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“All by yourself? But holidays don’t generally begin till just before Christmas. What a lucky boy!”

Tonyt’s lip curled in the sneer that was a clean likeness of his father’s (a very naughty little face, thought the missionary’s daughter). “It isn’t lessons. I’m mousse—boy—cabin-boy, you call it? in the Deux-Frères-Chambasse—and I’m off to-day. It’s a fruit-boat; we’re loading figs.”

“But how did you come to be on a French boat, if you are English? What is your name?”

“You do ask lots of questions, don’t you?” said Tony impartially. “It’s Antony St. Croix—Tony. What’s yours?”

“Agatha Wilcox, and my father is at the Church Mission here.” She really had a very nice smile. “I teach there too. So now you know about me. But do tell me how you came to be here—and you’re very young to be working alone. I never heard of such a thing.”

Tony flushed dark red and looked at the ground.

“Your people———”

His voice was harsh as a trapped hare’s. “My mother is dead, and I don’t count that I have a father.”

He looked up at Agatha at last. Her eyes were shocked and wondering.

“He turned me out and said I could—shift for myself, and I have.”

“You poor little soul!” said Agatha, but something warned her not to say it aloud.

“So that was all there was to do,” he said. It was easier once he had begun.

“But isn’t it very hard for you—Tony?”

“Oh—no. But I don’t see what’ll happen, and they’ll kick me out when we get to Marseilles this time.”

“Then—what sort of schooling do you get? None? —and wouldn’t you like some? You can’t go on like this, you know.”