leave the ship had been given, and Major Sanford, turning to go, stood face to face with a tall, foreign-looking young man, who smiled with quick recognition, showing small white teeth like a woman's.

"You raimembair me, Major?"

Major Sanford did "raimembair," and, turning to me, presented "Baron de Bach."

"—he knows all our good friends, was here four years ago on his way round the world in his steam yacht—glad to think you'll have such good company. Good-bye!" And Major Sanford was the last to run down the gangway. How little he knew what entertainment he was providing in coupling my farewell to him with "hail" to Baron de Bach!

Slowly we moved away from the dense crowd that covered the wharf. In the cloud of fluttering handkerchiefs, our friends' faces grew dim and slowly faded; the fair city at our Western portal looked like dreamland in a haze.

"You air not sorry dthat you go?" says a voice over my shoulder.

"No," I say, without turning; "I'm always glad of a change. You must have had a good time in that yacht of yours, going where you liked, and getting up steam the moment you had seen enough."

"Yes," says the new acquaintance meditatively, coming forward to the side of the vessel where I can see his face, "Mais je suis très fatigué. I am glad dthat I now go home."

"You are young to be tired." I look sideways at the boyish face. He is German, I think to myself, making a mental note of his complexion, strangely fair for a yachtsman the eyes—heavily fringed blue eyes—the full-lipped, sensuous mouth, shapely of its kind, shadowed by a curling blond moustache.

"You are going home round Robin Hood's barn, aren't you?"

"Robeen Hoohd? Pardon, vill you tell me who is he en français?"

"No, I'm not proud of my French, and if mistakes must be made I would rather you made them. I meant isn't this a curious way to go to Germany, if you are tired of travel and in haste to get home?"

"I lif not in Jhermany, how could you dthink——"

"Oh, I fancied the name was German, and——"

"Yes—yes, dthe name, but——"

"And you look a little German."

"Ah, mademoiselle, look at me more, I am in nodthing like Jhermans."

I could see the tall young stranger was a bit distressed that his Teutonic cast betrayed him.

"My fadthur was Jherman—my modthur is Castilian, my home is Lima, I am Peruvian, but I am educate in France. I am cosmopolite. And you—air Frainch?"

"I wonder where Mrs. Steele is?" I say, and turn away to find my friend standing at the stern, with the tears streaming down her handsome, care-worn face, and her great hollow eyes fixed on the fading outlines of the San Franciscan harbour. The Baron has followed, but I turn my back and devote myself to diverting Mrs. Steele.

"We must arrange our stateroom before we are ill," she says presently, in a state of hopeful anticipation, and we retire to No. 49 in the Steamship San Miguel, which all who have taken this journey know to be the best double room on the "crack" steamer of the line. We put up hangers, divide pockets and racks, and prepare for a three weeks' occupancy. Having finished our work, we go to the stern to get a whiff of the stiff breeze blowing from the southeast. The air is sweet and sun-laden, the rhythmic rise and fall of the little steamer seems a bit of caressing pastime between ship and sea—"the whole world is shining and exultant," think I, "and the contagion reaches me."

"Mademoiselle ees fery happy for somedthing," says the Baron's deep, low voice.

"Yes, I'm always happy, but especially just now. Mrs. Steele—Baron de Bach, a friend of Major Sanford."

For half an hour the young Peruvian devotes himself making a good impression on Mrs. Steele. He carries her chair about until a place is discovered sufficiently sheltered from the sun and yet not too cold; he puts all our wraps and rugs on and about "Madame," who watches him with quiet amusement until I ask:

"And now, pray, what am I to do for a rug?"

"You need not a rug; you vill valk dthe deck, vill you not?"

To tell the truth, walking the deck is much more in my line than being swathed and pinioned in a chair, but——

"Yes, my dear, it will do you good—bring me a book, and then you may explore if you like."

So Madame is left with her French romance, and up and down in the sunshine I walk with our new acquaintance at my side.

"You air not Frainch?" he asks with a scrutinising side glance out of his fine eyes.

"I am happy to say that I am an American, and so are my ancestors for three hundred years."

"Naixt to dthe Frainch, dthe American ladies air most beautiful, charmante and clevair, but you haf chic, and more dthings; you might be angry I vould say. Vhen I stood at dthe ship and see you coming abord du San Miguel I vas so happy, for I haf fear for a dull voyage."

"H'm! You fancy then I may entertain you?"

"Mademoiselle!"

Very reproachful is the droop of the long lashes.

"It ess my gude hope ve may be friends, and if I succeed to amuse you, I am content à présent."

"And what office do you aspire to in the future? Shall you instruct, perhaps?"

"Dthat ees more your rôle, for if you pairmeet me to listen to your so beautiful Eenglish, I must learn much. But you will let me spik to you a leedle in Frainch, mademoiselle? Dthere air zome dthings I cannot say in Eenglish."

We stop at the vessel's side, and in a glance across to Mrs. Steele I see her looking with wide-eyed amusement and a dash of concern at my companion. I turn in time to catch a queer, earnest look in the boyish face, as he stands with one hand grasping the rope ladder and his head bent down to mine.

"Anything clever or graceful that occurs to you in French, you may say to Madame Steele if you like, but you must speak English to me. There's the gong for dinner."

At the table I am placed at the Captain's right. My friends had given him special charges about me, and in a rough, kind-hearted way he shows me every attention. On my right sits a Guatemalan, Señor José Noma, then Mrs. Steele, and beside her, Baron de Bach. Opposite is an army officer, Captain Ball, and his wife, and several Mexicans. I feel a little unsteady and disinclined to eat, but the Baron sends me, by the Chinese waiter, a glass of champagne frappé—and my courage and interest in life return.

The Guatemalan proves to be a rich coffee planter exiled from home for political reasons, and returning now after an absence of several years to make his peace with the government. Señor José Noma is a clever, entertaining person, and one thing about him I am not likely to forget. He ate more chili-peppers, more mustard, more pickled chow-chow, more curry, and more cayenne pepper than I would have believed any mortal could dispose of and live.

I used to wonder whether his diet had any share in making him such a flaming firebrand of rebellion that he must needs be sent North to cool off! I am convinced, at least, that had he not drunk a generous amount of wine he must inevitably have been scorched to a cinder. He was always passing me his favourite dainties and urging upon me garlic, and some particularly awful and populous cheese. I was especially impressed in this, my