Mr. Doggett, in the expansion of his heart, had offered Felix his "grub" free if he would sleep aboard the _Sarah Dawkes_ and mind her while the owner spent these few nights in the bosom of his family--a thing he could not have done otherwise. Thus obtaining free, though rough, board and lodging, the young fellow had all his wages as clear profit, and he had ventured upon the purchase of such trifles as a comb and a tooth-brush, and even six pocket-handkerchiefs. He was, however, very doubtful as to how he should obtain the suit of decent clothes which he felt to be indispensable if he was to convey Rona by train to the North of England. He was plunged into the consideration of the problem of how to buy a suit out of three weeks' wages at fifteen shillings a week, and leave enough for railway fares, when chance sent him running up against the Russian engineer. The fee paid by lawyers for the translation of a letter is ten shillings; and after Felix had translated four or five for his new friend he did not refuse this fee when warmly pressed upon him. As the evening passed the two grew very friendly. Felix said he had known many Russians. He had been a member of a society in London many of whose adherents belonged to that nationality. One had been quite a pal of his. The engineer--whose name was Vronsky--eagerly begged to know the name of Felix's friend. It was Loris Levien Ivanovitch. Vronsky was much agitated. "Why, he was imprisoned, in London, for belonging to a dynamite society--unhappy boy, not to be warned!" His mother was Vronsky's own cousin. It had been heartbreak to her. But she had left her home and country and gone to meet her son in Styria, when he came out of prison. There they had made a home together, and the young man had found work. He had a fine tenor voice. Felix made a gesture, as of one smitten by an overpowering memory. He began to sing, at first with hesitation, but with increasing confidence, a Russian song, full of the essential melancholy of the Slav peoples. A certain thrilling tenderness, mingled with the plaintive despondency of the national outlook, found expression in the strange cadences. The Russian sat with his head bowed, his clenched hand lying on the table. His eyes were heavy with tears, his whole heart was wrung by this song of his native land. When it was done he raised his head and looked intently at the singer. "You must often have heard Loris sing that song?" "Often and often. Very often," said Felix, his mind traveling back across old memories. He set his lips firmly, and looked his new friend straight in the eyes. "I was there--in prison--with Loris Ivanovitch," he said, steadily. Vronsky gazed at him in pure sympathy. His eyes were still soft with tears. "My poor lad," he said, softly. "Poor, misguided child. You have suffered."