He bowed—"Salthaven! I have heard of that place."
"Of course," she said, "it's on the map, but won't you tell me yours?"
"Charles Larone of—well—everywhere."
"I saw you yesterday."
"Yesterday, Mademoiselle?"
"Yes, back in the house by Cone Mountain."
"Cone Mountain?" He looked puzzled then smiled. "You have rechristened the Sleeping Giant up there? He is harmless now, but watch out when he wakes. He rises about every fifty years."
"But what do those seven moons mean?"
"You! Have you seen them, too?"
"No, but I've heard a story about them."
"It is not in my power to explain it, it has been that way for many hundred years. Perhaps it is some condition of sky and sea, perhaps it is supernatural. But they always come before some earthquake or misfortune."
Then, thinking of his own, she ventured,—
"I wanted to tell you I was sorry—so sorry." She hesitated then asked gently:
"It was someone near to you—the one you lost, wasn't it? You don't mind my asking?"
"I understand and thank you. It was my mother."
He was quiet for a moment, in which she longed to take his hand, to express her sympathy in one of the thousand impulsive and eloquent ways which a woman's heart suggests in times of sorrow. But he was speaking again.
"My mother came with my father, and the big Alexandre
