“This is a terrible storm,” she says in a low voice, as a wave crashes along the deck, part of it finding its way into the cabin. “I heard one of the men say he did not think the boat would weather it.” “God grant it may not!” answers Gloria sternly, and then, as if influenced by a sudden impulse, she continues gently, “Ah! Léonie, child, what could have tempted you to act so basely? What have I ever done to you that you should treat me thus?” “I did my duty,” answers the girl sullenly. “I did what I was ordered to do. It is my trade.” “Your trade, child? Good heavens! what are you, and who ordered you to betray me?” “My master, Mr. Trackem,” answers Léonie, simply. “I belong to his detective gang. I’ve served him ever since I can remember. I’ve never failed him yet, and he told me not to fail him this time. I promised I would not, and I have obeyed him.” There is an evident sincerity in her tone, and Gloria, with her power of deep insight into character, reads Léonie’s at a glance. “Have you no mother, no father, my poor Léonie?” she inquires softly, as she comes over to the girl’s side, and lays her hand on her curly head. “Mother, father? No, of course not,” answers Léonie, with a slight laugh. “They are both dead. Mr. Trackem always says he’s acted father, mother, brother, sister, uncle, aunt, and cousin by me. I don’t quite know what he means by that, but that is what he says.” “Poor Léonie, poor wee Léonie. God! what a fate! You are not to blame them, my poor child. Ah! how fully I forgive you,” says Gloria, as with a sudden impulse she stoops and kisses the girl who has betrayed her, on the cheek. Only another revelation has come to her from that cesspool of Modern Babylon; only another fearful wrong unknown, unstudied, and unforbidden, brought to light. Léonie looks up quickly. There is a queer expression in her intelligent eyes. “Why do you kiss me? Why do you speak so kindly? Why do you forgive me for betraying you?” she inquires rather eagerly. “Because I believe in God,” answers Gloria gently. “God! Why, Mr. Trackem always laughs at God,” interposes Léonie, with a shrug of her shoulders. “He always tells me that God is an invention of the devil, and all clergymen and priests are fallen angels.” “Oh, hush, Léonie; hush, my poor, poor child! This is terrible. Do not talk in that awful way,” and the tears start trembling to Gloria’s lovely eyes. “Léonie, God is good; He is our friend, He helps those who pray to Him. If we die to-night we shall be brought face to face with Him.”