What passed in the cabin of the Rose of Devon between the two women, Mrs. Day never told, not even to her husband.

In the morning, while the Rose was sailing along the coast, she went to the captain and requested that she and her husband might be taken as near Appleford as possible, that they might get back in their boat.

"My cousin will remain on board, Captain Daniel," she said. "She will go with you across the Channel, and land at the first French port."

Captain Daniel whistled.

"You settle things easily, Mrs. Day," he said, with a half smile; "how do you know I'll take her?"

"You'll take her for my sake and your own," said Mrs. Day quietly. "For mine because we are old friends, for yours because if she landed in England there'd be questions asked about the Rose of Devon that might be awkward to answer."

"And how am I to know that I can trust her?" he said.

"Because she has to trust you," said Mrs. Day. "Captain Daniel, my cousin has just come through a great trouble, and she's as anxious as you are that no one should know that she was ever aboard the Rose. If you don't mention it when you get back to England, she won't, wherever she is. You needn't require any oath; she's one whose word is as good as her bond; she's a lady and different to me. Just land her at the first place on the other side you touch, and say nothing. She'll pay for her passage——"

"Thank you, Mrs. Day," said the captain. "I don't want the poor woman's money, and she's welcome to the run. As to keeping quiet, well, I think we can do that as well as she can; and if she will say nothing about the Rose, the Rose will say nothing about her. We know how to keep a secret, I think! If she's got in trouble and wants to show a clean pair of heels, well, I reckon we've been in the same plight, and may be, shall be again. Anyway, whether or no, Captain Daniel isn't the man to turn his back upon a woman in distress!"

Mrs. Day gave him her hand with a simple dignity which would not have shamed the first lady of the land.

The Rose beat about, and in another hour or two Mrs. Day and her husband got into their boat, and Margaret was left on the Rose of Devon, which, spreading all sail, was cleaving its way to the French coast.

For two days she kept to her cabin. There was a young lad on board, the captain's boy—a little mite of a fellow—and he waited upon her, carrying all sorts of delicacies from the cook's galley to her cabin; but Margaret, though she thanked him in a voice which made the lad's heart leap and brought the color to his face, could touch nothing but a little dry bread and tea, though she tried hard for the boy's sake.

The rough-looking skipper, with the truest delicacy, left her to herself, merely sending his compliments about twice a day, and a request to be informed if there was anything he could do for her.

On the third day she found courage to go on deck. The sailors looked at her curiously at first, but something in her beautiful, wan face appealed to their rough natures, and touching their caps, they went on with their work.

Margaret leaned against the bulwarks and looked out at the sea. She was a good sailor, and the vast expanse of cloudless blue above and the rolling water beneath her brought something of peace to her tortured heart.

Presently Captain Daniel came up with a deck chair in his hand and a thick rug over his arm. With a little bow, he put the chair right for her and spread the rug over it.

"Glad to see you on deck, miss," he said shyly. "The air's rather chilly; I'll fetch you another rug: there's plenty of them aboard."

Margaret thanked him, her voice sounding weak and hollow.

"I'm afraid I ought not to be here at all," she said, coloring; "you are very kind to let me stay. It will not be for long—you will land me soon, will you not?"

Captain Daniel took off his hat.

"You shall stay as long as you please, miss, and the longer you stay the better the Rose of Devon will like it."

"I am very grateful," she said in a low voice; "but I will not stay after we reach a French port. Mrs. Day has told you——" She stopped, and the captain took it up.

"Mrs. Day has told me nothing more than that you are in trouble, miss, and I reckon that's enough. There's no need for you to say anything! Me and my ship and my men are at your service, and if there's one place more than another you'd like to land at, say the word, and there the Rose goes, fair wind or foul!"

Then, without waiting for any response, he touched his hat and went aft.

As he had spoken so Captain Daniel acted.

The boy was ordered to make the cabin as comfortable as possible. An awning was rigged up on deck to provide shelter for her, and the cook taxed his inventive faculties to the utmost in the concoction of dishes which he deemed suitable to an invalid lady. The rough sailors lowered their voices as they went about their work, and even put out their pipes when she came on deck.

Their kindness, and the beauty of sea and sky, did more toward Margaret's recovery than fifty doctors could have effected, and by the time the Rose had sighted the French coast her face had lost something of its wanness, and a faint color had found its way to her cheeks.

She spent most of her time sitting on deck looking out to sea, trying to piece together the broken fragments of her shattered life.

For the future she had no plans, and could form none. Of what use or value could her life be to her when the man she had loved and trusted had broken her heart and left her desolate and utterly hopeless?

