We stood together, and she had linked her arm in mine. We who had been so close together for a month were now to have an ocean put between us. Not that that mattered to me, already separated from her by something wider than the Atlantic, a lonely unnamed grave away there in Staffordshire. Suddenly she called to Dot, and he, as knowing just what she wanted, brought her a box. She loosed her arm from mine and took it from him, and when I would in turn have relieved her of it, she gently refused. "Oliver," she said, in quiet, firm tones, "you met me when I was in grave danger and immediately, like the gallant gentleman you are, left mother and home to do me service." "It was the privilege of my life, madam," I said earnestly. "You have sweetened your service by so regarding it, giving greatly when you gave. And, sir, that service put me in your debt. You see that?" "It is like you to say so. What of it?" "The time came when you were in danger, and I, in my turn, left my father and rode hard to save you. I am not boasting, you understand, sir. I am merely stating a fact. I rendered service for service, like for like, did I not, sir?" "You did, madam, and did it splendidly," said I. "Then, sir, when we meet again," she said, and she was now speaking very clearly and sweetly, looking me full in the eyes, potent in all her beauty and queenliness, "when we meet again, we meet on level terms." "Are you ready, lad?" called Master Freake. "Coming, sir!" I cried, almost glad at heart of the escape. "One moment, Oliver!" said Margaret. "So anxious to be rid of me? Nay, I jest of course! I've a little present for you here, Oliver. It will, I hope, make you think of me at times." "It will not," I replied, smiling. "It will make me think oftener of you, that's all." She handed me the box, and we walked up to the boat. The half-moon was bright in an unclouded sky, and it showed me tears on Margaret's cheeks, as I bent to clasp and kiss her hand. Then I said good-bye to Master Freake and Dot, and was helped into the boat. So we parted, and I set my face toward the New World. For ten weary months there is nothing to be said that belongs of right and necessity to my story. Except this: The first thing I did when I was alone in my cabin on the good ship, the "Merchant of London," was to open Margaret's box. It contained a full supply of books wherefrom to learn "the only language one can love in," and on the fly-leaf of a sumptuous "Dante" she had written, "From Margaret to Oliver." CHAPTER XXV I SETTLE MY ACCOUNT WITH MY LORD BROCTON