The Tides Of Barnegat

by

F. Hopkinson Smith

CONTENTS

 I THE DOCTOR'S GIG II SPRING BLOSSOMS III LITTLE TOD FOGARTY IV ANN GOSSAWAY'S RED CLOAK V CAPTAIN NAT'S DECISION VI A GAME OF CARDS VII THE EYES OF AN OLD PORTRAIT VIII AN ARRIVAL IX THE SPREAD OF FIRE X A LATE VISITOR XI MORTON COBDEN'S DAUGHTER XII A LETTER FROM PARIS XIII SCOOTSY'S EPITHET XIV HIGH WATER AT YARDLEY XV A PACKAGE OF LETTERS XVI THE BEGINNING OF THE EBB XVII BREAKERS AHEAD XVIII THE SWEDE'S STORY XIX THE BREAKING OF THE DAWN XX THE UNDERTOW XXI THE MAN IN THE SLOUCH HAT XXII THE CLAW OF THE SEA-PUSS

THE TIDES OF BARNEGAT

CHAPTER I

THE DOCTOR'S GIG

One lovely spring morning--and this story begins on a spring morningsome fifty years or more ago--a joy of a morning that made one glad tobe alive, when the radiant sunshine had turned the ribbon of a roadthat ran from Warehold village to Barnegat Light and the sea to satin, the wide marshes to velvet, and the belts of stunted pines to bands ofpurple--on this spring morning, then, Martha Sands, the Cobdens' nurse, was out with her dog Meg. She had taken the little beast to the innerbeach for a bath--a custom of hers when the weather was fine and thewater not too cold--and was returning to Warehold by way of the road, when, calling the dog to her side, she stopped to feast her eyes on thepicture unrolled at her feet. 

To the left of where she stood curved the coast, glistening like ascimitar, and the strip of yellow beach which divided the narrow bayfrom the open sea; to the right, thrust out into the sheen of silver, lay the spit of sand narrowing the inlet, its edges scalloped with lacefoam, its extreme point dominated by the grim tower of Barnegat Light;aloft, high into the blue, soared the gulls, flashing like jewels asthey lifted their breasts to the sun, while away and beyond the sailsof the fishing-boats, gray or silver in their shifting tacks, crawledover the wrinkled sea. 

The glory of the landscape fixed in her mind, Martha gathered her shawlabout her shoulders, tightened the strings of her white cap, smoothedout her apron, and with the remark to Meg that he'd "never see nothin'so beautiful nor so restful, " resumed her walk. 

They were inseparable, these two, and had been ever since the day shehad picked him up outside the tavern, half starved and with a sorepatch on his back where some kitchen-maid had scalded him. Somehow thepoor outcast brought home to her a sad page in her own history, whenshe herself was homeless and miserable, and no hand was stretched outto her. So she had coddled and fondled him, gaining his confidence dayby day and talking to him by the hour of whatever was uppermost in hermind. 

Few friendships presented stronger contrasts: She stout andmotherly-looking--too stout for any waistline--with kindly blue eyes, smooth gray hair--gray, not white--her round, rosy face, framed in acotton cap, aglow with the freshness of the morning--a comforting, coddling-up kind of woman of fifty, with a low, crooning voice, gentlefingers, and soft, restful hollows about her shoulders and bosom forthe heads of tired babies; Meg thin, rickety, and sneak-eyed, with abroken tail that hung at an angle, and but one ear (a black-and-tan hadruined the other)--a sandy-colored, rough-haired, good-for-nothing curof multifarious lineage, who was either crouching at her feet or infull cry for some hole in a fence or rift in a wood-pile where he couldflatten out and sulk in safety. 

Martha continued her talk to Meg. While she had been studying thelandscape he had taken the opportunity to wallow in whatever camefirst, and his wet hair was bristling with sand and matted with burrs. 

"Come here, Meg--you measly rascal!" she cried, stamping her foot. "Come here, I tell ye!"

The dog crouched close to the ground, waited until Martha was nearenough to lay her hand upon him, and then, with a backward spring, darted under a bush in full blossom. 

"Look at ye now!" she shouted in a commanding tone. "'Tain't no use o'my washin' ye. Ye're full o' thistles and jest as dirty as when Ithrowed ye in the water. Come out o' that, I tell ye! Now, Meg, darlin'"--this came in a coaxing tone--"come out like a good dog--sureI'm not goin' in them brambles to hunt ye!"

A clatter of hoofs rang out on the morning air. A two-wheeled gig drawnby a well-groomed sorrel horse and followed by a brown-haired Irishsetter was approaching. In it sat a man of thirty, dressed in a long, mouse-colored surtout with a wide cape falling to the shoulders. On hishead was a soft gray hat and about his neck a white scarf showing abovethe lapels of his coat. He had thin, shapely legs, a flat waist, andsquare shoulders, above which rose a clean-shaven face of singularsweetness and refinement. 

At the sound of the wheels the tattered cur poked his head from betweenthe blossoms, twisted his one ear to catch the sound, and with aside-spring bounded up the road toward the setter. 

"Well, I declare, if it ain't Dr. John Cavendish and Rex!" Marthaexclaimed, raising both hands in welcome as the horse stopped besideher. "Good-mornin' to ye, Doctor John. I thought it was you, but thesun blinded me, and I couldn't see. And ye never saw a better nor abrighter mornin'. These spring days is all blossoms, and they ought tobe. Where ye goin', anyway, that ye're in such a hurry? Ain't nobodysick up to Cap'n Holt's, be there?" she added, a shade of anxietycrossing her face. 