But as they neared Brest on the Brittany coast, she felt she must come to some decision.

She was alive, alas! and the future lay before her; something had to be done with it. Margaret, broken-hearted and weighed down by sorrow as she was, was still the same Margaret, strong of purpose and self-reliant. Love she had done with forever, happiness had passed beyond her reach, but her art still remained to her—the mistress whom those who serve find faithful to the end.

As the Rose sailed into the harbor, Captain Daniel came up to Margaret.

"We're nearing port, miss," he said, "but it don't follow that you and the Rose need part company. Brest's a poor place for a lady to be turned out in. If so be as you care to go on with us, why I'll pick up a few things in the port here to make the cabin more fit for you. I'm thinking, if you'll forgive me, miss, that the sea is doing you good, and that if you'd come on with the Rose as far as Leghorn in Italy——"

Margaret's face flushed faintly, and a light, the first that had shone there for many a day, glowed in her eyes. The captain saw it and pressed his point.

"Italy's the place, miss!" he said, persuasively. "At Leghorn you'd be near Florence and Rome, and all the grand sights! But here, Brest, it's only a 'one hoss' place."

Margaret hesitated. The prospect of going to Italy contained as much pleasantness as any prospect could for her.

"Are you sure that I should not be in the way?" she asked, gently. "You are all so kind, and make such sacrifices for me——"

"Don't say another word, Miss Leslie," said Captain Daniel; for "Leslie" was the name Mrs. Day had given to her. "Me and my crew will be proud to have you with us!"

Margaret went ashore at Brest for a few hours, and got some articles of dress, and the Rose, staying no longer than was necessary to obtain provisions, set sail for Leghorn.

The weather was fine and the wind favorable, and in due course the Rose reached the Italian port.

Margaret's parting with Captain Daniel was characteristic of them both. When she offered to pay for her passage, the captain refused, at first politely, and then almost roughly and sternly.

"Why, Miss Leslie, sakes alive!" he exclaimed, "I'd rather see the Rose at the bottom of the sea than me or my men should take a shilling piece from you; and all I say is, if you want to pleasure us, why, when you're tired of Italy and I—talians, drop a line to Captain Daniel of Falmouth, and the Rose shall come and fetch you away, and be proud to do it."

Margaret could scarcely speak, but she managed to get out a few words of thanks, and the captain, almost crushing her hand—now very thin and white—turned to go, but he stopped at the last moment to add a word.

"And, Miss Leslie, don't be afeared of me and my men a-cackling. There's not a man as can't keep his own counsel, and there's not a man as wouldn't rather be strung up at the yard-arm than admit that he'd ever set eyes on you! No, miss, so far as the Rose is concerned, your whereabouts is as safe as if we didn't know."

Then he went, and Margaret was, indeed, left alone in the world without a friend!

Captain Daniel had engaged a room for her at the hotel, but to Margaret, whose wounded heart ached for quiet and solitude, the busy seaport seemed noisy and intrusive, and the next day she started for Florence.

Fortunately, she had some money with her; not a large sum, but the captain's hospitality had left it intact, and Mrs. Day had promised to send on the notes which Margaret had left behind directly Margaret sent her an address.

For the present, for a few months at any rate, she was secure from the dread attacks of that most malignant of foes—poverty. And she had her art; and she was in Florence, the Florence of painters and poets, the Flower City of the old world. The captain, who seemed as well acquainted with inland places as he was with the sea-board, had recommended her to a quiet little hotel overlooking the best view in Florence; and there, in a little room near the sky, Margaret found the solitude and quiet which she so much needed.

One morning, the third after her arrival, she roused herself sufficiently to go into the town and purchase some painting materials, and carrying them to a quiet spot commanding a view of the Arno and the wooded slopes above it, began to paint.

At first her hand trembled and her eyes were dim, for at every stroke of her brush the past came crowding back upon her, and she could almost fancy that Blair was lying by her side, and that she could hear his loving voice and bright laugh; but after a time she gained strength, and was gradually losing herself in her work—the work which alone could bring her "surcease from sorrow," when she heard voices near her, and looking up saw a young girl coming quickly along the path. She was a beautiful girl of about seventeen, with the frank open face of sorrowless childhood, and the springy step of youth and health. The day was hot, and she had taken off her hat which was swinging in her hand. Margaret had seen her before the girl had noticed Margaret sitting almost hidden behind a bush, and she came on, singing merrily and swinging her straw hat to the tune.

Suddenly she caught sight of Margaret, and she and the song stopped abruptly.

