“Is all well?” whispered Castleton. “More than well,” answered Jacynth. “Where is he?” “In the cabin.” “Do you think we dare risk it?” “We must and shall,” muttered Lord Castleton. “He can’t break down now. It may save his life.” Gently these two brave gentlemen led their poor sick friend to his cabin, placed him on his couch, but before they left him in a half-dream they uncovered the sleeping form of a little child who was resting in an opposite berth, the fingers of one hand twisted in his sunny locks and the others clasped over a woman’s portrait. The faithful Jacynth had taken it from next his heart and placed it in the child’s hands. It was Ronny, who had gone to sleep kissing his mother’s picture, which had fallen from his baby hands. For hours the sick man slept, and his friends stood, sentinel-like, loyal hearts at the cabin door. The sun had sunk, the stars were out, and the steamer was already miles at sea, plowing through the waves, lessening the journey between America and dear old England. Still the true friends watched at the sick man’s door. Suddenly they heard a passionate cry, a wild cry of pleasurable pain, a cry that faded into a moan of relief. “Ronny, Ronny darling--my child, my son--oh! how good is God. Let us thank God together.” Quietly the two friends opened the cabin door and saw father and son on their knees in an attitude of prayer. The child was looking up into his father’s eyes, and the wasted man with streaming eyes was kissing his wife’s portrait, and murmuring, “I have kept my oath. Beloved one, I’m bringing Ronny home to his mother’s arms.” The stars went out and darkness fell upon the sea. There was silence in the cabin now, for father and boy were wrapped in a profound sleep. Castleton and Jacynth had finished their cigars and turned in. Close upon midnight two figures came upon deck from the steerage part of the steamer, and walked backward and forward without exchanging a single word. But they never separated. It was a detective from Scotland Yard, and Mme. de Vigny was in his custody, cursing her fate. As the huge ship plunged through the green Atlantic waves, bearing homeward the fatal lives of so many interested in this eventful history, poor Fenella, worn almost to a shadow, sat dreaming in her garden in “the island of carnations.” She knew, at any rate, that Frank was faithful, and that her boy was safe. CHAPTER XIX. BY CLO. GRAVES.