He began to wonder what their names could be, the father and daughter, and when one of his friends came back to his side he whispered the question: “What did you say their names were?” He was astounded when the young man answered calmly: “His name is Lyndon, and he calls his daughter Jessie.” “Heavens!” and Laurier started violently. “What is it?” cried his friend. “Nothing! Yes, that wretched sickness is coming on again. Will you assist me to my stateroom?” He lay wakeful and wretched all night, tortured by a name and a semblance, thinking that surely she must have been related to the dead girl by some close tie, and wishing to know her just for the sake of the past. The next morning, in spite of his bad night, he was on deck early, determined, if possible, to make the acquaintance of the new Jessie Lyndon. But our heroine had not been on shipboard three days without finding out the name of this important fellow passenger. Her father had discovered it early and communicated it briefly, saying: “Do not recognize him when he comes on deck. If he addresses you, pretend perfect forgetfulness of him and the past.” “You may be sure I will do so,” with a lightning gleam of pride in the soft, dark eyes, and a swift rush of color to the round cheek. But a moment later she asked, almost inaudibly: “His wife--does she accompany him?” “No, he is alone.” When Laurier saw her in the broad glare of daylight he perceived that her likeness to the dead Jessie Lyndon was more startling even than it had seemed last night--it might have been Jessie herself with the additional charm of eighteen over sixteen added to two years of cultivation, and all the advantages of a rich and becoming dress. But when he passed close by her as she lounged in her chair her calm glance swept over him like the veriest stranger’s, while the color rose in her cheek at his admiring glance. It was quite useless for him to seek an introduction. No one dared penetrate their chill reserve but the captain, and he refused Laurier’s request regretfully, saying that the Lyndons were very offish and did not care to know people. But all day Laurier haunted her vicinity. He could scarcely take his eyes from the beautiful, luring face with its down-dropped eyes bent so steadily over her book; he simply forgot his betrothed’s existence, and kept wishing feverishly that something would happen to make him acquainted with the fascinating stranger. How terribly our wild wishes are answered sometimes! Laurier did not dream that his good or evil fate would soon grant his prayer. Jessie sang again on deck that night, and Laurier retired to toss on a restless pillow, and dream of her all night. In the dark hour that comes before the dawn a leaping flame shot up from the steamer into the darkness, irradiating the gloom with awful light, while panic-stricken voices rang out upon the night, shouting: “Fire! Fire! Fire!” CHAPTER XXVI. AN OCEAN TRAGEDY.