without a light, hungry—afraid of every sound—"

"Please stop! You're getting on my nerves."

"I didn't mean to, my dear," was the gentle answer.

"I know you didn't, and it was mean of me to talk that way," and a plump, bare arm stole around the other's neck, while a hand was run through the golden hair. "But, don't let's think so much about them. Perhaps they are not those two girls we met, after all."

"Oh, I don't believe they can be," Ruth agreed. "That would be too much of a coincidence. But they are two girls—"

"Not necessarily. Maybe it's only an unfounded rumor. Russ says newspaper men often 'plant' a story like this off in some obscure place, and then use it as the basis for one of those lurid stories in the Sunday supplements.

"I shouldn't wonder a bit but what this was one of those