"Mother dear, are you dressing for dinner yet?"
The mother's weak voice answered: "No, dear; I shall not be at the table to-night."
"Oh, mother, I want you with me to-night," she said, regretfully, going into her mother's room.
"You want me with you?" said the mother, with mild astonishment. "Why, my dear, I thought—you usually like being alone—or—or with Mr.—er—with the Japanese."
"Not to-night, mother—not to-night," she said, and put her head down on her mother's neck with a half-caress, a habit she had had when a little girl, and which sometimes returned to her when in a loving mood.
"I don't understand myself to-night, mother," she whispered.
The peevish, nervous tones of the invalid mother repulsed her.
"My dear, do not ruffle my hair so—There! go on to the dining-room like a good girl. And do, dear, be careful. I am so afraid of your becoming too fond of this—this Japanese. You are always talking about him now, and Tom says you are inseparable on deck."
The girl raised her head, and rose from her kneeling posture beside her mother. There was a cold glint in her eyes.
"Really, mother, you need not fear for me," she said, coldly. "Tom only says things for the sake of hearing himself talk—you ought to know better than to mind him."