"No, Martha; it's the dressmaker, " answered the doctor, tightening thereins on the restless sorrel as he spoke. The voice was low and kindlyand had a ring of sincerity through it. 

"What dressmaker?"

"Why, Miss Gossaway!" His hand was extended now--that fine, delicatelywrought, sympathetic hand that had soothed so many aching heads. 

"You've said it, " laughed Martha, leaning over the wheel so as to presshis fingers in her warm palm. "There ain't no doubt 'bout that skinnyfright being 'Miss, ' and there ain't no doubt 'bout her stayin' so. AnnGossaway she is, and Ann Gossaway she'll die. Is she took bad?" shecontinued, a merry, questioning look lighting up her kindly face, herlips pursed knowingly. 

"No, only a sore throat" the doctor replied, loosening his coat. 

"Throat!" she rejoined, with a wry look on her face. "Too bad 'twarn'ther tongue. If ye could snip off a bit o' that some day it would helpfolks considerable 'round here. "

The doctor laughed in answer, dropped the lines over the dashboard andleaned forward in his seat, the sun lighting up his clean-cut face. Busy as he was--and there were few busier men in town, as everyhitching-post along the main street of Warehold village from BillyTatham's, the driver of the country stage, to Captain Holt's, couldprove--he always had time for a word with the old nurse. 

"And where have YOU been, Mistress Martha?" he asked, with a smile, dropping his whip into the socket, a sure sign that he had a few moreminutes to give her. 

"Oh, down to the beach to git some o' the dirt off Meg. Look athim--did ye ever see such a rapscallion! Every time I throw him in he'sinto the sand ag'in wallowin' before I kin git to him. "

The doctor bent his head, and for an instant watched the two dogs: Megcircling about Rex, all four legs taut, his head jerking from side toside in his eagerness to be agreeable to his roadside acquaintance; theagate-eyed setter returning Meg's attentions with the stony gaze of aclub swell ignoring a shabby relative. The doctor smiled thoughtfully. There was nothing he loved to study so much as dogs--they had apeculiar humor of their own, he often said, more enjoyable sometimesthan that of men--then he turned to Martha again. 

"And why are you away from home this morning of all others?" he asked. "I thought Miss Lucy was expected from school to-day?"

"And so she is, God bless her! And that's why I'm here. I was thatrestless I couldn't keep still, and so I says to Miss Jane, 'I'm goin'to the beach with Meg and watch the ships go by; that's the only thingthat'll quiet my nerves. They're never in a hurry with everybodypunchin' and haulin' them. ' Not that there's anybody doin' that to me, 'cept like it is to-day when I'm waitin' for my blessed baby to comeback to me. Two years, doctor--two whole years since I had my armsround her. Wouldn't ye think I'd be nigh crazy?"

"She's too big for your arms now, Martha, " laughed the doctor, gathering up his reins. "She's a woman--seventeen, isn't she?"

"Seventeen and three months, come the fourteenth of next July. Butshe's not a woman to me, and she never will be. She's my wee bairn thatI took from her mother's dyin' arms and nursed at my own breast, andshe'll be that wee bairn to me as long as I live. Ye'll be up to seeher, won't ye, doctor?"

"Yes, to-night. How's Miss Jane?" As he made the inquiry his eyeskindled and a slight color suffused his cheeks. 

"She'll be better for seein' ye, " the nurse answered with a knowinglook. Then in a louder and more positive tone, "Oh, ye needn't stare sowith them big brown eyes o' yourn. Ye can't fool old Martha, none o'you young people kin. Ye think I go round with my eyelids sewed up. Miss Jane knows what she wants--she's proud, and so are you; I neverknew a Cobden nor a Cavendish that warn't. I haven't a word tosay--it'll be a good match when it comes off. Where's that Meg?Good-by, doctor. I won't keep ye a minute longer from MISS Gossaway. I'm sorry it ain't her tongue, but if it's only her throat she may getover it. Go 'long, Meg!"

Dr. Cavendish laughed one of his quiet laughs--a laugh that wrinkledthe lines about his eyes, with only a low gurgle in his throat foraccompaniment, picked up his whip, lifted his hat in mock courtesy tothe old nurse, and calling to Rex, who, bored by Meg's attentions, hadat last retreated under the gig, chirruped to his horse, and drove on. 

Martha watched the doctor and Rex until they were out of sight, walkedon to the top of the low hill, and finding a seat by the roadside--herbreath came short these warm spring days--sat down to rest, the dogstretched out in her lap. The little outcast had come to her the dayLucy left Warehold for school, and the old nurse had always regardedhim with a certain superstitious feeling, persuading herself thatnothing would happen to her bairn as long as this miserable dog waswell cared for. 

"Ye heard what Doctor John said about her bein' a woman, Meg?" shecrooned, when she had caught her breath. "And she with her petticoatsup to her knees! That's all he knows about her. Ye'd know better thanthat, Meg, wouldn't ye--if ye'd seen her grow up like he's done? Butgrown up or not, Meg"--here she lifted the dog's nose to get a clearerview of his sleepy eyes--"she's my blessed baby and she's comin' homethis very day, Meg, darlin'; d'ye hear that, ye little ruffian? Andshe's not goin' away ag'in, never, never. There'll be nobody drivin'round in a gig lookin' after her--nor nobody else as long as I kin helpit. Now git up and come along; I'm that restless I can't sit still, "and sliding the dog from her lap, she again resumed her walk towardWarehold. 

