“It’s not strange at all,—­when you understand,” remarked Chester, who was intensely interested in her story.  “I suppose you obeyed your father.”

“Well, now, you want me to tell you the truth, of course—­I—­I wasn’t curious—­”

“Certainly not.”

“You’re laughing at me.  But I wasn’t, I tell you.  I was interested.  There is something in ‘Mormonism’ that draws me to it.  I don’t know much about it, to be sure, for it seems that the subject always widens out to such immensity.  I want you to tell me more about Joseph Smith, the Book of Mormon and the new revelations.”

“But your father will object.  What would he say if he knew you were sitting here in this beautiful moonlight talking to a ’Mormon’?”

“I’m of age, I guess.  I’m doing nothing wrong, I hope.”

“I hope not.  Far be it for me to harm you—­or any living soul.  But I don’t know much about the gospel as we call it—­for you must know it is the simple gospel of Jesus Christ revealed anew.  There are three other ‘Mormons’ on board, missionaries going to Europe.  One of them at least could tell you much.”

“But I’d be pleased to hear you tell me—­is, is that father?  I wonder if he is looking for me.”

Chester looked in the direction indicated.  A man came up, then passed on; it was not the minister.  The girl crouched into the shadow, and as she did so her shoulder pressed against Chester’s.  Then she sprang up.

“Well, I was foolish,” she exclaimed, “to be afraid of dear old daddy!”

Chester also arose, and the two walked to the railing.  They stood there in the moonlight.  Great clouds of black smoke poured from the ship’s funnels, and streamed on to windward, casting a shadow on the white deck.  They looked out to the water, stretching in every direction into the darkness.  Then as if impelled by a common impulse, they looked at each other, then blushed, and lowered their eyes.  The girl’s hands lay on the railing.  Chester saw their soft shapeliness, and noted also that there were no rings on them.

“I’m glad I’ve met you,” said Chester honestly.

“And I’m glad, too,” she breathed.  “Some other time you must tell me so much.  I’ve so many questions to ask.  You’ll do that, won’t you?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Now I must go to father.  He may be uneasy.”  She held out her hand.  “Good night—­what do you think of me?  Am I a rude girl?”

“I heard your father call you Lucy.  That’s your name, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And I may call you that, may I not?  You know these ship-board acquaintances don’t wait on ceremony.”

“But I don’t know your name, either.  Think of it, how we have been really confidential and we don’t even know each other’s name.”

“I know yours.”

“Only half of it.  I’ve two more.  How many have you?”

“Only two.”

“And they are?”