As the Ariadne steamed away from Gibraltar, the harbor looked very unlike that of the afternoon. It was now cool, and dark except when lit by flashes from the searchlights. The warships that had looked so sombre in the afternoon were now outlined by rows of tiny electric lights, and myriads of lights twinkled from the town lying along the face of the Rock.

With so much beauty outside, Irma could not leave the deck of the Ariadne. As she stood there alone, the little old gentleman approached. "There is to be a sham fight in the harbor to-night. That accounts for the unusual illumination."

"It is too beautiful for words. I must stay until we see the other face of the Rock—the picture side."

"I wish I could stay, but I came only to bring you this. It may be of use to you, as you can have no dinner."

"No dinner! But I wish none."

"Some of your friends, however, may need something more substantial than the view. The company is saving an honest penny by allowing those who went ashore to abstain from dinner. It would have been served as usual, it was ready, the stewards say, if there had been passengers here to eat it."

"But they were all ashore."

"The passengers coming on at Gibraltar were here. Others could have been, but they preferred sightseeing at Gibraltar. Consequently they were punished."

The company's meanness seemed absurd, but as the old gentleman departed, Irma thanked him warmly for his gift,—a good-sized basket filled with fruit and cakes.

For some time Irma strained her eyes for a glimpse of the other side of the Rock. At length, against the sky rose a huge bulk that might have escaped a less keen vision. Almost instantly a passing cloud darkened the sky, and the giant became invisible.

When Irma went inside she found a discontented crowd gathered in passageways and in the library. Loud were the complaints that greeted her of the company's cruelty in omitting dinner.

"We went ashore without even our usual afternoon tea, and no one had time to think of food at Gibraltar."

Irma held out her basket. "A fairy godfather visited me," she said, "but I really do not know just what he gave me. Come, share it with me."

Aunt Caroline looked surprised; Uncle Jim gave an expressive whistle, while even on Marion's face was an expression of curiosity.

"I do not even know what is in the basket," repeated Irma, "though the fairy godfather said it held fruit and cakes."

"I should say so," exclaimed Uncle Jim lifting the cover. "What fruit! And that cake looks as if it had been made in Paris. Just now these are much more attractive than those spangled scarfs I wrestled for with that Hindu. By the way, Irma, are these for show or use? They look too good to eat."

"Try them and see," answered Irma.

"I'd be more eager to eat if I knew the name of the fairy godfather."

"I don't know it myself," said Irma.

"This feast will dull our appetites for the nine o'clock rarebit," interposed Uncle Jim, who had made a test of the basket's contents.

"I am sure a fairy godfather wouldn't use poison," and Aunt Caroline followed Uncle Jim's example.

When Irma turned to offer the basket to Marion, he had left the group.

"Poor boy," exclaimed Aunt Caroline. "He told me he felt very faint. It seems he had little luncheon. Perhaps we shall find him in the dining saloon."

But when they descended to the dining saloon, Marion was not there, nor did they see him again that night. Yet, if she could not share the old gentleman's gift with Marion, Irma found Muriel most grateful for a portion. For some time the two girls sat together at one end of the long table, comparing notes about Gibraltar. They stayed together so late, indeed, that just before the lights were put out Aunt Caroline appeared.

"Why, Irma, my dear, after this exciting day I should think you would need rest earlier than usual."

"Perhaps so, Aunt Caroline. But the day has been so exciting that I cannot feel sleepy."

"It has grown foggy," said Aunt Caroline, as they went to their room. "I do not like fog, and I am glad that we have but two or three more nights at sea."

Once in her berth Irma soon slept. She thought indeed that she had been asleep for hours, when suddenly she woke. It must be morning! But as she opened her eyes, not a glimmer of light came through the porthole. What had wakened her? Then she realized that the boat was still. What had happened? She was conscious of persons walking on the decks above, of voices far away, even of an occasional shout. Ought she to waken Aunt Caroline? While her thoughts were running thus, she had jumped from her berth, and a moment later, in wrapper and moccasins, had made her way to the deck. A few other passengers were moving about, and a group of stewards and stewardesses stood at the head of the stairs, as if awaiting orders.

"What is it?" she cried anxiously. Before her question had been answered, some one shoved her arm rather roughly. Looking up she saw that Marion had come up behind her.

"What are you doing here?" he said brusquely. "You will get your death. It is very cold."

Irma shivered. In spite of her long cape she was half frozen. The night air was chilly, and it was on this account that Marion pulled her from the open door.

"Are we in danger? I thought I wouldn't wake Aunt Caroline until I knew."

At this moment Marion, unfortunately, smiled. He was fully dressed and wore a long overcoat. With his well-brushed hair he presented a strong contrast to poor, dishevelled Irma. Naturally, then, she resented his smile, occasioned, she thought, by her untidy appearance.

"You are a very disagreeable boy," she cried angrily. "I wish I had told you so long ago." Thereupon Irma turned toward the stewards, among whom she recognized the man who took care of her stateroom.

"No, Miss, we're not in danger," he answered. "It's foggy, and there was something wrong about signals, but we stopped just in time to get clear of a man-of-war. It would have been pretty bad if she had run into us. So go back to your bed, Miss; it's all right now, and we're starting up again."

Marion was unhappy as he watched Irma walking downstairs. Evidently he had in some way offended her; but how? She was an amiable girl; he was sure of this. Therefore his own offence must have been very serious. "It is no use," said Marion bitterly, "I cannot expect people to like me. Of course, she started with a prejudice, and she will never get over it."

Now Irma, when she returned to her berth, though reassured by what the steward had said, did not at once fall asleep. For a long time she lay with eyes wide open listening to many strange sounds, some real, some imaginary. But at last, when a metallic hammering had continued for hours, as it seemed to her, she was quite sure something had happened to the boilers, and she drowsily hoped the Ariadne would keep afloat until morning. It would be so much easier to get off in the lifeboats by daylight. Then she must have fallen asleep. At least the next thing of which she was aware was Aunt Caroline's loud whisper to the stewardess. "We won't disturb her. She can sleep until luncheon."

Aunt Caroline laughed, when Irma, looking through the curtains of her berth, asked the time.

"Past breakfast time, my dear, but the stewardess will bring you hot coffee and toast. You will have only a short hour to wait for luncheon."

Thus Irma broke her record of never missing a meal in the dining-room, and shortened a day that otherwise would have seemed very long, as the fog did not clear until late afternoon.

All this day Marion spent in a corner of the library. The ship's collection of books contained nothing very recent, but in it were one or two old favorites, whom for the time he preferred as companions to any of his fellow passengers. As to Irma, he tried to put her out of his mind. The world for him again became a dull, stupid place, and most of its inhabitants were his enemies.

Strange as it may seem, Irma had soon forgotten her pettishness of the night before. Her fright, the noises from the boiler room, all had seemed a kind of nightmare. So on Thursday, which might be their last full day at sea, she wondered that Marion, who had seemed so friendly at Gibraltar, should now be so unsocial.

She and Muriel spent much time together. Though they had not been fortunate enough to see any whales, they did catch sight of a few porpoises, spouting in the water not far away, and as the day was particularly sunny, Irma used her camera to advantage. Not only had she photographed little Jean and her black nurse earlier, and several passengers whom she best knew, but she caught the captain and several of the officers going the rounds at morning inspection, and some of the crew at fire drill.

She even leaned over the railing and turned her camera toward the steerage. As she steadied her camera, many turned their eyes toward her. Two or three smiled and waved their hands in a friendly manner. Altogether there was not a large number. In the spring, the captain had told her, not many immigrants returned to Europe. Those now going back to Italy were chiefly those whom the Government had forbidden to land. Some others, who had been in America a short time, were also sent back at the public expense, because likely to become public charges.

Muriel and Irma had frequently speculated about the character of several whom they had seen on the third cabin deck from day to day. One group of rough men with bright handkerchiefs twisted about their necks, and caps pulled over their eyes, they called anarchists, and they had theories about most of the others. Both girls had a strong desire to make a tour of the steerage quarters, under the guidance of the ship's doctor. He assured Aunt Caroline that there was no contagious disease. One poor woman had consumption, and might not live to reach Italy, and two or three others were in a decline, but there would be no danger for the young ladies.

But neither Muriel's mother nor Aunt Caroline would consent to let the girls see more of the third cabin than they could observe from their own deck.

"I really believe," said Irma, "that Aunt Caroline thinks I will catch something from these negatives of the steerage. She is so nervous about it."

"Then I should think she would be unwilling to have Marion spend so much time there."

"Marion! oh, she doesn't care to have him down there. I remember what she said when he asked her one day."

"Well, he goes just the same. I heard my mother and Mademoiselle talking about it only yesterday."

