“I am afraid to boast,” she answered. “I have been in what was called a Number Eight gale, whatever that may mean, and weathered it splendidly, but I am older now.” “It cannot have been long ago, seeing that you recall it so exactly.” “It was six years ago, and I was seventeen then,” said Elsie, her eyes wandering to the purple and gold of the far-off mountains. “But you are English. You are therefore at home on the rolling deep,” murmured Monsieur de Poincilit, confidentially. She did not endeavor to interpret his expressive glance, though he seemed to convey more than he said. “Not so much at home at sea as you are in my language,” she replied, and she turned to Dr. Christobal, whom she had already known slightly in Valparaiso. “Are you coming on deck?” she inquired. “I am sure you are a mine of information on Chile, and I want to extract some of the ore while the land is still visible. It is already assuming the semblance of a dream.” “You are not saying a last farewell to Valparaiso, I hope?” said her elderly companion, as they quitted the salon. “I think so. I have no ties there, save those of sentiment. I shall not return, unless, if a doubtful fortune permits, I am able some day to revisit two graves which are dear to me.” There was a little catch in her voice, and the doctor was far too sympathetic to endeavor forthwith to divert her sad thoughts. “I knew your father,” he said gently. “He was a most admirable man, but quite unsuited to the environment of a new country, where the dollar is god, and an unstable deity at that. He was swindled outrageously by men who stand high in the community to-day. But you, Miss Maxwell, with your knowledge of Spanish and your other acquirements, should do better here than in Europe, provided, that is, you mean to earn your own living.” “I am proud to hear you speak well of my father,” she said. “And I am well aware that he was badly treated in business. I fear, too, that his advocacy of the rights of the Indians brought him into disfavor. Of all his possessions the only remnant left to me is a barren mountain, with a slice of fertile valley, in the Quillota district. It yields me the magnificent revenue of two hundred dollars per annum.” “How in the world did he come to own land there?” “It was a gift from the Naquilla tribe. He defeated an attempt made to oust them by a big land company. The company has since asked me to sell the property, and offered me a fair price, too, as the cultivable land is a very small strip, but it would be almost like betraying the cause for which he fought, would it not?” “Yes, indeed,” agreed the doctor, though his heart and not his head dictated the reply. “May I ask you to tell me your plans for the future?” he went on.