In the saloon of a homeward-bound steamer, twenty-four hours from port, and that port Southampton, a lady sat writing letters.

Her age was about thirty; her face was rather piquant than pretty; she had the air of a person far too intelligent and spirited to be involved in any life of mere routine, on whatever plane.

Two letters she had written in French, one in German, and that upon which she was now engaged was in English, her native tongue; it began "Dearest Mother." "All's well.

A pleasant and a quick voyage.

The one incident of it which you will care to hear about is that I have made friends--a real friendship, I think--with a delightful girl, of respectability which will satisfy even you.