This so surprised Irma that she closed her camera and took no more pictures.

"I wonder," she said, as if to change the subject, "why that old woman sits there in the corner with her hands over her face. Those little girls, I think, must be her grandchildren. Generally she has the baby in her arms, but the two older girls seem to be taking care of it to-day, and the oldest isn't here at all. She's about my age. Why, there she is, sitting by herself, and her eyes are very red, as if she had been crying."

Later in the day, after Muriel had left her, Irma sat down on a settee at the uncovered end of the deck where a number of people, old and young, were playing shuffleboard. Just then the ship's doctor passed, and she thought it a good time to ask him about the old woman in the steerage.

"The old woman is downhearted. Her daughter, the mother of the four girls, died a couple of days ago. She was longing to live until she reached Italy, was sure, in fact, that once there she would recover. But from the first I knew her case was hopeless, and we buried her at sea the night before we touched at Gibraltar."

"Oh," sighed Irma, "it must be hard for the children."

"Yes, very hard. You see it's only a short time since they went out from Italy. The father had a trade, but a week or two after landing he was taken ill, and in another week or two had died. Charitable societies looked after them for a while. They came under the law that requires those likely to become a public charge to be sent back. They have no friends in America."

"I suppose they have in Italy."

"Yes, and though probably they, too, are poor, still the family will be better off there. With no real wage-earner I do not see what they could do in your country."

"I can't see what they will do in Italy, if they have no money."

"Oh, they have enough to take them up to Fiesole. That is where they live. But there, you must know something about it; some of the passengers are taking up a collection for them."

"Why, no! I have heard nothing of it."

"That's strange, for that young man in your party, Marion Horton, is interested. He's been very good, too, to another steerage passenger, a young fellow from Bologna, who is paying his own way back. He has taken Italian lessons from him, I believe."

"You surprise me," said Irma, as the doctor moved away. Could it be that Aunt Caroline and Uncle Jim knew nothing of Marion's doings? Later others spoke to her about the death of the Italian woman and the needs of her family, and then Muriel came to say that she had given five dollars to the fund a Mrs. Brown was gathering, "and do you know that Marion Horton has charge of it? Isn't it funny he never told you?"

The more Irma thought about it the more certain she became that Marion hesitated about letting Aunt Caroline and Uncle Jim know that he was in the habit of visiting the steerage. While they had no right, perhaps, to dictate to a boy of seventeen, still Aunt Caroline had expressed herself strongly against his going to the third cabin. Evidently he did not wish her to know that he had disregarded her wishes. What he was unwilling to tell Aunt Caroline and Uncle Jim, he would hardly confide to Irma. It happened, however, that at dinner that evening Marion himself told the story of the old grandmother and her young charges. But though he spoke of the little fund that had been raised, he did not mention his own interest in it.

"Some one came to me yesterday," said Uncle Jim, when Marion had finished, "and I made a contribution. I did not know the exact need, but you have made it now quite clear."

She approached him as he was starting out on deck.

"Here is a dollar; please add it to the fund," said Irma to Marion after dinner. Marion glanced at her in astonishment. But he did not take her money. Instead he waved his hand as if to push it away.

"No, no," he replied. "No, we do not need it. We have enough."

Then, without another glance at Irma, he walked away.

"Does he think I offer too little, or does he dislike me so much that he won't take my money?" But there was no one to answer her question.

It was now Irma's turn to feel hurt. Small as her offering was, the dollar meant some sacrifice. At least she had taken it from the little sum she had set aside for presents for the family and Lucy and Gertrude and other friends. From her it was a larger sum than twenty dollars from Muriel. So it was trying to have her intended gift treated disdainfully.

That evening, as she sat on deck, wondering if this would really be her last night at sea, some one dropped into the empty chair beside hers.

"Why so quiet, god-daughter?" It was the voice of the old gentleman, but how had he learned that she sometimes called him the "fairy godfather?" She was glad now to see him. She might not have many more of those pleasant talks with him, unless, perhaps, their paths should cross in Italy. But she had never ventured to ask him just where he was going. Now, contrary to his habit, the old gentleman talked less of the countries he had visited in the past. In some way, before she realized it, he had turned the conversation in the direction of Marion, and after he had left her, Irma was conscious that she had given him much more information than she ought to have given a stranger.

"Yes, yes," he had exclaimed, "I can see just what he is like. Willful as ever," and with an abrupt "good night" he had hurried away.

