When Dan got back to the hotel for lunch, he found that there had been many arrivals during the morning. The Adriatic was to sail that afternoon, as well as the Ottilie, and the long dining-room at the hotel was a busy place. As the head-waiter led him to a seat, he caught a glimpse, far off, of the girl of the morning. She was sitting at a table with a white-haired man—her father, of course—with whom she was talking earnestly. She did not look up, and, in another instant, Dan's guide had pulled out a chair, and he found himself sitting with his back toward the only person in the room who interested him.

He told himself this deliberately, after a glance at his neighbours; and then, in the next moment, he called himself a cad, for every human-being is interesting, once you get below the skin. But degrees of interest vary, and Dan felt that he had never met any one who promised so much as this outspoken girl, with the shining eyes and sensitive mouth. Which boat was she sailing by, he wondered? It was an even chance that, like himself, she would be on the Ottilie. Yes—but second class? That would be asking too much of Fortune! Let it be added here that Dan was returning in the second-cabin not because—as he was to hear so many times on that voyage!—there was no room in the first, but because by doing so, he had saved the money for an extra week of travel.

He found more arrivals in the office when he left the table, and a formidable array of baggage, which was presently loaded on vans and trundled away toward the waiting tender. He paid his bill, collected the two suit-cases which constituted his total impedimenta, saw them safely off for the pier, tipped the porter, and left the hotel. The whistle of the tender was blowing shrilly, and, when he reached the pier, he saw far out at sea the smudge of smoke against the sky, which told that one of the steamers was approaching. He boarded the tender, assured a medical inspector that he was an American citizen and so did not need to have his eyes examined, dug his suit-cases out of the pile of luggage, and found himself a seat near the bow of the boat. Presently the special boat-train rolled in along the pier and disgorged the final quota of passengers.

Ten minutes later, with a shrill toot, the tender backed away and headed out across the harbour. With a queer feeling, half of sorrow, half of joy, Dan looked back at the receding shore, telling himself that the next soil his feet touched would be that of America.

A mile out, the great liner lay waiting, impressively huge as seen from the deck of the little tender, and presently they were alongside and filing through an open port. A steward grabbed his suit-cases, the instant he was on board, asked the number of his room, led him to it along interminable passages, and left him to make himself at home.

There were two berths in it, and, as he had paid for only one of them, he knew that, at this crowded season, he could scarcely hope to have the whole room to himself. But there was as yet no sign of any other occupant, so Dan, thrusting his bags under the lower berth, went on deck again. The last of the baggage and mail was being lifted aboard by a block and tackle, worked by a donkey engine, and, even as Dan looked, the tender tooted its whistle, cast loose, and backed away, and suddenly beneath his feet Dan felt the quiver which told that the screws had started. Slowly the great ship swung around and headed away into the west toward the setting sun—and toward "the land of freedom." How that phrase was running in his head!

He made a little tour of that portion of the boat set aside for passengers of the second class, and realised that the frugal Germans were much less generous in their provision for those humble ones than was the English line on which he had come to Europe. There the second class was well amidships, with a deck-room almost equal to that given the aristocrats at the bow. Here the second class was at the very stern, and the deck-room was limited indeed. Of course, Dan told himself, the Ottilie was a crack boat, designed to cater to the most exclusive trade; but he looked forward at the long stretches set apart for the first cabin with a little envy.

The boat was crowded, but he saw nothing of the black-haired girl, and finally, after finding that there was no hope of getting a deck-chair, he sought the dining-room steward, got his table-ticket, and made his way back to his stateroom. But on the threshold he paused. A man was lying in the upper berth, the light at his head turned on and a paper in his hand. He raised his head and looked down, at the sound of the door, and Dan had the impression of a bronzed countenance lighted by a pair of very brilliant eyes.

"Ah," said a pleasant voice, "so this is my shipmate," and the stranger swung his legs over the side of the berth and dropped lightly to the floor. Again Dan had the impression of the bright eyes upon him.

"It looks that way," he said. And then a sudden compunction seized him. "I didn't mean to be a pig and take the lower berth. You are quite welcome to it.""Oh, no, no," protested the other. "The choice is always to the first comer. That is the rule of the sea."

Dan noticed that, though he spoke English well, it was with the clipped accent which betrayed the Frenchman.

"Then I choose the upper one," he said, laughing.

The other shrugged his shoulders.

"I can but thank you," he said. "After all, you are younger than I. My name is AndrÉ Chevrial, very much at your service," and he held out his hand.

If he had announced himself to be a prince of the blood, Dan would not have been surprised, for there was that in his bearing which bespoke the finished gentleman, and a magnetism in his manner to which Dan was already yielding.

"Mine is Webster—Dan Webster," he said, and took the outstretched hand warmly.

M. Chevrial looked a little puzzled.

"The name seems somehow familiar," he said; "but I cannot quite place it."

Dan laughed.

"My father made the mistake of naming me after the great Daniel—a hundred years after," he explained.

"Oh, so that is it! Daniel—Daniel Webster. A statesman, was he not?""One of our greatest."

"Though it did not need that to tell me you are an American. You of America have an atmosphere all your own. Shall we go on deck and have a cigarette?"

