He leaned over and laid his hand on hers. She was really distressed, and Jerry could not bear to have people unhappy. "My dear girl," he began. Then, at an expression which dawned on her face, he turned to look behind him. Isabelle, her hair flying, her robe floating behind her, her bare feet stuck into little mules, flew across the deck to them, and, as Jerry rose, fled to his arms, sobbing. "Oh, Jerry, Jerry. I can't bear it!" "Look here, Cricket, what's the matter?" he said, embarrassed at the scene. "You hate me! I'll kill myself, if you hate me." "Rubbish! I don't hate you except when you make yourself a pest." The sobbing increased. "Don't cry like that, child." She clung to him, her head against his neck, as he bent over to hold her. "Jerry, I'm s-sorry. P-please s-say you l-like me." "Of course, I like you. Now, go to bed, like a nice girl." "Not till you say you love me." "All right; I say it. Now trot." "Say it so I can remember, Jerry." "Cricket, I love you madly. Now hop." "I came to save you, Jerry," she whispered in his ear, so Althea could not hear. "What's that?" he said, loosening her arms. "Carry me down, Jerry?" "Nothing of the kind; you'll walk," he said sternly, and led her toward the steps. "Jerry, they'll send you home if you don't propose to Althea pretty soon. Then we can go together," said the imp, as she left him. When he went back to Althea she rose, and he saw how angry she was. "How can you let that creature make you so ridiculous, Jerry?" "I'm sorry she annoys you. She is a spoiled, neglected kid, but there's no harm in her." "She's a disgusting little beast, and I think it is a perfect outrage that the Bryces have shut us up on a ship with her. I shall land the first minute possible, and go home. I don't intend that a miss in her teens shall insult me as she does the rest of you." She went to her stateroom in high dudgeon, and from that moment Jerry was like a man in a nightmare. When he thought he was on solid land, he stepped off precipices. When he knew he was walking properly, he found himself skimming the earth two feet above terra firma. When they finally put in at Palm Beach he improvised: a telegram calling him north at once. It was now a case of marry Althea or run, so, like "Georgie, Porgie, Puddin', Pie," he made a hasty exit. It was with a feeling of pleasant relaxation that he took the night train north. He went to bed early, and slept like an escaped prisoner. When the porter went through the car calling: "Telegram for Mr. Jerome Paxton," he came to, and sat up as if he had been struck by a mallet. He put his head out and called for the yellow envelope. Half awake, he read: "Is Isabelle with you?--Wallace Bryce."