There was a large number of passengers on board, scattered over the decks or lingering in the cabins, as inclination prompted.  The observer of faces and character had field enough for study; but Hartley Emerson was not inclined to read in the book of character on this occasion.  One subject occupied his thoughts to the exclusion of all others.  There had come a period that was full of interest and fraught with momentous consequences which must extend through all of his after years.  He saw little but the maiden at his side—­thought of little but his purpose to ask her to walk with him, a soul-companion, in the journey of life.

During the first hour there was a constant moving to and fro and the taking up of new positions by the passengers—­a hum and buzz of conversation—­laughing—­exclamations—­gay talk and enthusiasm.  Then a quieter tone prevailed.  Solitary individuals took places of observation; groups seated themselves in pleasant circles to chat, and couples drew away into cabins or retired places, or continued the promenade.

Among the latter were Emerson and his companion.  Purposely he had drawn the fair girl away from their party, in order to get the opportunity he desired.  He did not mean to startle her with an abrupt proposal here, in the very eye of observation, but to advance toward the object by slow approaches, marking well the effect of his words, and receding the moment he saw that, in beginning to comprehend him, her mind showed repulsion or marked disturbance.

Thus it was with them when the boat entered the Highlands and swept onward with wind-like speed.  They were in one of the gorgeously furnished cabins, sitting together on a sofa.  There had been earnest talk, but on some subject of taste.  Gradually Emerson changed the theme and began approaching the one nearest to his heart.  Slight embarrassment followed; his voice took on a different tone; it was lower, tenderer, more deliberate and impressive.  He leaned closer, and the maiden did not retire; she understood him, and was waiting the pleasure of his speech with heart-throbbings that seemed as if they must be audible in his ears as well as her own.

The time had come.  Everything was propitious.  The words that would have sealed his fate and hers were on his lips, when, looking up, he knew not why, but under an impulse of the moment, he met two calm eyes resting upon him with an expression that sent the blood leaping back to his heart.  Two calm eyes and a pale, calm face were before him for a moment; then they vanished in the crowd.  But he knew them, though ten years lay between the last vision and this.

The words that were on his lips died unspoken.  He could not have uttered them if life or death hung on the issue.  No—­no—­no.  A dead silence followed.

“Are you ill?” asked his companion, looking at him anxiously.

“No, oh no,” he replied, trying to rally himself.

“But you are ill, Mr. Emerson.  How pale your face is!”