"Well, some day then I'll go to America, too, and I'll find you,
wherever you may be."
I said chokingly, for although I was not in love with this boy, still I
liked him tremendously, and I was sentimental:
"I don't believe we'll ever meet again. We're just 'Little ships
passing in the night.'"
Marchmont was the only person to see me off. He called for me at the
hotel, arranged all the details of the moving of my baggage, and
then got a hack and took me to the boat. He had a large basket with
him, which I noticed he carried very carefully. When we went to my
state-room, he set it down on a chair, and said with his bright, boyish
laugh:
"Here's a companion for you. Every time you hear him, I want you to
think of me."
I heard him almost immediately; a high, questioning bark came out that
package of mystery. I was delighted. A dear little dog--fox terrier,
the whitest, prettiest dog I had ever seen. Never before in my life had
I had a pet of any kind; never have I had one since. I lifted up this
darling soft little dog--he was nothing but a puppy--and as I caressed
him, he joyfully licked my face and hands. Marchmont said he was a fine
little thoroughbred of a certain West Indian breed. His name, he said,
was to be "Verley," after my poor big "dog" that I was leaving behind.
"Are you pleased with him?" he asked.
"I'm crazy about him," I replied.
"Don't you think I deserve some reward, then?" he demanded softly.