I nodded, and he kissed my hand.
"Well, some day then I'll go to America, too, and I'll find you, wherever you may be."
I said chokingly, for although I was not in love with this boy, still I liked him tremendously, and I was sentimental:
"I don't believe we'll ever meet again. We're just 'Little ships passing in the night.'"
Marchmont was the only person to see me off. He called for me at the hotel, arranged all the details of the moving of my baggage, and then got a hack and took me to the boat. He had a large basket with him, which I noticed he carried very carefully. When we went to my state-room, he set it down on a chair, and said with his bright, boyish laugh:
"Here's a companion for you. Every time you hear him, I want you to think of me."
I heard him almost immediately; a high, questioning bark came out that package of mystery. I was delighted. A dear little dog—fox terrier, the whitest, prettiest dog I had ever seen. Never before in my life had I had a pet of any kind; never have I had one since. I lifted up this darling soft little dog—he was nothing but a puppy—and as I caressed him, he joyfully licked my face and hands. Marchmont said he was a fine little thoroughbred of a certain West Indian breed. His name, he said, was to be "Verley," after my poor big "dog" that I was leaving behind.
"Are you pleased with him?" he asked.
"I'm crazy about him," I replied.