Soon the village loomed in sight, and later on the open gateway of"Yardley, " the old Cobden Manor, with its two high brick posts toppedwith white balls and shaded by two tall hemlocks, through which couldbe seen a level path leading to an old colonial house with portico, white pillars supporting a balcony, and a sloping roof with hugechimneys and dormer windows. 

Martha quickened her steps, and halting at the gate-posts, paused for amoment with her eyes up the road. It was yet an hour of the time of herbairn's arrival by the country stage, but her impatience was such thatshe could not enter the path without this backward glance. Meg, who hadfollowed behind his mistress at a snail's pace, also came to a haltand, as was his custom, picked out a soft spot in the road and sat downon his haunches. 

Suddenly the dog sprang up with a quick yelp and darted inside thegate. The next instant a young girl in white, with a wide hat shadingher joyous face, jumped from behind one of the big hemlocks and with acry pinioned Martha's arms to her side. 

"Oh, you dear old thing, you! where have you been? Didn't you know Iwas coming by the early stage?" she exclaimed in a half-querulous tone. 

The old nurse disengaged one of her arms from the tight clasp of thegirl, reached up her hand until she found the soft cheek, patted itgently for an instant as a blind person might have done, and thenreassured, hid her face on Lucy's shoulder and burst into tears. Thejoy of the surprise had almost stopped her breath. 

"No, baby, no, " she murmured. "No, darlin', I didn't. I was on thebeach with Meg. No, no--Oh, let me cry, darlin'. To think I've got youat last. I wouldn't have gone away, darlin', but they told me youwouldn't be here till dinner-time. Oh, darlin', is it you? And it's alltrue, isn't it? and ye've come back to me for good? Hug me close. Oh, my baby bairn, my little one! Oh, you precious!" and she nestled thegirl's head on her bosom, smoothing her cheek as she crooned on, thetears running down her cheeks. 

Before the girl could reply there came a voice calling from the house:"Isn't she fine, Martha?" A woman above the middle height, young and ofslender figure, dressed in a simple gray gown and without her hat, wasstepping from the front porch to meet them. 

"Too fine, Miss Jane, for her old Martha, " the nurse called back. "I'vegot to love her all over again. Oh, but I'm that happy I could burstmeself with joy! Give me hold of your hand, darlin'--I'm afraid I'lllose ye ag'in if ye get out of reach of me. "

The two strolled slowly up the path to meet Jane, Martha patting thegirl's arm and laying her cheek against it as she walked. Meg hadceased barking and was now sniffing at Lucy's skirts, his bent tailwagging slowly, his sneaky eyes looking up into Lucy's face. 

"Will he bite, Martha?" she asked, shrinking to one side. She had anaversion to anything physically imperfect, no matter how lovable itmight be to others. This tattered example struck her as particularlyobjectionable. 

"No, darlin'--nothin' 'cept his food, " and Martha laughed. 

"What a horrid little beast!" Lucy said half aloud to herself, clingingall the closer to the nurse. "This isn't the dog sister Jane wrote meabout, is it? She said you loved him dearly--you don't, do you?"

"Yes, that's the same dog. You don't like him, do you, darlin'?"

"No, I think he's awful, " retorted Lucy in a positive tone. 

"It's all I had to pet since you went away, " Martha answeredapologetically. 

"Well, now I'm home, give him away, please. Go away, you dreadful dog!"she cried, stamping her foot as Meg, now reassured, tried to jump uponher. 

The dog fell back, and crouching close to Martha's side raised his eyesappealingly, his ear and tail dragging. 

Jane now joined them. She had stopped to pick some blossoms for thehouse. 

"Why, Lucy, what's poor Meg done?" she asked, as she stooped over andstroked the crestfallen beast's head. "Poor old doggie--we all loveyou, don't we?"

"Well, just please love him all to yourselves, then, " retorted Lucywith a toss of her head. "I wouldn't touch him with a pair of tongs. Inever saw anything so ugly. Get away, you little brute!"

"Oh, Lucy, dear, don't talk so, " replied the older sister in a pityingtone. "He was half starved when Martha found him and brought himhome--and look at his poor back--"

"No, thank you; I don't want to look at his poor back, nor his poortail, nor anything else poor about him. And you will send him away, won't you, like a dear good old Martha?" she added, patting Martha'sshoulder in a coaxing way. Then encircling Jane's waist with her arm, the two sisters sauntered slowly back to the house. 

Martha followed behind with Meg. 

Somehow, and for the first time where Lucy was concerned, she felt atightening of her heart-strings, all the more painful because it hadfollowed so closely upon the joy of their meeting. What had come overher bairn, she said to herself with a sigh, that she should talk so toMeg--to anything that her old nurse loved, for that matter? Janeinterrupted her reveries. 

"Did you give Meg a bath, Martha?" she asked over her shoulder. She hadseen the look of disappointment in the old nurse's face and, knowingthe cause, tried to lighten the effect. 

"Yes--half water and half sand. Doctor John came along with Rex shinin'like a new muff, and I was ashamed to let him see Meg. He's comin' upto see you to-night, Lucy, darlin', " and she bent forward and tappedthe girl's shoulder to accentuate the importance of the information. 

Lucy cut her eye in a roguish way and twisted her pretty head arounduntil she could look into Jane's eyes. 

"Who do you think he's coming to see, sister?"

