Jane led by the hand an imaginary little Mark, all wonder to see his father's ship. He would want to explore every inch of it. His phantom feet pattered expectantly across the shining deck. He would want to climb into places dangerous for a little Mark to be in. His father would laughingly pull him back by the tail of his nankeen jacket, and point out to him the crow's-nest aloft, and lift him up to strike the hour upon the burnished ship's bell. Then Jane extended her hand to the imagined Captain Mark, and jumped daintily down from a low hatch-coaming—which rôle was played by a trunk. Just as she slipped her hand within the captain's arm and looked up, up, in happy awe, at the lofty mainmast, a bell pealed faintly from somewhere in the hold. If the Fortune of the Indies had been a steamship, it might have been the engine-room bell, but this happened to be nothing more nor less than the door-bell of the Ingram mansion. The young Mrs. Mark gave way abruptly to a disconcerted Jane, who fumbled at the antiquated hooks, buttons, and loops, and could not at all get out of her costume. As she struggled, the bell rang again, and she ran
