of it—­not a strand.  ’One does not grow a yard and a half of hair in a month, or a year, doctor,’ I observed, ’and a woman might as well be dead at once, or mad, or a man, as have cropped hair during all the days of her youth.’  I had a fellow-feeling, you see!  I have magnificent hair myself, child, as Clayton well knows, for it is her chief trouble on earth, and I would almost as lief die as lose it.”

“Yes, indeed, Lady Anastasia’s hair is one of her chief attractions,” observed the sympathizing Clayton, behind her chair.

“So Sir Harry Raymond thought, my dear “—­addressing me—­“when I married him, ten years ago; and so somebody else thinks just now, for I am tired of my widowhood, and intend taking on the conjugal yoke again as soon as I reach—­”

“New York,” interpolated Mrs. Clayton, hastily and emphatically; clearing her throat slightly, by way of apology, perhaps, for her officiousness.

“And you shall stand bridesmaid, my dear.  Yes, I am determined on it; so never make great eyes at me.  There is a little bit of romance about me that will strike out in spite of all my worldliness; and it will be so pretty to have an ’ocean-waif for an attendant—­it will read so well in the papers!  I suppose, when you reach your friends, there will be no difficulty about a dress, and all that sort of thing, meet for the occasion—­a very splendid one, I assure you—­conducted without regard to expense; for my fiance is very rich, I hear, and my own jointure was a liberal one.”

“You do me a great honor,” I murmured, conventionally rebelling inwardly at the suggestion.

“Oh, not at all!” was the gracious rejoinder.  “I see at a glance, in spite of your misfortunes, that you are one of us, which is not what I say to everybody.  True blood will show under all circumstances, though there is such an improvement.  Did any one ever see the like before?  Why, my dear, you were blistered and black when we picked you up, and afterward sienna-colored; now you are almost a beauty!”

“I am better—­much better, and have a great deal to be thankful for, I feel,” I contented myself with murmuring.

“Of course you have.  It was just a chance with you between our ship and death, you know.  By-the-by, what name shall we give our ‘treasure-trove?’”

“Miriam for the present, if you please.  This is no time nor place for ceremony.”

“Well, Miriam it shall be,” she repeated with laughing eyes (hers were of that sort which close and grow Chinese under the pressure of merriment and high cheekbones combined).  “Miriam, I like the name—­there is something grand about it.”

“But how shall we know where to find your friends when we get to port?” asked my first attendant.  “We must know more than your Christian name for such a purpose.  You must place confidence in us, you must indeed!”

“Be patient with me,” I entreated.  “I am much too feeble yet to give you the details that may be necessary.  When we reach New York, you shall know every thing:  or is it, indeed, to that place this ship is bound?”