"Why, you, you little goose. They're all coming--Uncle Ephraim has sentover every day to find out when you would be home, and Bart Holt washere early this morning, and will be back to-night. "

"What does Bart Holt look like?"--she had stopped in her walk to plucka spray of lilac blossoms. "I haven't seen him for years; I hear he'sanother one of your beaux, " she added, tucking the flowers into Jane'sbelt. "There, sister, that's just your color; that's what that graydress needs. Tell me, what's Bart like?"

"A little like Captain Nat, his father, " answered Jane, ignoring Lucy'slast inference, "not so stout and--"

"What's he doing?"

"Nothin', darlin', that's any good, " broke in Martha from behind thetwo. "He's sailin' a boat when he ain't playin' cards or scarin'everybody down to the beach with his gun, or shyin' things at Meg. "

"Don't you mind anything Martha says, Lucy, " interrupted Jane in adefensive tone. "He's got a great many very good qualities; he has nomother and the captain has never looked after him. It's a great wonderthat he is not worse than he is. "

She knew Martha had spoken the truth, but she still hoped that herinfluence might help him, and then again, she never liked to hear evenher acquaintances criticised. 

"Playing cards! That all?" exclaimed Lucy, arching her eyebrows; hersister's excuses for the delinquent evidently made no impression onher. "I don't think playing cards is very bad; and I don't blame himfor throwing anything he could lay his hands on at this little wretchof Martha's. We all played cards up in our rooms at school. Miss Sarahnever knew anything about it--she thought we were in bed, and it wasjust lovely to fool her. And what does the immaculate Dr. JohnCavendish look like? Has he changed any?" she added with a laugh. 

"No, " answered Jane simply. 

"Does he come often?" She had turned her head now and was looking fromunder her lids at Martha. "Just as he used to and sit around, or hashe--" Here she lifted her eyebrows in inquiry, and a laugh bubbled outfrom between her lips. 

"Yes, that's just what he does do, " cried Martha in a triumphant tone;"every minute he kin git. And he can't come too often to suit me. Ijest love him, and I'm not the only one, neither, darlin', " she addedwith a nod of her head toward Jane. 

"And Barton Holt as well?" persisted Lucy. "Why, sister, I didn'tsuppose there would be a man for me to look at when I came home, andyou've got two already! Which one are you going to take?" Here her rosyface was drawn into solemn lines. 

Jane colored. "You've got to be a great tease, Lucy, " she answered asshe leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. "I'm not in the back ofthe doctor's head, nor he in mine--he's too busy nursing the sick--andBart's a boy!"

"Why, he's twenty-five years old, isn't he?" exclaimed Lucy in somesurprise. 

"Twenty-five years young, dearie--there's a difference, you know. That's why I do what I can to help him. If he'd had the rightinfluences in his life and could be thrown a little more with nicewomen it would help make him a better man. Be very good to him, please, even if you do find him a little rough. "

They had mounted the steps of the porch and were now entering the widecolonial hall--a bare white hall, with a staircase protected byspindling mahogany banisters and a handrail. Jane passed into thelibrary and seated herself at her desk. Lucy ran on upstairs, followedby Martha to help unpack her boxes and trunks. 

When they reached the room in which Martha had nursed her for so manyyears--the little crib still occupied one corner--the old woman tookthe wide hat from the girl's head and looked long and searchingly intoher eyes. 

"Let me look at ye, my baby, " she said, as she pushed Lucy's hair backfrom her forehead; "same blue eyes, darlin', same pretty mouth I kissedso often, same little dimples ye had when ye lay in my arms, but ye'vechanged--how I can't tell. Somehow, the face is different. "

Her hands now swept over the full rounded shoulders and plump arms ofthe beautiful girl, and over the full hips. 

"The doctor's right, child, " she said with a sigh, stepping back a paceand looking her over critically; "my baby's gone--you've filled out tobe a woman. "

CHAPTER II

SPRING BLOSSOMS

For days the neighbors in and about the village of Warehold had beenlooking forward to Lucy's home-coming as one of the important epochs inthe history of the Manor House, quite as they would have done had Lucybeen a boy and the expected function one given in honor of the youthfulheir's majority. Most of them had known the father and mother of thesegirls, and all of them loved Jane, the gentle mistress of the home--atype of woman eminently qualified to maintain its prestige. 

It had been a great house in its day. Built in early Revolutionarytimes by Archibald Cobden, who had thrown up his office under the Crownand openly espoused the cause of the colonists, it had often been thescene of many of the festivities and social events following theconclusion of peace and for many years thereafter: the rooms were stillpointed out in which Washington and Lafayette had slept, as well as thesmall alcove where the dashing Bart de Klyn passed the night wheneverhe drove over in his coach with outriders from Bow Hill to Barnegat andthe sea. 

With the death of Colonel Creighton Cobden, who held a commission inthe War of 1812, all this magnificence of living had changed, and whenMorton Cobden, the father of Jane and Lucy, inherited the estate, butlittle was left except the Manor House, greatly out of repair, and someinvested property which brought in but a modest income. On hisdeath-bed Morton Cobden's last words were a prayer to Jane, theneighteen, that she would watch over and protect her younger sister, afair-haired child of eight, taking his own and her dead mother's place, a trust which had so dominated Jane's life that it had become thegreater part of her religion. 

Since then she had been the one strong hand in the home, looking afterits affairs, managing their income, and watching over every step of hersister's girlhood and womanhood. Two years before she had placed Lucyin one of the fashionable boarding-schools of Philadelphia, there tostudy "music and French, " and to perfect herself in that "grace ofmanner and charm of conversation, " which the two maiden ladies whopresided over its fortunes claimed in their modest advertisements theywere so competent to teach. Part of the curriculum was an enforcedabsence from home of two years, during which time none of her ownpeople were to visit her except in case of emergency. 

