ONCE THERE WAS A CHILD.

The meal that we ordered was well cooked and well served, and being provided with that best of all sauces, hunger, I did it full justice. Our conversation seemed, however, rather dull, and there was not that flow of spirits that I expected when we entered the place. Miss May seemed absorbed in thought, though she declared, when I rallied her on the point, that she was not down hearted, but very happy to be there. Occasionally when footsteps were heard in the corridor she started nervously, which led me to suppose that she feared intrusion. I thereupon remarked that while it was against the rules to bolt the door of the room, I believed a good-sized tip would secure the privilege; to which she replied, with a vehemence I could not understand, that she would not hear of such a thing.

One might imagine she suspected me of an intention to murder her, so earnest was her protest.

"Oh, I would much rather leave it unlocked," I said. "I was only trying to please you."

She made no answer, and I found my spirits, always mercurial, beginning to sink a little. Noticing my dejection, she came to my rescue and soon had me all right again. We talked of the journey, she asking many particulars of my former visit to the Caribbean Islands. She had never been at sea for more than a few hours and wondered if she was liable to that malady so much to be dreaded, seasickness. I assured her it was not nearly as bad as it was painted and told of my own slight experiences in that line, years before.

My companion ate and drank sparingly. She declined my proposal to order champagne, and mixed her claret and apollinaris like a veritable tyro in restaurant dining. This rather pleased me, on the lookout as I was for indications that she might be other than she seemed. She had every mark of the true lady, and I was well prepared to believe it, when I learned, some days later, of the station in which she had been born and in which her childhood was passed.

"I have been thinking," she remarked, after one of her long pauses; "would it not be best for me, to take your family name? I wish, above all things, to avoid suspicion."

"I fear we are a little too late for that," I replied. "I was obliged to give your name to the agent and he has already placed it on the passenger list."

"Will that list get into the newspapers?" she asked, nervously.

"I presume so."

"Then you must manage to have my name changed, at all hazards. My old employer would use every means to annoy me if he discovered where I am going."

"It is only recorded as 'Miss M. May,'" I said. "Surely there is more than one person of that name in the world."

She shook her head and bit her lips in distress.

"It must be changed," she repeated. "It will not do to give him the slightest clue. He imagines himself 'in love'—Heaven help me!—and I dare not risk it. Any name you like, but my own."

"What can he do?" I inquired. "You don't think I would let him annoy you, when you were under my protection."

"He can do many things. No, there is no way but to alter the name. Tell the agent the lady you expected is not going—that she has been taken ill—and that another is to fill her place. Do not argue, do not hesitate, or I shall be compelled, even now, to give up the journey. And that," she added, seeing my sober face, "you know well I would not like to do."

This was enough to settle the matter and I said I would give the agent in the morning any name she desired.

"I would like it the same as your own," she said, thoughtfully. "It might save infinite trouble. Just record me as Miss M. Camwell. Is there any reason against that?"

Yes, there was one and it occurred to me. The name, which I had decided to use, was so near my own that Uncle Dugald would be likely to see it, not to say anything about Hume, Tom Barton and Statia. They might lay the twisting of Donald Camran into "David Camwell" to the carelessness of copyist and printer, but their suspicions would certainly be aroused if they saw next to my name that of a "Miss" Camwell.

"I will change your name in some way," I answered, after a long pause, "but I see dangers in the plan you propose, nearly as great as in the present one."

I then gave her an inkling of my fears, saying I did not wish any sharp friend to guess what I was doing, which was possible with two such uncommon names in just a position on an alphabetical list.

She did not seem satisfied, but raised no objection when I asked her if I might call her Miss M. Carney, which I thereupon decided to do.

It was rather dull, take it altogether, the dinner, but when we were again in a cab and rolling toward Forty-fifth Street, Miss May brightened, like the close of a cloudy day, just before the sun sinks into the obscurity of the western sky. She put one of her hands on mine, quite as if the act was a wholly thoughtless one, but it sufficed to cheer me up. She even volunteered a prophesy that we would be good friends and contented fellow voyagers.

Before we reached her door she asked me at what hour I would call on the morrow, quite as if anxious to see me. After a little debate I decided upon three in the afternoon. That would give her the entire morning with her dressmaker, for necessary alterations in the garments she had purchased.

She did not seem to notice particularly when I raised the gloved hand I held and pressed it to my lips at parting. It was an act that any lady might pardon, and she probably thought nothing of it.

