father was with a regiment of engineers," she explained, more fully than she meant to a moment before. Knowledge about St. Florentin and about some one of her name seemed to be extremely important to this stranger. "He was killed last June."
The young man motioned quickly with a gesture of self-rebuke for his question. "I was stupid," he said, "thinking only about my affairs."
"You did not know about my father," Ethel returned in his defense.
"No; I didn't know he was your father; but his name it was Philip Carew?"
"Yes."
"It came to me in a way which should have let me know."
She wanted to ask from whom it came, but he was inquiring further.
"There will be some one else there named Carew?"
"I am going there," Ethel said.
"And there is a place called the Resurrection? Or some church called that, perhaps? You will excuse me, Miss Carew; but I've been trying a long time to find some one who knows about St. Florentin."
"There's an island," Ethel said, "about half a mile off shore and not far from my grandfather's called Resurrection Rock."
"There is, then!" he cried, this information so amazingly stirring him that Ethel volunteered:
"It's rightly called Isle de la Resurrection. That's the old name from Jesuit and Indian times. But it's not much of an island; just a few acres, mostly rock."
"What is on the island; a town?"
"A house," Ethel replied. "Only one house."
"Do you know who lives there?"
