“Papa,” remarked the little stranger, looking up at his father, “I very much wish I had a face like this little boy’s.”

“Do you, son?” was the smiling rejoinder.  “He certainly looks like a very nice little boy.  Suppose you and he shake hands, Frank.”

“Yes, sir,” said the child, holding out a small, plump hand, “What’s your name, little boy?”

“Harold Travilla, and yours is Fank?”

“Yes, Frank Daly.  Don’t you like this nice big boat?”

“Yes I do.  Won’t you come wis me and speak to my mamma and papa?”

Frank looked inquiringly at his father.

“Yes, you may go if you wish,” returned the latter, and the two started off hand in hand.

“Mamma, see! isn’t he a dear little boy?” asked Harold, leading his new friend up before her with an air of proud ownership.

“Yes indeed,” she said, bending down to kiss Frank and stroke his hair.

“I think he’s a good boy, ’cause he didn’t come till his papa told him to,” continued Harold.

“A very good way to judge of a boy,” said Cousin Ronald.

“His name is Fank,” said Harold.  “Fank, that’s Cousin Ronald, and this is papa, and this is grandpa,” and so on, leading him from one to another till he had introduced him to the whole party, not even omitting Baby Herbert and mammy.

Then Frank’s papa came for him, saying the air was growing very cool, and it was time to go in.

Our friends were of the same opinion and all repaired to the ladies’ saloon, where, through the children, they and the Dalys soon made acquaintance.

Mr. Daly was a minister going South for the winter for the sake of his own and his wife’s health.

Cousin Ronald took Frank on his knee and asked, “What are you going to do, my little fellow, when you get to be a man.”

“Preach the gospel, sir.”

“Ah ha, ah ha! um h’m, um h’m! and what will you say?”

“I’ll tell the people we’ll sing the twenty-third piece of ham.  How will that sound?”

“Rather comical, I think, my man.  Are ye no afraid the folk might laugh?”

“No sir:  they don’t laugh when papa says it.”

“Ah ha, ah ha! um h’m!”

Mr. Daly smiled.  “I never knew before,” said he, “that my boy intended to follow my profession.”

The ladies were weary, and retired to their state rooms shortly after tea, but the gentlemen sought the open air again and paced the deck for some time.

“Have a cigar, sir?” asked Mr. Lilburn, addressing Mr. Daly.

“Thank you, no; I don’t smoke.”

“Ah ha! um h’m!  In that you seem to be of one mind with my friends here, the Dinsmores and Travilla,” remarked Lilburn, lighting one for himself and placing it between his lips.  “I wonder now if you know what you miss by your abstinence?”

“Well, sir, as to that, I know what some of my friends and acquaintance would have missed if they had abstained from the use of the weed.  One would have missed a terrible dyspepsia that laid him in his grave in the prime of life; another cancer of the lip which did the same by him after years of horrible suffering.”