"To-morrow, then, at three," she said, smiling at me from the curbstone.

"Yes. Don't keep me waiting," I answered, remembering the morning.

"I will try not to; these dressmakers are so unreliable, though. You—you wouldn't rather I would come to your rooms? Perhaps there is another of those rules we have been running across, against it. If there is none, and you prefer—"

I said I approved of the idea highly and that I was at liberty to invite to my apartment any person I pleased.

"You spoke of a machine that I have never used," said Miss May, tentatively. "If you have one there, as a sort of excuse—"

"I have one," said I. "Although it won't be needed for that purpose. You remember the number, — West Thirty-fourth."

She nodded and spoke to my driver, repeating it to him. Then with another of her bright smiles she waved me good-by and ascended the steps, while I was driven away.

"Henry," I was saying ten minutes after, to the hall boy, "I expect a young lady to-morrow, between three and four, who will ask for Mr. Camwell."

"There isn't any Mr. Camwell in the house, sir," said the boy.

"There will be at that hour. He will be in my rooms. You may not see him enter and you may not see him leave, but he will be here. All you have to do is to say 'Yes, ma'am,' to the lady and bring her to my door."

"I understand," said Henry, with a wholly superfluous grin, that showed how little common sense the average hall-boy possesses.

"No, you don't understand anything," I responded, snappishly. "Do as I order and you'll lose nothing. Make the least mistake and I will see that you get your notice."

He responded meekly that he would be careful and then handed me a letter, which I saw was from Miss Brazier. He also said that Mr. Barton had called and expressed surprise when he heard that I had left no word for him.

Poor Tom! It came to my recollection all at once that I had promised to spend the evening at his house, or send him a note if unable to do so. Well, I would write him an apology before I went to sleep.

This is what Miss Brazier said:

Sobered more than I could account for by reading this letter, I sat for a long time in silence. Then, after writing a brief note to Tom, excusing my neglect, I sought my pillow, or in plain English, went to bed.

My first act in the morning after coffee was to go to Cook's and alter the name of May to that of Carney, as well as change my own to "David Camwell," for which I gave a satisfactory reason to the clerk. He told me that he could omit both names from the list sent to the newspapers, if I desired, and I decided that this was, on the whole, the better way.

On leaving I had an idea that pleased me, no less than to visit Tiffany's and purchase a little jewelry for Marjorie. It would be pleasant to see her eyes light up as I put it into her hand.

Taking a Broadway car, I soon reached the shop I sought, and emerged a few minutes later with a pair of diamond eardrops, a ring of turquoise and small diamonds, and another of chased gold without a stone. Each was enclosed in a tasty case. I was much pleased that the selection had been made so easily.

Miss May arrived at my room nearly on time, with a fine color in her cheeks, due to the fact that she had walked some distance. She was undeniably good-looking and my heart warmed as I thought of the long companionship we were to have together. She was a little tired, she said, from standing for the dressmaker's measurer, and dropped into my largest chair with a very fetching air of fatigue. As soon as I could without seeming in haste I produced the case containing the turquoise ring and presented it for her inspection.

"I took the liberty," I remarked, "of buying this, to fill the vacant place on one of your fingers. If it does not fit, you can take it back for alteration; or if it does not please you Tiffany will exchange it."

She took it out languidly and found that it fitted very well. She was not as delighted as I had supposed she would be, but her tired feeling probably accounted for that.

"It is very pretty," she said, "and you are very kind."

Then I opened the case containing the plain ring and she found a suitable position for that also. When I showed her the eardrops she grew more interested and on trying them on declared them "perfectly sweet."

"I used to have some very like them," she said, with a sigh, "but that was long ago. How very good you are. Are you not tired of the expense I cause you?"

I assured her that I was not, in the least.

"I do not own a piece of jewelry in the world," she added, "except a wedding ring, that belonged to my mother."

"And these," I corrected her by saying.

"No. These are not mine. They are merely part of the make-up for the rÔle I am to play. You shall have them all back again when the curtain is rung down."

She took out her purse, and drew forth the ring of which she had spoken. Placing it on her wedding finger she held it out to me.

"Don't I look quite like a married woman?" she asked, smilingly.

"Quite," I assented, "and a very sweet bride you make, too."