To-night, the once famous house shone with something of its old-timecolor. The candles were lighted in the big bronze candelabra--the oneswhich came from Paris; the best glass and china and all the old platewere brought out and placed on the sideboard and serving-tables; a woodfire was started (the nights were yet cold), its cheery blaze lightingup the brass fender and andirons before which many of Colonel Cobden'scronies had toasted their shins as they sipped their toddies in the olddays; easy-chairs and hair-cloth sofas were drawn from the walls; thebig lamps lighted, and many minor details perfected for the comfort ofthe expected guests. 

Jane entered the drawing-room in advance of Lucy and was busyingherself putting the final touches to the apartment, --arranging thesprays of blossoms over the clock and under the portrait of MortonCobden, which looked calmly down on the room from its place on thewalls, when the door opened softly and Martha--the old nurse had foryears been treated as a member of the family--stepped in, bowing andcurtsying as would an old woman in a play, the skirt of her new blacksilk gown that Ann Gossaway had made for her held out between her plumpfingers, her mob-cap with its long lace strings bobbing with everygesture. With her rosy cheeks, silver-rimmed spectacles, self-satisfiedsmile, and big puffy sleeves, she looked as if she might have steppedout of one of the old frames lining the walls. 

"What do ye think of me, Miss Jane? I'm proud as a peacock--that I am!"she cried, twisting herself about. "Do ye know, I never thought thatskinny dressmaker could do half as well. Is it long enough?" and shecraned her head in the attempt to see the edge of the skirt. 

"Fits you beautifully, Martha. You look fine, " answered Jane in allsincerity, as she made a survey of the costume. "How does Lucy like it?"

"The darlin' don't like it at all; she says I look like a pall-bearer, and ye ought to hear her laughin' at the cap. Is there anything thematter with it? The pastor's wife's got one, anyhow, and she's a yearyounger'n me. "

"Don't mind her, Martha--she laughs at everything; and how good it isto hear her! She never saw you look so well, " replied Jane, as shemoved a jar from a table and placed it on the mantel to hold theblossoms she had picked in the garden. "What's she doing upstairs solong?"

"Prinkin'--and lookin' that beautiful ye wouldn't know her. But thewidth and the thickness of her"--here the wrinkled fingers measured theincrease with a half circle in the air--"and the way she's plumpedout--not in one place, but all over--well, I tell ye, ye'd beastonished! She knows it, too, bless her heart! I don't blame her. Lether git all the comfort she kin when she's young--that's the time forlaughin'--the cryin' always comes later. "

No part of Martha's rhapsody over Lucy described Jane. Not in her bestmoments could she have been called beautiful--not even to-night whenLucy's home-coming had given a glow to her cheeks and a lustre to hereyes that nothing else had done for months. Her slender figure, almostangular in its contour with its closely drawn lines about the hips andback; her spare throat and neck, straight arms, thin wrists andhands--transparent hands, though exquisitely wrought, as were those ofall her race--all so expressive of high breeding and refinement, carried with them none of the illusions of beauty. The mould of thehead, moreover, even when softened by her smooth chestnut hair, wornclose to her ears and caught up in a coil behind, was too severe foraccepted standards, while her features wonderfully sympathetic as theywere, lacked the finer modeling demanded in perfect types of femaleloveliness, the eyebrows being almost straight, the cheeks sunken, withlittle shadows under the cheek-bones, and the lips narrow and oftendrawn. 

And yet with all these discrepancies and, to some minds, blemishesthere was a light in her deep gray eyes, a melody in her voice, a charmin her manner, a sureness of her being exactly the sort of woman onehoped she would be, a quick responsiveness to any confidence, all socaptivating and so satisfying that 'those who knew her forgot herslight physical shortcomings and carried away only the remembrance ofone so much out of the common and of so distinguished a personalitythat she became ever after the standard by which they judged all goodwomen. 

There were times, too--especially whenever Lucy entered the room or hername was mentioned--that there shone through Jane's eyes a certaininstantaneous kindling of the spirit which would irradiate her wholebeing as a candle does a lantern--a light betokening not onlyuncontrollable tenderness but unspeakable pride, dimmed now and thenwhen some word or act of her charge brought her face to face with theweight of the responsibility resting upon her--a responsibility faroutweighing that which most mothers would have felt. This so dominatedJane's every motion that it often robbed her of the full enjoyment ofthe companionship of a sister so young and so beautiful. 

If Jane, to quote Doctor John, looked like a lily swaying on a slenderstem, Lucy, when she bounded into the room to-night, was a full-blownrose tossed by a summer breeze. She came in with throat and neck bare;a woman all curves and dimples, her skin as pink as a shell; plump as ababy, and as fair, and yet with the form of a wood-nymph; dressed in aclinging, soft gown, the sleeves caught up at the shoulders revealingher beautiful arms, a spray of blossoms on her bosom, her blue eyesdancing with health, looking twenty rather than seventeen; glad of herfreedom, glad of her home and Jane and Martha, and of the lights andblossoms and the glint on silver and glass, and of all that made lifebreathable and livable. 

"Oh, but isn't it just too lovely to be at home!" she cried as sheskipped about. "No lights out at nine, no prayers, no getting up at sixo'clock and turning your mattress and washing in a sloppy littlewashroom. Oh, I'm so happy! I can't realize it's all true. " As shespoke she raised herself on her toes so that she could see her face inthe mirror over the mantel. "Why, do you know, sister, " she rattled on, her eyes studying her own face, "that Miss Sarah used to make us learna page of dictionary if we talked after the silence bell!"

