AC dBooks

The third day out, on a bright and quiet morning, we called at Malta,
and while my husband went ashore to visit some friends in the garrison,
I sat on deck watching the life of the little port and looking at the
big warships anchored in the bay.
A Maltese woman came on board to sell souvenirs of the island, and
picking out of her tray a tiny twisted thing in coral, I asked what it
was.
"That's a charm, my lady," said the woman.
"A charm for what?"
"To make my lady's husband love her."
I felt my face becoming crimson, but my heart was sore, so in my
simplicity I bought the charm and was smuggling it into my bag when I
became aware that one of my fellow-passengers, a lady, was looking down
at me.
She was a tall, singularly handsome woman, fashionably and (although on
shipboard) almost sumptuously dressed. A look in her face was haunting
me with a memory I could not fix when she stooped and said:
"Aren't you Mary O'Neill?"
The voice completed the identification, and I knew who it was.


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