“Oh, stop it!” Elliott exclaimed.
“I don’t think of myself so much as of my little girl. I shall tell her the whole story, and she will know how to thank you better than I can.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort!” cried Elliott, angrily. “She’ll have troubles enough in this pestilential place without that.”
During the night Elliott more than once repented of his bargain, which seemed likely to involve his having the Eaton family slung round his neck to the end of his stay in the East. The old man was well-intentioned enough; he bristled with high resolutions; but he was clearly as unfit for responsibility as a child. Elliott deeply pitied the unfortunate daughter, but he could not feel himself bound to assume the position of guardian to the pair. He determined to meet the steamer as he had promised, hand over the promised twenty pounds, and henceforward avoid the neighbourhood of both father and daughter.
The returning boat left Macao at ten o’clock the next morning, and they reëntered the steam and rain of Hongkong harbour. At three o’clock the big Southern Mail steamer loomed slowly in sight through the haze, surrounded by a fleet of small junks and shore boats. Eaton and Elliott boarded her before any one had landed. Her decks were crowded with passengers, hurrying aimlessly about, staring over the rail or standing guard upon piles of luggage.
Elliott was making his way through the throng when some one touched his arm.
“Mr. Elliott! Is it possible you are here? What are you doing? I thought you were in India. I was so frightened—oh!”
“Margaret—Miss Laurie! Don’t faint!” gasped Elliott, shocked into utter bewilderment, and scarcely believing his eyes or ears.
“I’m not going to faint. I never faint,” said Margaret, weakly. “But I was so startled and frightened. Did you know my father was here?”
“Maggie!” cried Eaton, pushing past him, and in a moment the old man, whose face beamed like the sun, had his daughter in his arms.