Major Stanhope, the father of Dora, and an officer in the army of the United States, had been stationed at San Francisco. His wife was dead and he had no child except Dora. They had resided in California about a year, when the gallant soldier, who had never recovered from the effects of a wound received in the storming of Chapultepec, found his health rapidly failing, and was soon removed to another sphere of existence. Dora's nearest relative, her father's sister, resided in the State of Virginia, and the young girl had taken passage on a vessel bound for Panama, with the intention of returning to the place of her nativity and residing with her aunt. The vessel was old and unseaworthy, and went to pieces in a violent storm encountered off the coast of Lower California. The boats in which the crew and passengers sought safety were swamped, with the exception of one, which reached the shore in a leaky condition; and if the Professor had not happened to take up the captain's telescope when he did, Dora and the six other human beings, who were thus discovered, would have perished on that desolate coast.

In a romantic valley of the Old Dominion Dora and the Professor had known each other in former days. The young man had tenderly loved the beautiful maiden, and his affection was secretly reciprocated; but on a certain occasion, while under the influence of temporary pique or caprice, Dora had rejected the man whom she deeply and sincerely loved, and they met no more, until, after the lapse of seven long years, fate brought them together on the shores of the Pacific Ocean.

The weather continued to be fine, and the day after Dora had been brought on board, she had recovered from the effects of fatigue and exposure and came on deck with a beautiful bloom on her cheeks. The deportment of the Professor was now strangely altered. He was no longer the man of wit and humor, and during the remainder of the voyage never uttered a joke. When the young maiden was on deck, he was constantly at her side, and when she retired to her state-room, he would sit for hours in a mood of mental abstraction.

"What is the matter with him?" said Tom to Toney, as, on a certain night, they were pacing to and fro on deck and puffing their cheroots. "Yonder he sits, gazing at the moon, and won't talk to anybody. What do you think he called me just now?"

"What?" asked Toney.

"He called me Miss Dora."

"Did he?" said Toney, laughing.

"He did, indeed."

"It was by way of retaliation," said Toney.

"Retaliation? How?"

"You used to call him Ida."

"When?"

"When you were in Doubting Castle."

"What sort of a place is that?"

"You ought to know; you dwelt in it for some time. Poor Charley is in Doubting Castle. Let him alone. He will soon get out. I have observed the demeanor of the young lady when they were together, and I know, from certain unmistakable signs, that Charley will not have to listen to another negative. All is right. He will soon be the same jovial and agreeable companion he has hitherto been."

"He is a very disagreeable fellow now," said Tom.

"He used to say the same thing of you when you called him Ida, and would not let him sleep with your incessant somniloquism."

"I think we should call ourselves the Silent Philosophers," said Tom. "Harry and Clarence are thoughtful and taciturn, except when they are complaining about the slowness of the vessel. As for Charley, I believe he would not care if we were on a voyage of circumnavigation around the globe, now he has Dora on board."

"Our voyage on the Pacific is ended," said Toney. "Yonder is Panama."

"Where?" cried Tom.

"Do you not see the lights along the land?" said Toney.

The voice of the captain was now heard issuing orders, which satisfied Tom that they were about to go into port.