“Because, curiously enough, that song was written by a Carolean ancestor of mine, and I cannot think how Justinian came to know it.”
“It is strange, certainly,” said Helena thoughtfully.
“Helena, who is your father?” asked Maurice impulsively.
“Demarch of Melnos.”
“Yes, I know that; but what is his English name?”
“That I cannot tell you,” replied Helena, shaking her pretty head. “I know nothing beyond that he is Justinian, that I am his daughter, and that this is our island.”
“It’s like ‘The Tempest,’ is it not? You are Miranda, Justinian Prospero, and I”—
“And you?” queried Helena, with a slight blush.
“Cannot you guess?” asked Maurice significantly.
The girl laughed, and looked down at her flowers.