"It isn't quite fair that we should all be so pleased at the prospect of landing," said Uncle Jim Friday morning. "Every one seems to think the sooner we are in Naples the better. But we've had a fine trip, no accidents, few seasick, few homesick. Yet here we are with our steamer trunks packed, almost ready to swim ashore, rather than stay longer on the Ariadne."

"It's human nature, always longing for change. But we might as well possess our souls in patience. Those who know say it will be late afternoon before we even catch a glimpse of the Bay of Naples."

"Oh, Aunt Caroline!"

"There, Irma, you are as impatient as the rest of us. It is really true that we may not land until evening."

Evidently Aunt Caroline spoke with good authority. It was late afternoon before they saw the rugged heights of Ischia in the distance. They were at dinner when they actually passed it, and when they entered the lovely Bay of Naples, the sun had set, and it was too dark to see its actual beauties clearly. When at last they were anchored, it was as if they were in fairyland. The city was a semicircle of brilliant lights curving in front of them. They were surrounded by boats of every size, all of them carrying lights.

"Must we land again in tenders?" sighed Irma. "Are there no wharves in Europe?"

A fine mist was falling.

"Before we go ashore it may be a heavy rain," said Uncle Jim. "If you agree, we can do as the larger number here intend to do. We can sleep on shipboard, and in the morning make a fresh start."

The others agreed with Uncle Jim, and remained out on deck to watch the embarkation of those who were going ashore. While they waited, many little boats pushed near the Ariadne. In one a quartette sang the sweet Neapolitan songs. In another some stringed instruments played a soft melody. Sometimes the music stopped, while players or singers scrambled for the coppers thrown to the boats by passengers on deck. Then, when the music was resumed, the sound of laughter was mingled with it.

Presently a procession of immigrants passed along the deck, carrying bundles and baskets. They made their way slowly to the gangway to descend to the tender.

"I wonder if they are glad to be coming home," whispered Irma to Uncle Jim.

"No, I fancy most of them prefer America."

Just then, at the sound of laughter behind them, Irma and her uncle turned about to see a tall Italian stooping to pick some bananas from the deck. Over his shoulder was a long string of bananas, bought probably in the Azores. Some that were overripe had fallen to the deck. Hardly had he picked these up, when two or three others fell—then others. The poor fellow was in despair. He did not wish to leave them. But he had no way of carrying them. For besides the string of bananas he had to take care of his bundle of clothing carried clumsily under the other arm. While he stood there half dazed, as a companion stooped to help him, suddenly there was a movement in the group of bystanders. A brown linen bag was thrown down at his feet, and a voice cried in Italian, "There, put your bananas in the bag, put them all in and take the bag home with you."

"Well done, Marion," cried Uncle Jim, for he and Irma had instantly recognized Marion's voice. "Come here and tell us how you happened to think of it."

"Oh, it was easy enough to think of the bag. It was the last thing I put in the tray of my trunk. I was only afraid I couldn't get back with it in time. I dare say the poor wretch meant to sell those bananas at a profit when he lands, and I didn't wish to have his trade spoiled."

"But where in the world did you learn the Italian you hurled at him? He seemed to understand it, too."

"Oh, I knew a few words before I left home, and here on shipboard I have managed to pick up a few more."

Did Marion speak with embarrassment, or did Irma imagine this because she had heard of his going to the steerage for lessons?

"Addio, addio," cried the owner of the bananas, who had completed his task of packing the fruit in Marion's bag.

"Addio, addio," responded Marion, while the man, as he passed on to the gangway, poured forth a flood of thanks.

When the tender had steamed off, Irma went below. She needed a good night's rest, for breakfast was to be at half past seven.

In the misty morning the tender made a quick run to the dock. Just as they pushed away from the Ariadne Irma heard a voice crying, "Good-by, god-daughter." It was the little old gentleman. Since evening she had not seen him, and now she was ashamed that she had not tried to find him for a word of farewell.

"Good-by, good-by," she cried, waving her handkerchief. But already he had slipped back out of sight.

"To whom were you calling?" asked Aunt Caroline.

"To the fairy godfather."

"If you were not generally so sensible, sometimes I should think you quite out of your mind," rejoined Aunt Caroline. "Except for that fruit at Gibraltar, your fairy godfather would seem a myth. For neither your uncle nor I ever saw such a person on the Ariadne. Did you, Marion?"

"Of course not," replied Marion shortly.

But Irma only smiled. She knew there was such a person.