"But I have heard that your father--" she began. "Was a drunkard and a spendthrift," I added, completing the sentence for her. "He was, but is not now. He is a sober, honest, prudent, and Christian man." "I am glad to hear that, for I was forbidden years ago even to mention his name," added Marian. "I don't think my father or grandfather will believe this story." "They will have to believe it, if evidence will convince them," I replied, stoutly. "But what does my aunt say?" "My mother has not yet heard the story. My father wrote to my grandfather several times, but he took no notice of the letters." "Aunt Louise has been in Europe several years." "I have never seen my mother since I was a child; I do not remember her. Do you know where she is?" "She was in Italy last winter; but I don't know where she is now." "Will you ascertain for me?" I asked, with more interest than I cared to manifest. "I will." "I have her portrait in St. Louis. It was in a locket attached to a coral chain which I wore when I was saved from the river. I will show it to you some time." "If it is really her portrait, I shall believe the story, whether anybody else does or not." "My father says it is her portrait, and he ought to know. He is sure I am the lost son." "You are so honest and brave, Philip, that I can't help believing you. I hope you are my cousin, at any rate, for I shall be proud of the relationship." "Thank you, Marian--may I call you so?" "Certainly you may, if you are my cousin." "You are very kind." "Indeed, you have already placed me under a debt of obligation to you which I can never repay." "I am more glad to serve you than you can be to be served. Steady!" "What's the matter?" "The Florina has hauled her wind," I replied, watching the chase. "What does that mean?" "She has turned her head more to the north." I hauled in the main sheet, and stood after the other yacht. It was sundown now, and we were within two or three miles of the Michigan shore. Half an hour later the Florina ran in at the mouth of a river. When we reached the opening, we found she had anchored half a mile up the stream. I did not deem it prudent to follow her, and I dropped the Marian's anchor at once. CHAPTER XXI. IN WHICH PHIL ANSWERS SOME INQUIRIES ABOUT THE FAWN, AND OTHER MATTERS. I hauled down the jib, and left the mainsail standing when I anchored the Marian at the mouth of the river, for I did not know what Mr. Whippleton intended to do, and his movements were to govern mine. Though the mouth of the river was rather narrow, it opened, like the creek where we had anchored at noon, into a broad lagoon. There were hundreds of just such small lakes near the large one, in some cases with a narrow outlet, and in others with none at all. Among the effects of Mr. Ben Waterford which I found in the cabin, were several large maps, and one of these was the most interesting study I could find as I watched the Florina.