Having finished my examination, I went on deck, and relieved Marian at the helm, though she declared that she was not tired. I thought it best for her to save her strength, for I did not know what she might be called upon to endure before we returned to Chicago. "I have put the cabin in order for you, Miss Collingsby," said I, as I seated myself. "For me? I am very grateful to you, but I don't think I shall have any use for it." "We may have to sail all night." "If we do, I will stay here with you. I could not sleep in such a place as that." "I think it is a very nice place." "So do I; and under other circumstances I should be very happy there. Do you suppose Julia or Florina Lord is with Mr. Whippleton?" "I am satisfied that neither of them is with him." "Mr. Waterford said they were; but that was a part of his deception." "He does not scruple to lie." "If Julia were only here, I should be satisfied," added she, looking out upon the lake. "I am sorry she is not; but you may be satisfied as it is. You shall have the cabin all to yourself." "I'm not afraid of anything," said she, with some confusion on her pretty face. "You ought not to be afraid of your own cousin." "My own what?" asked she, with a smile. "Of your own cousin." "Where is he?" "I am he." "You, Philip," laughed she. "Perhaps you think I am joking; but I am not." "You really don't mean to say that you are my cousin." "I do really mean to say it, and I know it is true." "How can that be?" "It so happens that my mother and your father are brother and sister; and I believe the relationship of cousin is usually established in some such way." "Doubtless you are quite right, Mr. Philip; but my father has but one sister, and she does not happen to have any children. Therefore I cannot possibly have any such cousin as you mention," said she, smiling at what she deemed her overwhelming argument; and perhaps she thought I was getting up a conspiracy against her. "Your conclusion would be entirely just if the premises were correct. Your father's sister had one child." "Had, but has not now. Her little son was lost on the Missouri River." "Supposed to be lost, but not lost," I replied, warmly. "I am that son." "Do you really mean so, Philip?" she inquired, looking at me earnestly, as if to fathom the trick I was playing upon her. "I do most certainly." "What is your other name?" "Farringford." "That was certainly the name of my aunt's husband; but it is impossible to believe so strange a story." "I am afraid your father and your grandfather would refuse to believe what I say. Now, while we are chasing Mr. Whippleton, I will tell you the whole story." I did tell it, and I had an attentive auditor; but when I had finished it, I was taken aback by her declaring that I had been reading dime novels, and had stolen the plot of one of them. But she said it so prettily and so good-naturedly, that I forgave her on the instant, though she did not sue for pardon.