"Have you the typewriting machine here?" she asked, ignoring my compliment. "I wish to see what it is like."

I put the machine on a table, arranging it for her inspection. It was an original Hammond, which I prefer to the universal keyboard. She drew up a chair and listened intently while I explained its workings, showing how the capitals and figures are produced with the same set of keys as the lower case letters. I showed the working of the ribbon, the arrangement of the alarm bell and all the other points needed by one who had never operated that style. When I had finished and inserted a sheet of paper she began carefully to write a sentence, encouraged occasionally by my guidance when the unfamiliar location of the keys caused her to pause.

"I shall be able to use it as rapidly as the Remington, in a week," she said, when she finished the sheet. "It is not nearly as hard as I imagined."

She left the table and resumed her seat in the chair, where we fell into a conversation that lasted several hours. She counted with me the days that remained and was glad they were so few. She said she could think of nothing more that she needed before starting: yes, the jewelry was quite sufficient. She put back each piece in the case it had come in, asking me to keep them till we were ready to go.

"You are sure you will not be sorry for what you are doing?" she asked, after a time.

"How can I, if you enjoy the journey?" was my reply.

She shrugged her shoulders prettily and said it was time to leave. She declined with many thanks an invitation to dine with me again, making a light excuse, and with a friendly grasp of the hand took her departure. It had been agreed that she would call for a short time each afternoon that remained.

When I had become chilled at the vacancy her absence made in the room I went over to the table and looked at what she had written on the machine. It was a pleasure even to see the lines her fair hands had made, and I withdrew the sheet she had covered as if it were something sacred. Glancing over it I noted to my surprise, that the lines had not been written with accidental meaning—that it contained a message for my eyes and heart. There were naturally slight errors caused by the writer's unfamiliarity with the instrument, but no ambiguity of any kind. And this is what the message said to me:

Once there was a child, who had been reared in comfort, almost in luxury, in the fairest part of the fair State of Maryland. At the age of sixteen a cruel fate deprived her of both parents. The guardian to whom her small means were intrusted proved false and in another year she was left to face poverty alone.

Almost stunned by her misfortunes, this child found it necessary to provide herself with some means of subsistence, for even sorrow must have bread. She learned the art of stenography and typewriting; and after attaining sufficient speed in these branches went to a large city and sought a situation. Luckily she found one, though for a long time the pay was very small and she could no more than support life in the poorest manner.

Later a place was offered her with a largely increased stipend, and the cloud seemed about to lift a little. But her new employer soon unmasked his soul and disclosed himself a wretch. The girl could hardly breathe in his presence, but she resolved to endure his attentions as long as they were bearable, hoping for relief from some unknown source.

When the purpose of her employer became all too plain, and she was on the point of despair; when advertisement after advertisement had been answered and nothing secured; when she had advertised, herself, and found by the replies received that the majority of the situations promised nothing better than the one she was unable to endure—there came a ray of light.

A gentleman, or what seemed to be one, sought an interview in reference to a most novel proposition. He wanted her to accompany him, alone, on a long journey; announced his willingness to provide her with an outfit suitable for a member of his family, which she was to profess to be; and assured her that behind this offer there was lurking no sinister design such as she at first suspected.

Her situation had grown desperate. Slowly she came to the decision to trust this man. She grew to believe that there might be one who could give these things with an honest mind and a pure purpose.

She accepted the situation, if such it might be called; purchased the necessary clothing; donned the jewelry he provided; gave her trust into his hands, and sailed with him on the ship he selected.

He was only twenty-four years of age, she but twenty-two. She had not concealed from him that she was poor and nearly friendless. He was rich and what is called a man of the world.

What will happen to the girl on that journey?

There can be but two possibilities. Either the man will prove the kind friend he has represented and they will return able to look the world in the face without a blush—that is one of them. Or somewhere beneath the blue waters of the Caribbean Sea the fishes will gnaw the flesh of a woman who is drowned—that is the other. Let neither delude themselves, when the hour of temptation comes. There is no possibility outside these two.

I rose and paced the floor in remorse for my ill-spent life, in sympathy for the unhappy creature whose fears clouded the pleasure I meant to share with her.

If there had been, away down in the lowest depths of my wild nature, the slightest thought of wrong to Marjorie May, it was crushed out of sight by that pathetic appeal.

Crushed out of sight, yes! But there are seeds that put forth life with the dust of years piled above them.