“Yes, father. I don’t know what you mean, but if I ever do, I’ll forgive everything—everything, and love you just the same, forever and ever,” Reinette said to him; and the cold, clammy hands upon her head pressed harder in token that he had heard. But that was the only response for a moment, when he said again, and this time in a whisper, with heavy, labored breath: “One thing more comes to my mind. There will be letters for me—some on business, and possibly some others, and you must let no one see them if there is any thing in them the world ought not to know. Promise Queenie.” “I promise,” Reinette said, frightened at the strange look in his face and his evident eagerness for her reply. “God bless you, darling! Keep your promise and never try to find—” He did not say what or whom, but lay perfectly quiet while overhead on deck the trampling of feet was more hurried and noisy, and the ship gave a little lurch as if hitting against something which resisted its force and set it to rocking again. The motion threw Reinette backward and when she gathered herself up and turned toward the white face upon the pillow, she uttered a wild cry in French: “Oh Pierre, Pierre, come quickly, father is dead!” and tottering toward the door she fell heavily against the tall custom-house officer just entering the state-room. He had come on board to do his duty; had seen the bustling little Frenchman speak hurriedly to the young girl on deck; had seen her dart away, and fancied she cast a frightened look at him. When others came to declare the contents of their trunks she had not been with them. “Secreting her goods and chattels, no doubt,” he thought, and made his way to the state-room, where he stood appalled in the awful presence of death. Reinette might have had the wealth of all Paris in her trunks and carried it safely off, for her boxes were not molested, and both passengers, ship’s crew, and officers vied with each other in their care for and attention to this young girl, whose father lay dead in his berth, and who was all alone in a foreign country. Understanding but little of the language, and terrified half out of his wits at the sight of death, Pierre was almost worse than useless, and could do nothing but crouch at his mistress’ feet, and holding her hands in his, gaze into her face in dumb despair, as if asking what they were to do next. “Children, both of them. We must take it in hand ourselves,” the captain said to his mate, and he did take it in hand, and saw that Reinette was made comfortable at the Astor, and that the body was made ready for burial. When asked if she had friends or relatives expecting her, Reinette replied: “No, papa was all I had. There’s only Pierre now, and Mr. Beresford, papa’s agent. I am to trust him with everything.” Later, when something was said to her of telegraphing to Mr. Beresford to come for her, she answered, promptly: