"I think it is a very nice place."

"So do I; and under other circ.u.mstances I should be very happy there.

Do you suppose Julia or Florina Lord is with Mr. Whippleton?"

"I am satisfied that neither of them is with him."

"Mr. Waterford said they were; but that was a part of his deception."

"He does not scruple to lie."

"If Julia were only here, I should be satisfied," added she, looking out upon the lake.

"I am sorry she is not; but you may be satisfied as it is. You shall have the cabin all to yourself."

"I'm not afraid of anything," said she, with some confusion on her pretty face.

"You ought not to be afraid of your own cousin."

"My own what?" asked she, with a smile.

"Of your own cousin."

"Where is he?"

"I am he."

"You, Philip," laughed she.

"Perhaps you think I am joking; but I am not."

"You really don't mean to say that you are my cousin."

"I do really mean to say it, and I know it is true."

"How can that be?"

"It so happens that my mother and your father are brother and sister; and I believe the relationship of cousin is usually established in some such way."

"Doubtless you are quite right, Mr. Philip; but my father has but one sister, and she does not happen to have any children. Therefore I cannot possibly have any such cousin as you mention," said she, smiling at what she deemed her overwhelming argument; and perhaps she thought I was getting up a conspiracy against her.

"Your conclusion would be entirely just if the premises were correct.

Your father's sister had one child."

"Had, but has not now. Her little son was lost on the Missouri River."

"Supposed to be lost, but not lost," I replied, warmly. "I am that son."

"Do you really mean so, Philip?" she inquired, looking at me earnestly, as if to fathom the trick I was playing upon her.

"I do most certainly."

"What is your other name?"

"Farringford."

"That was certainly the name of my aunt's husband; but it is impossible to believe so strange a story."

"I am afraid your father and your grandfather would refuse to believe what I say. Now, while we are chasing Mr. Whippleton, I will tell you the whole story."

I did tell it, and I had an attentive auditor; but when I had finished it, I was taken aback by her declaring that I had been reading dime novels, and had stolen the plot of one of them. But she said it so prettily and so good-naturedly, that I forgave her on the instant, though she did not sue for pardon.

"But I have heard that your father--" she began.

"Was a drunkard and a spendthrift," I added, completing the sentence for her. "He was, but is not now. He is a sober, honest, prudent, and Christian man."

"I am glad to hear that, for I was forbidden years ago even to mention his name," added Marian. "I don't think my father or grandfather will believe this story."

"They will have to believe it, if evidence will convince them," I replied, stoutly.

"But what does my aunt say?"

"My mother has not yet heard the story. My father wrote to my grandfather several times, but he took no notice of the letters."

"Aunt Louise has been in Europe several years."

"I have never seen my mother since I was a child; I do not remember her. Do you know where she is?"

"She was in Italy last winter; but I don't know where she is now."

"Will you ascertain for me?" I asked, with more interest than I cared to manifest.

"I will."

"I have her portrait in St. Louis. It was in a locket attached to a coral chain which I wore when I was saved from the river. I will show it to you some time."

"If it is really her portrait, I shall believe the story, whether anybody else does or not."

"My father says it is her portrait, and he ought to know. He is sure I am the lost son."

"You are so honest and brave, Philip, that I can't help believing you.

I hope you are my cousin, at any rate, for I shall be proud of the relationship."

"Thank you, Marian--may I call you so?"

"Certainly you may, if you are my cousin."

"You are very kind."

"Indeed, you have already placed me under a debt of obligation to you which I can never repay."