“You are very kind, madam,” was all that she could find to say, in a low tone, with downcast eyes and flushed cheeks. The goddess thought the little woman overpowered by her own grandeur, smiled condescendingly, and said complacently: “What a pretty baby you have! Girl or a boy?” “Girl, madam.” “That is right. I love girl babies. What is her name?” “She is not christened yet.” “How old is she?” “Two months on the third of this month, madam.” “Ah! She is well grown for that age. I need not ask if she has good health. She looks so well.” “Oh, yes, madam. Thank Heaven!” “This is the first time you have been on deck, I think?” “Yes, madam.” “Suffered from seasickness, I fear.” “Yes, madam, until this morning.” “Ah! very sad to have missed all this beautiful voyage. An exceptionally fine voyage. I have crossed many times, but have never experienced so fine a voyage.” Jennie did not reply. “But, then, seasickness is a great benefit to some constitutions. I hope that it will have been so in your case.” Still Jennie did not answer, except by a bow. “Have you quite recovered?” “Quite, ma’am, thank you.” “Yet you feel weak?” “Yes, madam.” “That will pass away. You are traveling quite alone, I believe.” “Yes, madam.” “Then, if I or Mr. Randolph Hay can be of any service to you, I hope you will call on us. I, and I am sure Mr. Hay also, would be very much pleased to serve you.” “I thank you, madam, very much, but my dear father will meet me at Liverpool, so that I shall not need assistance. But equally I thank you.” Jennie would have said more had she been able. She would have acknowledged the services or the supposed services the lady had performed for her before they had ever met; but her tongue “clove to the roof of her mouth,” so to speak. It was all she could do to utter the perfunctory words she had spoken, and these without raising her eyes to the face of the goddess. Mrs. Randolph Hay bowed graciously, and passed on toward the cabin. “Poor thing!” breathed Jennie, with deep pity; “poor, poor thing! She, so proud, so stately, so beautiful, to be cast down to the dust! Oh, no! Heaven pardon me, but I must spare him for her sake! I will do nothing until I see my father, and then I must tell him all, and be guided by his counsels.” So then Jennie stooped and kissed her baby and felt at peace with all the world. Lamia Leegh was not one to hide her “light under a bushel.” Before many hours had passed every one had heard the pathetic story of the English curate’s young daughter, who had been married, deserted and months afterward half murdered by her husband; how she had been taken to the Samaritan Hospital, where she became a mother; how certain charitable ladies had become so interested in her case that they had made up a fund to give her and her child an outfit and send them home to her father, and how she was on this very ship.