"You must know the whole book by heart, then, dearie, " replied Janewith a smile, as she bent over a table and pushed back some books tomake room for a bowl of arbutus she held in her hand. 

"Ah, but she didn't catch us very often. We used to stuff up the cracksin the doors so she couldn't hear us talk and smother our heads in thepillows. Jonesy, the English teacher, was the worst. " She was stilllooking in the glass, her fingers busy with the spray of blossoms onher bosom. "She always wore felt slippers and crept around like a cat. She'd tell on anybody. We had a play one night in my room after lightswere out, and Maria Collins was Claude Melnotte and I was Pauline. Maria had a mustache blackened on her lips with a piece of burnt corkand I was all fixed up in a dressing-gown and sash. We never heardJonesy till she put her hand on the knob; then we blew out the candleand popped into bed. She smelled the candle-wick and leaned over andkissed Maria good-night, and the black all came off on her lips, andnext day we got three pages apiece--the mean old thing! How do I look, Martha? Is my hair all right?" Here she turned her head for the oldwoman's inspection. 

"Beautiful, darlin'. There won't one o' them know ye; they'll thinkye're a real livin' princess stepped out of a picture-book. " Martha hadnot taken her eyes from Lucy since she entered the room. 

"See my little beau-catchers, " she laughed, twisting her head so thatMartha could see the tiny Spanish curls she had flattened against hertemples. "They are for Bart Holt, and I'm going to cut sister out. Doyou think he'll remember me?" she prattled on, arching her neck. 

"It won't make any difference if he don't, " Martha retorted in apositive tone. "But Cap'n Nat will, and so will the doctor and UncleEphraim and--who's that comin' this early?" and the old nurse pausedand listened to a heavy step on the porch. "It must be the cap'nhimself; there ain't nobody but him's got a tread like that; ye'd thinkhe was trampin' the deck o' one of his ships. "

The door of the drawing-room opened and a bluff, hearty, round-facedman of fifty, his iron-gray hair standing straight up on his head likea shoe-brush, dressed in a short pea-jacket surmounted by a low sailorcollar and loose necktie, stepped cheerily into the room. 

"Ah, Miss Jane!" Somehow all the neighbors, even the most intimate, remembered to prefix "Miss" when speaking to Jane. "So you've got thisfly-away back again? Where are ye? By jingo! let me look at you. Why!why! why! Did you ever! What have you been doing to yourself, lassie, that you should shed your shell like a bug and come out with wings likea butterfly? Why you're the prettiest thing I've seen since I got homefrom my last voyage. "

He had Lucy by both bands now, and was turning her about as if she hadbeen one of Ann Gossaway's models. 

"Have I changed, Captain Holt?"

"No--not a mite. You've got a new suit of flesh and blood on yourbones, that's all. And it's the best in the locker. Well! Well! WELL!"He was still twisting her around. "She does ye proud, Martha, " hecalled to the old nurse, who was just leaving the room to take chargeof the pantry, now that the guests had begun to arrive. "And so ye'rehome for good and all, lassie?"

"Yes--isn't it lovely?"

"Lovely? That's no name for it. You'll be settin' the young fellerscrazy 'bout here before they're a week older. Here come two of 'em now. "

Lucy turned her head quickly, just as the doctor and Barton Holtreached the door of the drawing-room. The elder of the two, DoctorJohn, greeted Jane as if she had been a duchess, bowing low as heapproached her, his eyes drinking in her every movement; then, after afew words, remembering the occasion as being one in honor of Lucy, hewalked slowly toward the young girl. 

"Why, Lucy, it's so delightful to get you back!" he cried, shaking herhand warmly. "And you are looking so well. Poor Martha has been on pinsand needles waiting for you. I told her just how it would be--thatshe'd lose her little girl--and she has, " and he glanced at heradmiringly. "What did she say when she saw you?"

"Oh, the silly old thing began to cry, just as they all do. Have youseen her dog?"

The answer jarred on the doctor, although he excused her in his hearton the ground of her youth and her desire to appear at ease in talkingto him. 

"Do you mean Meg?" he asked, scanning her face the closer. 

"I don't know what she calls him--but he's the ugliest little beast Iever saw. "

"Yes--but so amusing. I never get tired of watching him. What is leftof him is the funniest thing alive. He's better than he looks, though. He and Rex have great times together. "

"I wish you would take him, then. I told Martha this morning that hemustn't poke his nose into my room, and he won't. He's a perfectfright. "

"But the dear old woman loves him, " he protested with a tender tone inhis voice, his eyes fixed on Lucy. 

He had looked into the faces of too many young girls in hisprofessional career not to know something of what lay at the bottom oftheir natures. What he saw now came as a distinct surprise. 

"I don't care if she does, " she retorted; "no, I don't, " and she knither brow and shook her pretty head as she laughed. 

While they stood talking Bart Holt, who had lingered at the threshold, his eyes searching for the fair arrival, was advancing toward thecentre of the room. Suddenly he stood still, his gaze fixed on thevision of the girl in the clinging dress, with the blossoms resting onher breast. The curve of her back, the round of the hip; the way hermoulded shoulders rose above the lace of her bodice; the bare, fullarms tapering to the wrists;--the color, the movement, the grace of itall had taken away his breath. With only a side nod of recognitiontoward Jane, he walked straight to Lucy and with an "Excuse me, "elbowed the doctor out of the way in his eagerness to reach the girl'sside. The doctor smiled at the young man's impetuosity, bent his headto Lucy, and turned to where Jane was standing awaiting the arrival ofher other guests. 

