There is a moment of silence and they watch her closely. All along Dr. Franks had dreaded this moment of re-awakened memory in the girl's heart. But her agitation is not so great as he had anticipated, for though she is sobbing softly behind her hands, it is not with the bitterness of an utter despair. "What is it you remember, Miss Langton?" he asks, touching her arm gently. She starts and looks at him with her great, tear-filled eyes. "Who told you my name?" she asks, curiously. "It was marked upon your clothing," Mrs. Odell gently explains, and again Dr. Franks says, curiously: "You were saying that you remembered----" "The burning of the _Hesperus_ and the loss of life, and our deadly peril, yes--yes," Reine answers, weakly. "But Vane was saved; oh, thank God for that. And now my life, too, is spared," she exclaims, with the glad tears of joy falling through her white fingers. They regard her in sympathetic silence awhile, then Dr. Franks says, kindly: "I am very glad your friend was saved, Miss Langton, and very happy to think that we had the pleasure of seeing you. Were you bound for America?" "Yes--returning home from a trip to England," she answers. "I knew you were American instantly," says Mrs. Odell. "We are also of that nationality." "I am very glad," Reine answers, giving her a pensive smile. "Are you also bound for your native shore?" "Not just now," the consumptive returns, with a smothered sigh. "I am in delicate health, and Doctor Franks here has recommended the climate of Italy for my health, with the additional advantage of a leisurely sea-trip in a sailing vessel. We are now making our way to Mentone, Italy." CHAPTER XXIII. "You are bound for Mentone, Italy!" Reine repeats, with a quiver of disappointment in her low voice. "Then I am going farther away from home every hour!" "Yes," replies Doctor Franks. "Lucky thing for you, too, in your weak and debilitated condition. Mentone is a charming climate for invalids. Will set you up in less than no time. Then, when your roses are blooming again, we'll send you home to America." "How long since you picked me up out of the water?" she asks. "Three weeks," he replies. Three weeks!--she shuts her eyes ever so tightly, but the traitor tears creep through beneath the black fringe of her lashes. Three weeks since she parted from Vane amid the horrors of that awful night. Three weeks he has believed her dead. Has he mourned her much? she wonders. Perhaps time has already dulled the sharp edge of grief. Then graver thoughts chase these self-regrets from her mind. A terrible doubt chills the life-blood around her heart. After all, was Vane really saved? She remembers that crowded little life-boat, already so full that it seemed rash and perilous to take in even one more passenger. Has the little bark survived the dangers of the sea, or gone down with its precious freight of souls to swell the treasures of the "vasty deep?"