His companion laughed merrily. The faint, almost unconscious feeling of jealousy which had risen at the mention of this engaging young lady had vanished entirely in the indifference with which Mr. Tom spoke of her. She moved her head with a happy little motion not unlike that with which a bird plumes itself. Her soft, low laugh did not really end, but lost itself among the dimples of her cheeks. Tom regarded her with shining eyes. "Not that I should mind some people's talking sentiment," he said with a smile. She raised her laughing gaze to his, and, as their eyes met, the meaning of the look in his was too plain to be mistaken. She flushed and paled, dropping her gaze from his. "And did nothing especial happen on the voyage?" she asked, with a strong effort to regain her careless manner. "Not that I recall," he answered, putting his hand beside hers upon the rustic table so that their fingers almost touched. A moment of silence followed, broken only by the chirping of a few belated crickets, that, despite the advancement of the season, had not yet discontinued their autumnal concerts. The two, so quiet outwardly, sat with beating hearts, when suddenly a wandering breeze brought into the summer-house a puff of smoke from the burning salt meadows. It was laden with the fetid odor of consuming animal matter, and so powerful was it that both involuntarily turned away their heads. "Bah!" Columbine cried. "How horrible! There must be a dead animal of some sort there that the fire has reached." She stopped speaking and gazed with surprise at Tom, who had buried his face in his hands with a groan. "What is it? Has it made you ill? It is gone now." He lifted a face white with emotion. "No," he said, "it has not made me ill,--physically, that is; but it has done worse, it has made me remember." "Ah!" she exclaimed. "What is it? is it so terrible?" She leaned toward him, and to poor Tom she looked the incarnation of enticing loveliness. Sympathy and interest--not unmixed, she being a woman, with curiosity--sparkled in her eyes, yet he nerved himself to tell her all that had come back to him. "That smell of burning hide," he began, "brought it all up in a flash. The ship got on fire; Miss Grant clung to me; there was just such an odor leaking out around the hatches from the hold where the flames were at the cargo; she--I--when everything else was right, when the fire was out, I was all wrong." "I do not understand," Columbine said. She drew away from him, her cheeks pale, her very lips wan. She did not meet his gaze, but sat with downcast eyes. "I was engaged to Miss Grant. I did not pretend to love her, but I thought we were all bound for the bottom, and"-- He stopped helplessly; her eyes flashed upon him. "And if a lie would soothe her last moments," she said, bitterly, "you-- No, no; I beg your pardon."