In answer to other questions Nadara related all that had transpired since the night of the earthquake. Her description of the catastrophe convinced the Americans that a violent quake had recently occurred to shake the island to its foundations. "Ask her about Waldo," whispered Mr. Smith-Jones, himself dreading to put the question. "We are looking for a young man," said Burlinghame, "who was lost overboard from a steamer on the west coast of this island. We know that he reached the shore alive, for we have heard from him. Have you ever seen or heard of this stranger? His name is Waldo Emerson Smith-Jones--this gentleman is his father," indicating Mr. Smith-Jones. Nadara looked with wide eyes at John Alden Smith-Jones. So this man was Thandar's father. She felt very sorry for him, for she knew that he loved Thandar--Thandar had often told her so. She did not know how to tell him--she shrank from causing another the anguish and misery that she had endured. "Did you know of him?" asked Burlinghame. Nadara nodded her head. "Where is he?" cried Waldo's father. "Where are the people with whom he lived here?" Nadara came close to John Alden Smith-Jones. There was no fear in her innocent young heart for this man who was Thandar's father--who loved Thandar--only a great compassion for him in the sorrow that she was about to inflict. Gently she took his hand in hers, raising her sad eyes to his. "Where is he? Where is my boy?" whispered Mr. Smith-Jones. "He is with his people, who were my people--the people of whom I have just told you," replied Nadara softly-- "He is dead." And then she dropped her face upon the man's hand and wept. The shock staggered John Alden Smith-Jones. It seemed incredible--impossible--that Waldo could have lived through all that he must have lived through to perish at last but a few short weeks before succor reached him. For a moment he forgot the girl. It was her hot tears upon his hand that aroused him to a consciousness of the present. "Why do you weep?" he cried almost roughly. "For you," she replied, "who loved him, too." "You loved Waldo?" asked the boy's father. Nadara nodded her tumbled mass of raven hair. John Alden Smith-Jones looked down upon the bent head of the sobbing girl in silence for several minutes. Many things were racing through his patrician brain. He was by training, environment and heredity narrow and Puritanical. He saw the meager apparel of the girl--he saw her nut brown skin; but he did not see her nakedness, for something in his heart told him that sweet virtue clothed her more effectually than could silks and satins without virtue. Gently he placed an arm about her, drawing her to him. "My daughter," he said, and pressed his lips to her forehead.