It was almost impossible for her to pass so close without saying something in the way of greeting, and so she made a little bow, and said rather shyly:

"I'm afraid I startled you. I didn't know anybody was near, or I shouldn't have made such a noise."

"I only heard you singing," said Margaret.

The words and the gentle tone, together with the beautiful face with its sad expression, seemed to fascinate the girl, and she drew nearer, saying timidly:

"But I was making a tremendous noise! You are painting?"

"Yes," answered Margaret, with a sigh, "I am trying to do so."

"What a lovely spot you have chosen!" said the girl looking round. "May I see what you have done? I am so fond of art myself, but"—and she made a little grimace—"I am a shocking stick!"

Then she colored furiously and laughed with pretty embarrassment.

"That's slang, I know. I beg your pardon! But I learn it from Ferdy! There—how stupid of me! Of course, you don't know who Ferdy is: he is my brother."

By this time she had looked at the canvas.

"Why!" she exclaimed, "that is beautiful! You are an artist!"

"A poor one," said Margaret, smiling in spite of herself at the girl's enthusiasm.

"Oh, no; you are a real artist!" she said. "I know the real from the sham; because we have so many of the latter staying in Florence. Poor Florence! They make daubs of her all the year round, and send them about the world as true pictures, while they are only libels. But yours will be a beautiful picture! How splendidly you have got those trees there, and that bit of cloud. Oh!" and she sighed, "I would give ten years of my life if I could ever paint like that!"

"That would be rather a heavy price if your life should be as happy all through as it is now," said Margaret, in her sweet, gentle fashion.

The girl looked at her and pondered for a moment, then she flung herself on the grass beside Margaret, and said:

"Do you know, you reminded me of mamma just then. That is just how she speaks when she wants to scold me for one of my extravagancies. Of course I wouldn't give ten years—or one year—of my life for anything; who would?"

Margaret sighed. How gladly would she have given all the remainder of her life to be able to wipe out the past! never to have seen Blair, or to have known those few short weeks of happiness.

"It all depends," said Margaret, gravely. "Some people's lives are not so happy that they could not spare a few years from them."

The girl glanced at Margaret's pale face and then at her black dress, and remained silent for a moment or two; then she looked up and said, timidly:

"Do I interrupt you sitting here? I will go at once if I am a nuisance."

"No, no," said Margaret, quickly, and with a wistful smile. "You do not interrupt me; pray stay!"

"I like to see you paint," said the girl, after a pause. "Somehow you remind me so much of mamma, though, of course, you are so much younger! I wish you knew mamma. Are you staying in Florence?"

"Yes," said Margaret, "I am staying at the hotel there," and she pointed with her brush.

"Really! Then you must be——" exclaimed the girl, quickly, but checking herself abruptly, and coloring with annoyance.

"I must be—what?" said Margaret, smiling at her embarrassment. "What were you going to say?"

"I was going to make one of my foolish speeches; and I'd better say it now I have gone so far, and get you to forgive me. I was going to say that you must be the young lady who lives so quietly at the hotel that they call her the 'Mysterious Lady.'"

Margaret smiled gently.

"Do they call me so?" she said; then she sighed, and went on with her work.

The girl sat and watched her for a moment, then she said:

"I'd better go now, I have offended you," and she half rose.

Margaret put out her white hand, and laid it on her arm with a gentle pressure.

"Do not," she said. "You have not offended me. And now, will you tell me something about yourself?"

She asked the question, not that she was at all curious, though the girl interested her, but to put her more at her ease.

"With all the heart in the world," was the instant reply. "Do you see that villa there—that one with the turrets? That is ours; mamma and Ferdinand, my brother, live there. It is called the Villa Capri; and, do you know, there are some beautiful views from it. If I were sure you wouldn't be offended, I would ask you to come and pay us a visit, and see if you could not make a picture of the river running below the woods. Oh, I would like that!"

Something in the girl's voice attracted Margaret's attention.

"Are you Italian?" she said.

"Half and half," was the reply, with a laugh. "My father was Italian, my mother is English. I call myself all English—please do not forget that!" she added, with all an English girl's frankness. "My brother, we say, represents the Italian side of the family. I should like you to know him. He is out riding this morning——"

Almost as she spoke a voice sang out clear and musical above the trees:

"Florence! Florence!"

The girl laughed and sprung to her feet, then she sunk down again as quickly.

"It is Ferdy!" she said. "Let him find me if he can!" and in a falsetto which rang quaintly through the hills, she called, "Ferdy! Ferdy!"

