A

XXX

THE MYSTERY OF LOVE

DAY or two after the second bombardment the Hailoong again appeared off the harbour. The French detained her long enough to satisfy themselves that she carried no munitions of war, and then allowed her to enter the port. Nearly the whole foreign community was at the dock to receive her. It was only thirteen or fourteen days since she had been there before. But to those who had been in the midst of war's alarms it seemed as many weeks.

Of course, Sinclair was there to give McLeod a hearty greeting. There was little time to talk, as the chief officer had to oversee the discharging of the cargo. Sinclair joined him in this, his knowledge of the ship and of conditions ashore making his assistance most valuable. He had his countryman's knack of turning his hand to anything. By the afternoon they had so rushed the work that they were able to knock off and have a comfortable chat in the dining saloon.

After they had discussed the bombardment and the landing, the prospects of more fighting and the possibility of a blockade, and had laughed till their sides ached at the oddities and eccentricities brought out by the unusual situation, McLeod said suddenly:

66

'Say, Doc, you have not told me anything about the Highland girl. How is she?"

"Just as big a conundrum as ever, Mac."

"What! Have you not been getting along well?" "No! I don't know where I'm at."

66

'Why? I thought from the way she spoke of you, and the way she received you when you came back from Keelung, that things were bound to go like a house on fire."

66

Well, Mac, for a few days I was feeling pretty good myself. I thought that I was making great progress. But the day of the first bombardment my castle in the air was blown sky-high and there has hardly a fragment of it come back to earth yet.'

He then told of the tennis game and of how disgusted with himself he had been. To his surprise McLeod did not take it very seriously. He expressed concern at Sinclair's narrow escape from the shell, but rather laughed about the rest of the incident, especially at his friend's having left the lawn in a tantrum, as he called it.

"You would have been madder than I was," retorted Sinclair, "if you had been in my place."

"Of course I should-if I had been in your place, because like you I should not have looked for the right reason for her actions-that is, if I had been in your place."

"I don't understand what you are driving at," said Sinclair, with a trace of irritation.

"It's all right, Doc. Never mind now. and tell us some more.'

99

Go on

When Sinclair related the incident of the "charge of the Tamsui blues," and Gorman's remarks to Carteret, McLeod laughed so heartily that the doctor had to join him.

"It's all very well for you to laugh like that,” he said, a little ruefully, when McLeod stopped for a

66

moment. You have nothing at stake. But it's different with me."

"You'll laugh about it yet, just as heartily as I have done. Probably more so. Haven't you another yarn up your sleeve? I know that you have. Go on. Give us another."

He did. He told about Clark praying under the teak table, and De Vaux dancing and stuttering around it. Sinclair was a good story-teller, and before he was through with the Free Methodist prayermeeting McLeod's laughter could be heard the length of the ship. Sinclair had forgotten his love troubles, and his laugh, mingled with his chum's, was as rollicking and care-free as that of a schoolboy.

In the midst of it Captain Whiteley's voice was heard outside:

66

What in the world's going on in here?" A lady's voice replied:

"It's those two lovers. They should never be separated. Either one is quite inconsolable without the other."

The door was pulled open, and the two young men, vainly endeavouring to choke down their laughter, rose to receive Miss MacAllister, her father, and the captain.

The two men did not remain long. Mr. MacAllister wanted to take Captain Whiteley to see some of the damage wrought by the shells. A few minutes. after they left McLeod suddenly remembered that there were some duties connected with discharging or taking cargo which he had to attend to at once. Almost before they knew, Sinclair and Miss MacAllister were left alone.

For some moments neither spoke. Ordinarily both

were good conversationalists, able to acquit themselves with credit in any company. But now, left to each other's company, each seemed suddenly bereft of speech. Sinclair probably never thought so quickly on any other occasion in his life. But with all his thinking he entirely failed to think of anything to say. If he had thought of anything, it is doubtful if he could have said it. His heart was pounding so hard and fast that he experienced a slight suffocating sensation. But he didn't open the door. He had that much presence of mind. He didn't open the door to let the outside air or any one else in. Though speechless, he was not bereft of reason.

It was Miss MacAllister who first recovered. "Dr. Sinclair," she said, "I want you to forgive me."

Then Sinclair began to wonder what she had done that he should forgive. Could she ever have done anything for which she needed to ask his forgiveness?

"But, Miss MacAllister," he stammered, "whatwhat am I to forgive? You never did anything

"Oh, Dr. Sinclair, you know that I did. Last Thursday; you remember. I acted shamefully, and " -there was a little break in her voice-"I nearly caused you to be killed. . . . Can you ever forgive me?"

"I could forgive you anything.'

66 But you were very angry. You went away angry, and when I tried to call you back you wouldn't stop to speak to me. I wanted to ask your forgiveness

then."

"Miss MacAllister, I suppose that I was angry. It is I who ought to ask your forgiveness. I didn't

mean to be angry. But I felt hurt. You had been so kind just before that day. . . . I was foolish enough to hope that you would continue to be kind. But when that day came you were different, and it hurt. . . . Miss MacAllister, I can't keep it back. I love you. . . That's why it hurt."

She was sitting by one of the small windows of the saloon, with one arm resting on its sill. Through the conversation she had kept her head lowered. As his accents grew warmer, she turned towards the window, and seemed to be gazing on the water, which the northeast monsoon, driving against the current, was raising in choppy waves. He had risen and was standing in front of her. He could not see her averted face, and she made no answer.

"I know that it must seem absurd and presumptuous of me. I'm a poor and unknown missionary doctor. But I love you. . . . I tried not to. But I couldn't help it. . . I resolved never to mention it to you. . . . But we were left alone here together and—I just couldn't help myself. . . . I had to tell you."

Without turning her face, she extended her right hand to him. He caught it in his and, dropping on one knee, pressed his lips to it.

66

I'm glad you told me, Donald."

For a moment he could hardly believe his ears. He looked up in a dazed, wondering fashion. Her face was no longer averted. Shy, blushing, but smiling, it was turned towards him, and their eyes met. Almost incredulously, wonderingly he asked:

"Do you mean that?" (He did not dare say her name.)

"Yes, Donald."