The young man extended his hand. "I'm Bart Holt, " he exclaimed; "youhaven't forgotten me, Miss Lucy, have you? We used to play together. Mighty glad to see you--been expecting you for a week. "

Lucy colored slightly and arched her head in a coquettish way. Hisfrankness pleased her; so did the look of unfeigned admiration in hiseyes. 

"Why, of course I haven't forgotten you, Mr. Holt. It was so nice ofyou to come, " and she gave him the tips of her fingers--her own eyesmeanwhile, in one comprehensive glance, taking in his round head withits closely cropped curls, searching brown eyes, wavering mouth, broadshoulders, and shapely body, down to his small, well-turned feet. Theyoung fellow lacked the polish and well-bred grace of the doctor, justas he lacked his well-cut clothes and distinguished manners, but therewas a sort of easy effrontery and familiar air about him that some ofhis women admirers encouraged and others shrank from. Strange to say, this had appealed to Lucy before he had spoken a word. 

"And you've come home for good now, haven't you?" His eyes were stilldrinking in the beauty of the girl, his mind neither on his questionsnor her answers. 

"Yes, forever and ever, " she replied, with a laugh that showed herwhite teeth. 

"Did you like it at school?" It was her lips now that held hisattention and the little curves under her dimpled chin. He thought hehad never seen so pretty a mouth and chin. 

"Not always; but we used to have lots of fun, " answered the girl, studying him in return--the way his cravat was tied and the part of hishair. She thought he had well-shaped ears and that his nose andeyebrows looked like a picture she had in her room upstairs. 

"Come and tell me about it. Let's sit down here, " he continued as hedrew her to a sofa and stood waiting until she took her seat. 

"Well, I will for a moment, until they begin to come in, " she answered, her face all smiles. She liked the way he behaved towards her--notasking her permission, but taking the responsibility and by his mannercompelling a sort of obedience. "But I can't stay, " she added. "Sisterwon't like it if I'm not with her to shake hands with everybody. "

"Oh, she won't mind me; I'm a great friend of Miss Jane's. Please goon; what kind of fun did you have? I like to hear about girls' scrapes. We had plenty of them at college, but I couldn't tell you half ofthem. " He had settled himself beside her now, his appropriating eyesstill taking in her beauty. 

"Oh, all kinds, " she replied as she bent her head and glanced at theblossoms on her breast to be assured of their protective covering. 

"But I shouldn't think you could have much fun with the teacherswatching you every minute, " said Bart, moving nearer to her and turninghis body so he could look squarely into her eyes. 

"Yes, but they didn't find out half that was going on. " Then she addedcoyly, "I don't know whether you can keep a secret--do you telleverything you hear?"

"Never tell anything. "

"How do I know?"

"I'll swear it. " In proof he held up one hand and closed both eyes inmock reverence as if he were taking an oath. He was getting moreinterested now in her talk; up to this time her beauty had dazzled him. "Never! So help me--" he mumbled impressively. 

"Well, one day we were walking out to the park--Now you're sure youwon't tell sister, she's so easily shocked?" The tone was the same, butthe inflection was shaded to closer intimacy. 

Again Bart cast up his eyes. 

"And all the girls were in a string with Miss Griggs, the Latinteacher, in front, and we all went in a cake shop and got a big pieceof gingerbread apiece. We were all eating away hard as we could when wesaw Miss Sarah coming. Every girl let her cake go, and when Miss Sarahgot to us the whole ten pieces were scattered along the sidewalk. "

Bart looked disappointed over the mild character of the scrape. Fromwhat he had seen of her he had supposed her adventures would beseasoned with a certain spice of deviltry. 

"I wouldn't have done that, I'd have hidden it in my pocket, " hereplied, sliding down on the sofa until his head rested on the cushionnext her own. 

"We tried, but she was too close. Poor old Griggsey got a dreadfulscolding. She wasn't like Miss Jones--she wouldn't tell on the girls. "

"And did they let any of the fellows come to see you?" Bart asked. 

"No; only brothers and cousins once in a long while. Maria Collinstried to pass one of her beaux, Max Feilding, off as a cousin, but MissSarah went down to see him and poor Maria had to stay upstairs. "

"I'd have got in, " said Bart with some emphasis, rousing himself fromhis position and twisting his body so he could again look squarely inher face. This escapade was more to his liking. 

"How?" asked Lucy in a tone that showed she not only quite believed it, but rather liked him the better for saying so. 

"Oh I don't know. I'd have cooked up some story. " He was leaning overnow, toying with the lace that clung to Lucy's arms. "Did you ever haveany one of your own friends treated in that way?"

Jane's voice cut short her answer. She had seen the two completelyabsorbed in each other, to the exclusion of the other guests who werenow coming in, and wanted Lucy beside her. 

The young girl waved her fan gayly in answer, rose to her feet, turnedher head close to Bart's, pointed to the incoming guests, whisperedsomething in his ear that made him laugh, listened while he whisperedto her in return, and in obedience to the summons crossed the room tomeet a group of the neighbors, among them old Judge Woolworthy, in asnuff-colored coat, high black stock, and bald head, and his bustlinglittle wife. Bart's last whisper to Lucy was in explanation of thelittle wife's manner--who now, all bows and smiles, was shaking handswith everybody about her. 

