friends, who would sooner live without a roof over their heads than seek a new master.  I shall grow vines again, my young friend, and make cheeses.  You shall come from the illustrious firm of Samuel Weatherley & Company and be my most favored customer.  But let me give you just a word of advice while I am in the humor.  Buy our cheeses, if you will, but never touch our wine.  Leave that for the peasants who make it.  Somehow or other, they thrive,—­they even become, at times, merry upon it,—­but the Lord have mercy upon those others, not born upon the island of Sabatini, who raise it to their lips!”

“I will leave the wine alone,” Arnold promised.  “But shan’t I be able to say good-bye to Ruth?”

Sabatini leaned towards him.  His expression was once more grave, yet there was the dawn of a smile upon his sensitive lips.

“You can say to her what you will,” he murmured, “for she is here.  She had a fancy to look at her old room.  I was there with her when you arrived.  I have a fancy now to give an order to my chauffeur. A bientot!”

Arnold rose slowly to his feet.  His heart was beginning to beat fiercely.  He was looking across the room with straining eyes.  It was not possible that clothes and health could make so great a difference as this!  She was standing upon the threshold of her room.  She was coming now slowly towards him, leaning ever so slightly upon her stick.  Her cheeks were touched with pink, her eyes were lit with so soft and wonderful a brilliance that they shone like stars.  He forgot her fashionable hat, the quiet elegance of her clothes.  It was Ruth who came towards him—­Ruth, radiantly beautiful, transformed—­yet Ruth!  He held out his arms and with a little sob she glided into them.

Side by side they took their accustomed places upon the horse-hair sofa.  Her head sank upon his shoulder, her hands clasped his, her eyes were wet with tears.  A siren blew from the river.  A little tug, with two barges lashed alongside, was coming valiantly along.  The dark coil of water seemed suddenly agleam with quivering lights.

“Our ships,” she whispered, “together, dear!”

THE END

* * * * *

E. Phillips Oppenheim’s Novels

Mr. Oppenheim never fails to entertain us.—­Boston Transcript.

The author has acquired an admirable technique of the sort demanded by the novel of intrigue and mystery.—­The Dial, Chicago.

Mr. Oppenheim is a past master of the art of constructing ingenious plots and weaving them around attractive characters.—­London Morning Post.

By all odds the most successful among the writers of that class of fiction which, for want of a better term, may be called “mystery stories.”—­Ainslee’s Magazine.

Readers of Mr. Oppenheim’s novels may always count on a story of absorbing interest, turning on a complicated plot, worked out with dexterous craftsmanship.—­Literary Digest, New York.