Bobby survived the withdrawal of his favor with amazing indifference.  What puzzled and annoyed him beyond measure was that the more oblivious of him she seemed, the more acutely aware of her he became.  Twenty times a day he assured himself that it made no earthly difference to him whether she was playing quoits with the Scotchman or bean-bag with Andy Black, and yet not a page of his book would become intelligible until he made a round of the deck to find out what she was doing.  The evenings were even worse:  midnight often found him wrapped in his rug in his steamer-chair or morosely pacing the deck, waiting for some festivity in which Bobby was engaged to come to an end.  The shocking lack of chaperonage and the liberty allowed young girls in the States served as themes for more than one bitter letter home.

But his cold aloofness was not destined to last.  One morning when most of the passengers were concerned with the appearance of Bird Island on the horizon, he stumbled quite by accident upon Bobby curled up behind a wind-shelter on the other side of the deck, contributing some large salt tears to the brine of the ocean.  Now, in that circle of society in which it had pleased Providence to place Percival it was considered the height of bad form to exhibit an emotion.  His imagination could not picture one of the ladies of Hascombe Hall sitting in a public place with her hair tumbled over her face, and her shoulders shaking with sobs.

Nevertheless, the sight of this hitherto buoyant young creature in distress moved him to sit down beside her, and in the softly modulated tones upon which we have already commented coax her to tell him what was the matter.

Unlike the historic Miss Muffet who repulsed a similar attention from the spider, she welcomed his arrival.  She even asked him if he had an extra handkerchief, her own having been reduced to a wet little ball.  He had.  He not only proffered it, but helped to wipe away the tears.

[Illustration:  “I don’t know what makes me so everlastingly silly!” she said fiercely trying to swallow the rising sobs, “but he won’t understand!”]

“I don’t know what makes me so everlastingly silly,” she said fiercely, trying to swallow the rising sobs, “but he won’t understand!”

“Who won’t?”

“The captain.  I don’t care if he is my father.  Sometimes I don’t like him a bit.”

Neither did Percival.  It was strange how the common antagonism drew them together.  He was about to ask for further details when the old Peppermint Lady scurried past and, seeing them, turned back to impart the burning news that Bird Island was in sight.

“Yes,” said Percival, shamelessly, “we have seen it.”

“He doesn’t know me if he thinks I’ll give in,” went on Bobby where she had left off.  “I am just as stubborn as he is.”

“There, now, I shouldn’t talk about it if it made me cry,” advised Percival, patting her shoulder.