At this Harry laughed still more.
"You're not mad?" said Katie, with a droll assumption of anxiety.
"Will you really be my friend?" asked Harry.
"Of course. Didn't I say as much?" said Katie.
"Then let's shake hands over it," said Harry, "and swear an eternal friendship."
Saying this, he held out his baud, and Katie held out hers. Harry pressed it warmly and tenderly.
"Well," said Harry, after a pause, "I'll tell you all about it, for I want your—your sympathy, you know, and your advice, you know, and all that sort of thing, you know."
"Well, do you know, Mr. Rivers," said Katie, "that's my strong point. I always have at my disposal any amount of sympathy; and as for advice, why, I could begin and go on advising, and advising, and advising, from now till—well, not to be too extravagant, I'll merely say till doomsday. So now—won't you begin?"
CHAPTER VII. — IN WHICH HARRY BECOMES CONFIDENTIAL, AND TELLS A VERY REMARKABLE
STORY.
Harry paused a little longer, and then said, "Well, you see, the friend that I wanted to see is a lady."
"Of course," said Katie; "that's a self-evident fact. I know that, and she is your ladylove. But I want to know all about her, and, first of all, her name."
"I didn't think that you thought I was thinking of a lady," said Harry.
"What a ridiculous observation!" said Katie; "and I know you only say that to tease me, when you know I'm so curious about this friend of yours."
"Well," said Harry, "in the first place, her name is Talbot."
"Talbot? What else?"
"Sydney—Sydney Talbot."
"Sydney Talbot! But that isn't a girl's name; it's a man's name."
"At any rate," said Harry, "it's her name."
"Well, but hasn't she some pet name—something more feminine, such as 'Minnie,' for instance, or 'Nellie,' or 'Kittie,' or 'Florrie,' or something of that sort?"
"No; her only name is Sydney Talbot. You see, Sydney is a family name, and had to be perpetuated. She had no brothers, and so it was given to her. Her father's name was also Sydney Talbot, and her grandfather's, and—"
"And her great-grandfather's," chimed in Katie, "and so on up to Noah; but his name, at any rate, was not Sydney Talbot. Now this is a very romantic beginning, so go on. I will only remark that I intend to be great friends with your wife some day, and that I've made up my mind to call her 'Syddie.' She is actually pining for a pet name. But what do you call her?"
"I? Oh, I call her Miss Talbot."
"Miss! You call her Miss—Talbot? What a horrible idea! And you pretend to love her!" cried Katie, reproachfully.
"Well—but, you know, Sydney is too stiff."
"Then why not invent a name? Call her 'Poppet,' or 'Topsy,' or 'Fifine,' or 'Rosie,' or 'Gracie.' Why, I could supply you with fifty or sixty names on the spot. But this is all idle trifling. Go on and tell me more. Give a full and complete account of yourself and your 'own one.'"
"Well, you know, I'm doing business in Barcelona, and we were engaged to be married last year."
"Did you see her last in Barcelona?"
"No, in England, last year. I met her in London."
"Have you not seen her since?"
"No. We have corresponded ever since, and this marriage was arranged by letter."
"Oh, but you're not married yet?" said Katie, in a low voice.
"No," said Harry, "and Heaven only knows when we ever shall be."
"Why?"
"Oh, well—because there's been such a muddle about it all. You see, I proposed, and was accepted, in the usual course of things."
"Ah, now, Mr. Rivers," said Katie, "that's not fair!"
"Fair! what isn't fair?"
"Why, you're skipping all the best part."
"The best part? I don't understand."
"Well, I mean you're leaving out all the love parts. I want to hear all about your love affair—how you first saw her; how you felt; how she treated you; how you were tormented by the pangs of jealousy, agitated by hope and fear, until you knew that she was yours. And you have the heart to skip all this and go on to the stupid, commonplace end of it!"
Harry laughed.
"Well," said he, "the end of my case has not yet come; and the farther on I go the more exciting it grows. But I'll tell you all if you want me to. Shall I begin at the beginning, and tell you how I first became acquainted with her?"
"Yes, yes, do!" said Katie, eagerly.
"Well, it was at sea, in a tremendous gale, when we both were face to face with death."
At this Katie threw up her eyes, clasped her hands, and exclaimed,
"Oh, how perfectly exquisite! how utterly delicious! how quite too awfully jolly! But when? where? Oh, do go on!"
"It was aboard the steamer from Marseilles to Leghorn. During the night after leaving a furious storm arose. The steamer was an old rattletrap, and soon began to leak fearfully. I was in my berth, trying to sleep, when at last I was roused by a yell from all the crew and passengers. I rushed out and on deck, and saw the sea all breaking in foam over the vessel. The passengers and crew were all mixed up in a wild, confused mass, trying to scramble into the boats. This was made visible by the lightning flashes at intervals, after which everything would become as black as night. I saw that nothing could be done, so I took my station near the mizzen shrouds, and held on there, waiting for the end. While here I saw a female figure crouching down under the bulwarks and clinging there. Partly out of pity, and partly for the sake of having something to do, I helped her up to her feet, held her up in that position, and told her to cling to the shrouds, and stay by me as long as she possibly could.
"At length, in the midst of a flash of lightning, I happened to notice that the jolly-boat was hanging from the davits astern. No one was near: every one was running about forward. I determined to make an effort for life. The woman was almost senseless, so I half carried, half dragged her to the boat and got her in. Then I passed a line around the seat of the boat and secured her to it; after which I began to lower the boat down. This was a deuced hard job, but I managed it at last. Then I jumped in, and cut the line that held us, and away we went in the boat, which was sent spinning along like a feather over the boiling sea. I don't know how we kept afloat, but we did. The woman never spoke one word. So we passed a fearful night, and at length morning came. Then the woman began to cry bitterly. I soothed her as well as I could.
"We were in a terrible situation. The storm had nearly gone down, but we were threatened with something worse, for we had neither water nor provisions. I gave my companion some brandy, which revived her. We were far away out of sight of land, and no sails were visible anywhere. I had a couple of oars, and with these I pulled toward the north. My companion soon regained her composure and her strength, and we were able to discuss our prospects. She told me her name and destination. She was on her way to Rome to join her father, in company with an aged relative and her maid. Her father