"What did Mr. Pyne tell you?" whispered Brand, pretending to make a secret of it with Elsie.
"There didn't seem to be 'nuff to eat," she explained, seriously, "so Mr. Pyne kep' a bit of biscuit in his pocket, an' Mamie 'n' me had a chew every time we saw him."
"H'm," murmured the man, glancing up at his young friend as he walked around the trimming-stage with the delighted Mamie. "I suppose he asked you not to tell anybody?"
"We wasn't to tell Miss Constance or Miss Enid. An' they tole us we wasn't to tell him about the sweet stuff they put in our tea. That is all. Funny, isn't it?"
Brand knew that these little ones were motherless. His eyes dimmed somewhat. Like all self-contained men, he detested any exhibition of sentiment.
"I say," he cried huskily to Pyne, "you must escort your friends back to their quarters. No more idling, please."
"An' you will really send for us tomorrow to see the milkman?" said Elsie. Notwithstanding his sudden gruffness, she was not afraid of him. She looked longingly at the great lamp and the twinkling diamonds of the dioptric lens.
"Yes. I will not forget. Good-by, now, dearie."
The visit of the children had given him a timely reminder. As these two were now so had his own loved ones been in years that might not be recalled.
The nest would soon be empty, the young birds flown. He realized that he would not be many days ashore before the young American to whom he had taken such a liking would come to him and put forward a more enduring claim to Constance than Mr. Traill made with regard to Enid. Well, he must resign himself to these things, though no man ever lost two daughters under stranger conditions.