So presently Dan found himself seated beside M. Chevrial, talking very comfortably. The Frenchman, to Dan's surprise, proclaimed himself to be nothing more important than a wine-jobber who visited America every autumn to dispose of his wares; but, whatever his business, he was certainly a most entertaining companion. And then, suddenly, Dan quite forgot him, for coming toward them down the deck was the dark-eyed girl, arm in arm with a man whose burning eyes strangely belied his snowy hair. Dan sat staring at them, scarcely able to credit such stupendous good fortune, and, as they passed, the girl looked at him, smiled and nodded.

M. Chevrial, whom no detail of this little scene had escaped, lighted another cigarette.

"A very striking-looking young lady," he said. "The gentleman, I take it, is her father?"

"Yes, I think so," said Dan. "I met her for a moment on the beach at Cherbourg this morning, and she mentioned that she was with her father."

"Ah!" commented Chevrial. "And now tell me more about this journalism of yours, of which we hear so much. Is it really free? Is it not true that most of your papers are controlled by wealthy syndicates, who use them for their own purposes?"

This was a red flag to the bull, and Dan plunged into a defence of American journalism, citing instances and proofs, telling of incidents in his own experience showing that most editors really have consciences by which they are guided, and a high conception of their duty to the public.

"There are exceptions, of course," Dan went on, carried away by his subject; "there are scoundrels in the newspaper business, just as in all businesses; but it is one of the beautiful laws of compensation that, just as soon as a newspaper goes wrong, its influence begins to slip away from it...."

He stopped suddenly, for he had glanced at M. Chevrial and found him inattentive. His head was turned a little aside and his eyes were fixed with a peculiar and intent expression on two men who stood together by the rail, a little distance away. One of them was the man with the white hair. The other was evidently a tourist, from his costume, and though he was clean-shaven, some instinct caused Dan to classify him as a German. He glanced back at Chevrial at last, but the latter was gazing dreamily out over the water and stifling a little yawn with his hand.

"Your pardon, M. Webster," he said. "But I arose very early this morning, in order to catch my train, and I am tired. I think that I shall lie down for a few moments before dinner. Au revoir."

Dan sat on by himself for a little while; then it suddenly occurred to him that, if he looked about, he might find the dark-eyed girl alone somewhere. He leaped to his feet and began the search. She was not on the promenade deck, nor in the library, and he had about decided that she had returned to her stateroom, when it occurred to him that she might be on the boat-deck. So he climbed the narrow stair and emerged upon that lofty eyrie. No, she could not be here—it was too windy; then, as he glanced around, he saw, through the deepening twilight, a dark figure sitting on a bench in the lee of one of the boats.

Could it be she? He hesitated to approach near enough to be sure; but at last he mustered up courage to stroll past. And then, in an instant, his cap was off and his hand extended.

"I can't tell you how glad I am that you are on the boat!" he began. "May I sit down?"

"Certainly," and she moved a little, looking up at him, smiling. "I am glad, too."

"Are you? It's nice of you to say so, anyway. A voyage is so dull if there is no one to talk to. Of course, there is always some one to talk to—but I don't mean that kind of talk. I mean plumbing the depths—you know, that sort of thing.""You think I can plumb the depths?"

"You certainly plumbed mine this morning. Not that I have any great depths," he added, laughing; "but your line touched bottom, and gave me a new feeling which I think was good for me. Now, since we're going to know each other, I want to introduce myself. My name is Webster—named after the great Daniel, but called Dan so that future historians can distinguish between us—and I earn a precarious living by chasing news for a New York paper."

"And my name," she responded instantly, "is Kasia Vard; and I have earned a precarious living in many ways—I have worked in a factory, I have sold papers—I have even cleaned the streets."

"Cleaned the streets?" he repeated incredulously.

"Oh, that was not in America," she said. "It was at Warsaw. In Poland, just as in many other countries of Europe, the streets are cleaned by the women and children. The men, you see, are needed for the army."

There was a bitter irony in her voice which drew him closer.

"I have seen women and children working in the fields; in Holland I saw them helping tow the boats and working in the brickyards. That was bad enough. But I never have seen them cleaning the streets."

"Did you go to Munich?""No."

"You would have seen them doing it there—as they do it all over Germany. Had you gone to Chemnitz, you would have seen them carrying the hod."

She fell silent, and Dan leaned back, strangely moved. How young he was; how little he knew! Here was this girl, certainly not more than twenty, who had lived more, felt more, thought more than he had ever done; who had ideals....

"Miss Vard," he said finally, in a low voice, "permit me to tell you something. I am just an average fellow with an average brain, who has gone about all his life with his eyes only half open—sometimes not even that. I have walked up and down Broadway, and fancied I was seeing life! I must seem awfully young to you—I feel a mere infant—intellectually, I mean. But I want to grow up—it isn't good for a man of twenty-nine to be a mental Peter Pan. Will you help me?"

She smiled, the bright, sudden smile, which he had grown to like so much, and impulsively she held out her hand.

"Yes," she said, "I will help, as far as I can. The best thing I can do for you is to introduce you to my father. He can help far more than I!"

"Thank you!" and he took her hand and held it. "It was your father I saw you with?""Yes. You will like him. He is the most wonderful man in the world. Now I must be going. He will be looking for me."

He went with her to the lower deck, then returned to the bench, and stared thoughtfully out over the dark sea. What a woman she was! And then he smiled a little as he recalled her last words, "The most wonderful man in the world!" He did not suspect that the time would come when he would echo them!