The days passed more rapidly than Mabel had any idea they would, and a delightful time they had, too. Reading, card playing, and an occasional old-fashioned candy making enlivened the time. They really did not heed the passage of time as the vessel, day after day, brought them farther into that realm of delight—the tropics. All day long they lie lazily on deck under an awning that had been put up to protect them from the fervid rays of the glorious king of day, and drink in the fresh sea air so warm, yet so refreshing, so delicious. The party had become so imbued with truly tropical indolence, that now, even reading was abandoned by them. They were having a desultory conversation one afternoon when it occurred to them that a pleasant diversion would be to relate any strange events that had ever happened to any of them, and then weave the whole into one romance, drawing on their imaginations, of course, to make the final story more thrilling. “Now,” cried Mabel, “Mr. Thornton, as you were the one to propose the scheme, you must be the first to tell of the events in your life that are worthy to be written in our crazy-patch story, which, I am sure, will astonish the whole world when we allow it to read our wonderful productions.” “All right, Miss Miller; but as you are the one to propose giving our story the honor of being written I move that you be the one to write down all the events that have, in the past, happened to our party,” Mr. Thornton answered with a laugh, as Mabel made a wry face at being picked out as the one to do the only physical labor connected with the plan. “Wait until I run down and get a blank book which I have in my cabin, and we shall be under full sail,” saying which Mr. Thornton disappeared down the companion way, returning with blank book and pencil. “Now, Miss Mabel, to work.” “But,” said she, “how can I write anything until you have told me what to write.” “By Jove, I forgot you were waiting for me to begin. Let me see, to begin with I was born at a very early age, and——” “Now stop, Mr. Thornton, we won’t allow any such old joke as that to go with our romance,” cried Etta. “Very well, then; I was born at Brighton, England. Now, really, girls, I don’t see where I’m going to find the romance or strange events in my life. I’m in despair.” “That isn’t fair, Mr. Thornton,” said Mabel, “you’ve got to go on now. I warrant you have a romance you don’t want us to know anything about.”