“Yes, second-class,” she answered. “We cannot afford the high price of the first, and really we are very comfortable, and the voyage will be short. We shall be divided from the first, like goats from sheep, you know; but that doesn’t matter. There are ever so many respectable people second-class with us—professors and clergymen and students. We shall do very well.” “Yes, but I don’t like it, and if I could I’d pay the difference and have you moved,” Herbert said. “I should not allow it,” Louie replied. “We might have gone first-class, for the people in Merivale were very kind and offered to send us that way, but I could not take anything from them. They have lost too much by us. We have paid some of them, though—all the poor depositors and some of the others who were needing the money. The sale of the house and horses and carriage and diamonds did that. We had, of course, to keep enough to live upon. I have never heard who the man was who bought the house of Mr. Blake and let us live there free. I have written to him and thanked him.” She was talking rapidly, for time was passing and she had much to say, while Herbert listened with his eyes fixed on her face, which was flushed with excitement as she talked. “You have written to him?” he repeated. “Yes,” she replied. “Mr. Blake was to direct and mail the letter, and some time I hope to see or hear from him. Do you think I ever shall?” “I think you will,” Herbert answered, half resolved to tell her his suspicions, and wondering if she did not know that Fred Lansing was abroad, and probably in Paris. But he merely said, “I suppose you still have the stage in mind?” “Yes, if it will help pay father’s debts. I am pledged to that, you know,” she replied. “Oh, Louie,” Herbert went on, “I’d almost rather see you dead than a public singer. You can’t know what it involves. Don’t do it. Let the debts go. Other people do and are just as well respected.” He did not know what he was saying in his excitement. The crowd was moving toward the gangway. The signal for visitors’ departure had been given, and he must go and leave behind the girl who never seemed dearer to him than now, when he was losing her forever—not on the stage, but with Fred Lansing. He was sure of it, and felt that he could not give her up. Had he had the money for his passage, he would have gone with her—second-class, if necessary—and as it was, there passed through his mind the wild idea of making himself a stowaway and going at all hazards, paying after he reached Liverpool and could send to his father. There was a great rush for the gangway, and he was in the midst of it, holding Louie’s hand, when some one called to him. “Why, Mr. White, you here? Are you going? I’m so glad.” It was a tall young girl, and at the sound of her voice Herbert dropped Louie’s hand, and with a “God bless you; good-by,” lost himself in the crowd nearest the young girl.