“I think I have found her,” she whispered to me. “Do you see that handsome girl at the captain’s table. Really the handsomest girl on board.” “I thought that distinction rested with our own table.” “Now, please pay attention. Do you see how pensive she is, with her cheek resting on her hand? I am sure she is thinking of Edwin.” “I wouldn’t bet on that,” I replied. “There is considerable motion just now, and indications of a storm. The pensiveness may have other causes.” Here the steward returned and reported that Miss McMillan had not yet appeared at table, but had her meals taken to her room by the stewardess. Blair called to the good-natured, portly stewardess of the _Climatus_, who at that moment was passing through the saloon. “Is Miss McMillan ill?” he asked. “No, not ill,” replied Mrs. Kay; “but she seems very much depressed at leaving home, and she has not left her room since we started.” “There!” said our sentimental lady, triumphantly. “I would like very much to see her,” said Mr. Blair; “I have some good news for her.” “I will ask her to come out. It will do her good,” said the stewardess, as she went away. In a few moments she appeared, and, following her, came an old woman, with white hair, and her eyes concealed by a pair of spectacles. “Miss McMillan,” said the stewardess, “this is Mr. Blair, who wanted to speak to you.” Although Mr. Blair was, as we all were, astonished to see our mythical young lady changed into a real old woman, he did not lose his equanimity, nor did his kindly face show any surprise, but he evidently forgot the part he had intended to play. “You will pardon me for troubling you, Miss McMillan,” he said, “but this basket of flowers was evidently intended for you, and was sent to my room by mistake.” Miss McMillan did not look at the flowers, but gazed long at the card with the writing on it, and as she did so one tear and then another stole down the wrinkled face from behind the glasses. “There is no mistake, is there?” asked Mr. Blair. “You know the writer.” “There is no mistake—no mistake,” replied Miss McMillan in a low voice, “he is a very dear and kind friend.” Then, as if unable to trust herself further, she took the flowers and hurriedly said, “Thank you,” and left us. “There,” I said to the lady on my left, “your romance turns out to be nothing after all.” “No, sir,” she cried with emphasis; “the romance is there, and very much more of a romance than if Miss McMillan was a young and silly girl of twenty.” Perhaps she was right.