Margaret heard the dull beat of a horse's hoofs as the rider rode this way and that, misled by the echo, then, as, tired of the sport, the girl sprung to her feet and shouted with a full round tone, Margaret saw a handsome young fellow ride pell-mell at them.

"Oh, take care, take care, Ferdy!" shouted the girl; but the warning came too late; the horse struck the leg of the easel with its fore hoof, and over went the whole apparatus, paintbox, brushes, and the rest, leaving Margaret sitting smiling amidst the ruins.

The girl uttered a cry of dismay, and the young fellow, almost before he had pulled the horse in, flung himself from the saddle and stood bareheaded and penitent before Margaret.

"Oh, Ferdy, Ferdy, how could you be so reckless?" exclaimed the girl.

He put up his hand as if to silence her; then, as he went on his knees to recover the scattered implements, he said:

"Signorina, I am overwhelmed with shame! Believe me, I did not suspect that any one was here beside this madcap sister of mine! Pardon me, I pray you! Have I broken anything?—have I frightened you? I shall never forgive myself! Is that right?" and he put the easel in its place with the greatest and most anxious care.

"Thank you, yes," said Margaret. "No harm has been done. You did not see me, that bush hid me. Please do not mind; it does not in the least signify!"

"Oh, but——" he said, arranging the palette and paints with the nicest carefulness—"it signifies so much that I shall not sleep in peace unless you will forgive me!"

It was an Italian speech, but it was spoken with an air of sincerity that was singularly English, and the speaker's eyes were fixed so earnestly and pleadingly upon Margaret's face, that her color rose, and she bent down and got her brushes to hide it. The girl glided to her side.

"Poor Ferdy! But it was very stupid of him, and he might have hurt you as well as the easel, and then I should never have forgiven him, whatever you had done. But you will forgive him, will you not?"

She seemed to set so much value on the expression of forgiveness, that Margaret, with a soft laugh, said at once:

"Certainly, I forgive him!"

The young man's face cleared instantly, and with the slight foreign accent which was more marked in him than his sister, he said:

"I am deeply grateful! I do not deserve it. Florence, have you told the lady your name? Will you tell her mine?"

The girl at this direct invitation stepped forward, and with a little graceful movement of the hand, said:

"Madame, let me present to you my brother, Prince Ferdinand Rivani."

"And I, the Princess Florence, my sister," said the prince; and the prince bowed, and the young girl dropped a courtesy in courtly fashion.

"And now we have been formally introduced," said the girl, with a merry laugh. "We are friends, are we not, and you will come to see us? Ferdy, the lady——" she hesitated and looked at Margaret, and Margaret, with downcast eyes, said:

"Miss Leslie."

"Miss Leslie! What a pretty name! Why, it is more Italian than English, I think. Miss Leslie is staying at the hotel."

The prince drew himself up, and with the same fixed regard of respectful, almost reverential, admiration, said:

"I shall have the honor of waiting upon Miss Leslie to-morrow—if she permits."

A servant who had been holding the horse came up, and as the prince mounted, the princess drew near and bent over Margaret.

"Mind! We are to be friends, you and I! I shall come with Ferdinand to-morrow!" then, laying her hand upon the horse's neck, she tripped off beside her brother.

Margaret sat and looked at the view with eyes that saw nothing. She had come to Florence for solitude and seclusion, and already that solitude was threatened. What should she do? The girl was so lovable that Margaret's tender heart already felt drawn toward her. All the more should she guard against the possibility of an intimacy between her—nameless and under a cloud of shame—and these high-born Italians.

With a sigh she began to put her easel together, thinking that she must leave Florence in the morning, when she saw a newspaper lying on the ground.

It was folded up and had evidently fallen from the pocket of the prince.

Half mechanically she opened it and found that it was an English newspaper of some weeks back. Still mechanically she let her eyes wander over the columns, when suddenly she saw amongst the provincial news an account of her own death off the rocks at Appleford.

Trembling and shuddering, for the lines brought back all the torture of that day, she read the succinct narrative, and found that in very truth the world had accepted her death as a fact beyond question. But a strange coincidence awaited her, for turning to the births, marriages, and deaths columns, she saw this announcement—"At Leyton Court, on the 25th instant, Martha Hale, aged 68, the faithful servant of the Earl of Ferrers."

In one and the same paper was the account of her own death, and that of the only person whom she would have to acquaint with the fact that she was living! The last link between Margaret Hale and Mary Leslie was broken, and the past had slipped away as completely as if, indeed, the tidal wave had washed her out to sea!