“Now,” cried Mabel, “Mr. Thornton, as you were the one to propose the scheme, you must be the first to tell of the events in your life that are worthy to be written in our crazy-patch story, which, I am sure, will astonish the whole world when we allow it to read our wonderful productions.”
“All right, Miss Miller; but as you are the one to propose giving our story the honor of being written I move that you be the one to write down all the events that have, in the past, happened to our party,” Mr. Thornton answered with a laugh, as Mabel made a wry face at being picked out as the one to do the only physical labor connected with the plan.
“Wait until I run down and get a blank book which I have in my cabin, and we shall be under full sail,” saying which Mr. Thornton disappeared down the companion way, returning with blank book and pencil. “Now, Miss Mabel, to work.”
“But,” said she, “how can I write anything until you have told me what to write.”
“By Jove, I forgot you were waiting for me to begin. Let me see, to begin with I was born at a very early age, and——”
“Now stop, Mr. Thornton, we won’t allow any such old joke as that to go with our romance,” cried Etta.
“Very well, then; I was born at Brighton, England. Now, really, girls, I don’t see where I’m going to find the romance or strange events in my life. I’m in despair.”
“That isn’t fair, Mr. Thornton,” said Mabel, “you’ve got to go on now. I warrant you have a romance you don’t want us to know anything about.”
“Well, here goes then. I was born at Brighton, England, and lived there the first fifteen years of my life. When I was about a year old my father, who was a sea captain, left home in his ship for the very port which we are bound for, but which he never reached, as his vessel was lost with all on board and was never heard from. I lived with my widowed mother until I was fifteen, at which time she died, leaving me alone in the world, as I had no brother or sister and but one relative, an uncle, who, at about the time I was born, had gone to Australia, where he had large interests in some of the gold mines in that region. After my uncle learned of my mother’s death he sent me to school and college, in the meantime putting a liberal amount of money at my disposal, and when I left college I had a letter from him saying that he now wished me to come out to Australia and live with him, to take an interest in his large business; in fact to occupy the place of a son to him, as he was childless. Now you would think of course I did as he wished, but I did not, and why? All because a pretty little girl, with rosy cheeks and roguish, laughing eyes, had too strong an attraction for me; but I should have known that those laughing eyes could have looked as lovingly at other admirers as myself. But I trusted my little darling, even when with her arms around my neck she told me that ‘papa must not know of our engagement just yet.’ What difference did it make to me so long as I knew she loved me, even if she did dance half the night and idle away half the day with that young idiot Grayson, whose father is worth his millions. I knew that she loved me, but one day I awoke from my dream. What was this I held in my hand—a card to a wedding? Was I going mad or had my eyes played me false? No, my God, no; it was there printed on the card I held in my hand—‘Helen Jessup to Herbert Grayson.’ Yes, it was my darling’s name. I dropped my head on my hands and gave way to my agony. But finally recovering myself I resolved to go to Helen and ask her what it meant; so dashing out of the house I was soon in a cab going rapidly toward her father’s house. I hardly gave the cab time to stop before I sprang out and rushed up the steps and rang at the door. I asked for Helen. The servant hesitated a moment and then said, ‘Miss Jessup is at home, but I do not know whether she will see anyone or not. I will ask, if you will step into the parlor, sir.’ I went in, my head in a whirl. I was hardly seated when Helen rushed in—a vision of loveliness in white—and actually threw herself in my arms, exclaiming, ‘You darling Allen; I know what you are going to say, but don’t say it, dearest, for my heart is broken, too.’
“‘What do you mean,’ I cried, ‘your heart broken? Who has broken it, may I ask?’