His circle of acquaintances during an ocean voyage was choice and large. And one languid passenger, lying in her steamer chair with cushions behind her and fur robes over her, was never passed without the affectionate, inquiring smiles of a protector, and at intervals through all the day he presented himself to “look after” her. “Are you all right, dearest?” he would say. “Do you want your feet tucked in? Did the deck steward bring you your lunch? Are your cushions comfortable?” And these matters being attended to he would kiss her gayly and run off to explore engines, or gather valuable information about walking-beams. On several occasions he and his brother made some rather long railroad journeys alone. It was quite safe to send them. If they had not been able to take care of themselves, half the world would have taken care of them. Conductors conversed with them, passengers were interested in them, and they arrived at the end of their travels laden with tribute. After one such journey, taken together between Washington and Boston, with what joy they performed their toilets through an entire summer with the assistance of a large box of wonderful soaps and perfumes, sent to them by an acquaintance made _en voyage_. “He was Lionel’s friend,” Vivian explained. “I think he said he was a drummer. He was so nice to us. My friend that I made was a professor in a college, I believe, and he gave me this to remember him by.” “This” was a pretty nugget of gold, and was accompanied by a card on which the donor had written the most affectionately kind things of the pleasure he had had in his brief acquaintance with his young travelling companion, whose _bonne mine_ he should not soon forget. One could always be quite sure that he would give no trouble during a journey, that he would always be ready to perform any service, that no railroad nor ocean boat official could withstand him when he presented himself with a smiling request. It is easy to call to mind, at any moment, some memory of him, his face flushed, his hair damp on his forehead, his eyes courageous, as he struggled with something too big for him, he had felt it his duty to take charge of, as he swayed with the crowd down the gangway of some steamer at Southampton or some _paquebot_ at Calais. “It is too heavy for you, darling,” one would say. “You look so hot. Let me carry it.” “Oh, no,” would be his valiant answer. “I’m all right, dearest. It’s rather a warm day, but a boy doesn’t mind being warm.” Even foreign languages did not appall him. “I’m only a little boy, you know,” he would say, cheerfully. “It doesn’t matter if it does sound funny, just so that they understand me. I like to talk to them.”