“You must be quiet to-day, and to-morrow you can go on deck,” she said; and then, as Jennie had gone out, she sat down by Bessie’s side, and taking one of her hands, continued:  “Do you think you are strong enough to see an old friend by and by?”

Bessie knew she meant Grey, and the hot blood surged into her face as she answered, eagerly: 

“Yes, oh, yes.  He will bring Stoneleigh back to me; he was so kind when father died, and in Rome, and everywhere.  Can I see him now?”

“Not just yet,” Miss Grey said, smiling at the young girl’s eagerness, which showed itself in every feature.  “I doubt if Grey is yet up.  He has been sick all the voyage, and is very weak, and I must prepare him first.  He thinks you are dead.”

“Dead!” Bessie repeated.  “How can he think so?  I do not understand.”

As briefly as possible Miss Grey explained all she knew of the mistake which the messenger boy must have made when he told Grey, in Florence, that Bessie had died the very day he left Rome.

“Oh, yes, I see,” Bessie rejoined.  “It was the American girl on the same floor with me.  Flossie told me of her, and I heard them taking her away that night.  Oh, it was so sad; and Mr. Jerrold thought it was I!  Was he sorry, Miss Grey?”

She asked the question timidly, and into her eyes there came a look of great gladness when her friend replied: 

“Yes, very, very sorry.”

“Will you tell him I am not dead?  It was poor mamma who died.  Tell him I am here,” Bessie continued; and Miss Grey looked curiously at the girl, who, being, as she supposed, engaged to Neil, could be so glad that Grey was sorry, and so eager to see him.

“Yes, I will tell him and bring him to you after a little; but you must be quiet, and not excite yourself too much.  I must have you well when we reach New York, and we have only three days more,” Miss Grey replied, and then, with a kiss, she went away to Grey’s state-room at the other end of the ship.

But he was not there, and upon inquiry she learned that he had gone up on deck, where she found him in his chair, sitting by himself, and gazing out upon the sea, with that sad, troubled look on his face, which had of late become habitual, and of which she now knew the reason.

“Grey,” she said, drawing an unoccupied chair close to him, and speaking very low, “you are better this morning.  Do you think you can bear some very good news?”

“Yes,” he answered her.  “What is it?  Are we nearer New York than we supposed?”

“No; it has nothing to do with New York, or the ship, but somebody in it.  Grey”—­and Lucy spoke hurriedly now—­“did it never occur to you that possibly you were mistaken with regard to Bessie’s death—­that it might be some one else who died in Rome and was buried at Stoneleigh—­her mother, perhaps?”

“What!” and Grey drew a long, gasping breath, as he stared wonderingly at her.  “Go on,” he added:  “tell me what you mean.”