Then came Uncle Ephraim Tipple, and close beside him walked his spouse, Ann, in a camel's-hair shawl and poke-bonnet, the two preceded by UncleEphraim's stentorian laugh, which had been heard before their feet hadtouched the porch outside. Mrs. Cromartin now bustled in, accompaniedby her two daughters--slim, awkward girls, both dressed alike in highwaists and short frocks; and after them the Bunsbys, father, mother, and son--all smiles, the last a painfully thin young lawyer, in a lowcollar and a shock of whitey-brown hair, "looking like a patentwindow-mop resting against a wall, " so Lucy described him afterward toMartha when she was putting her to bed; and finally the Colfords andBronsons, young and old, together with Pastor Dellenbaugh, thewhite-haired clergyman who preached in the only church in Warehold. 

When Lucy had performed her duty and the several greetings were over, and Uncle Ephraim had shaken the hand of the young hostess in truepump-handle fashion, the old man roaring with laughter all the time, asif it were the funniest thing in the world to find her alive; and thegood clergyman in his mildest and most impressive manner had said shegrew more and more like her mother every day--which was a flight ofimagination on the part of the dear man, for she didn't resemble her inthe least; and the two thin girls had remarked that it must be so"perfectly blissful" to get home; and the young lawyer had complimentedher on her wonderful, almost life-like resemblance to her grand-father, whose portrait hung in the court-house--and which was nearer thetruth--to all of which the young girl replied in her most gracioustones, thanking them for their kindness in coming to see her and forwelcoming her so cordially--the whole of Lucy's mind once more revertedto Bart. 

Indeed, the several lobes of her brain had been working in oppositionfor the past hour. While one-half of her mind was concocting politespeeches for her guests the other was absorbed in the fear that Bartwould either get tired of waiting for her return and leave the sofa, orthat some other girl friend of his would claim him and her delightfultalk be at an end. 

To the young girl fresh from school Bart represented the only thing inthe room that was entirely alive. The others talked platitudes andthemselves. He had encouraged her to talk of HERSELF and of the thingsshe liked. He had, too, about him an assurance and dominatingpersonality which, although it made her a little afraid of him, onlyadded to his attractiveness. 

While she stood wondering how many times the white-haired young lawyerwould tell her it was so nice to have her back, she felt a slightpressure on her arm and turned to face Bart. 

"You are wanted, please, Miss Lucy; may I offer you my arm? Excuse me, Bunsby--I'll give her to you again in a minute. "

Lucy slipped her arm into Bart's, and asked simply, "What for?"

"To finish our talk, of course. Do you suppose I'm going to let thattow-head monopolize you?" he answered, pressing her arm closer to hisside with his own. 

Lucy laughed and tapped Bart with her fan in rebuke, and then therefollowed a bit of coquetry in which the young girl declared that he was"too mean for anything, and that she'd never seen anybody so conceited, and if he only knew, she might really prefer the 'tow head' to hisown;" to which Bart answered that his only excuse was that he was solonely he was nearly dead, and that he had only come to save hislife--the whole affair culminating in his conducting her back to thesofa with a great flourish and again seating himself beside her. 

"I've been watching you, " he began when he had made her comfortablewith a small cushion behind her shoulders and another for her prettyfeet. "You don't act a bit like Miss Jane. " As he spoke he leanedforward and flicked an imaginary something from her bare wrist withthat air which always characterized his early approaches to most women. 

"Why?" Lucy asked, pleased at his attentions and thanking him with amore direct look. 

"Oh, I don't know. You're more jolly, I think. I don't like girls whoturn out to be solemn after you know them a while; I was afraid youmight. You know it's a long time since I saw you. "

"Why, then, sister can't be solemn, for everybody says you and she aregreat friends, " she replied with a light laugh, readjusting the lace ofher bodice. 

"So we are; nobody about here I think as much of as I do of yoursister. She's been mighty good to me. But you know what I mean: I meanthose don't-touch-me kind of girls who are always thinking you mean alot of things when you're only trying to be nice and friendly to them. I like to be a brother to a girl and to go sailing with her, andfishing, and not have her bother me about her feet getting a little bitwet, and not scream bloody murder when the boat gives a lurch. That'sthe kind of girl that's worth having. "

"And you don't find them?" laughed Lucy, looking at him out of thecorners of her eyes. 

"Well, not many. Do you mind little things like that?"

As he spoke his eyes wandered over her bare shoulders until they restedon the blossoms, the sort of roaming, critical eyes that often cause awoman to wonder whether some part of her toilet has not been carelesslyput together. Then he added, with a sudden lowering of his voice:"That's a nice posy you've got. Who sent it?" and he bent his head asif to smell the cluster on her bosom. 

Lucy drew back and a slight flush suffused her cheek; his audacityfrightened her. She was fond of admiration, but this way of expressingit was new to her. The young man caught the movement and recoveredhimself. He had ventured on a thin spot, as was his custom, and thesound of the cracking ice had warned him in time. 

"Oh, I see, they're apple blossoms, " he added carelessly as hestraightened up. "We've got a lot in our orchard. You like flowers, Isee. " The even tone and perfect self-possession of the young manreassured her. 

"Oh, I adore them; don't you?" Lucy answered in a relieved, almostapologetic voice. She was sorry she had misjudged him. She liked himrather the better now for her mistake. 

"Well, that depends. Apple blossoms never looked pretty to me before;but then it makes a good deal of difference where they are, " answeredBart with a low chuckle. 

Jane had been watching the two and had noticed. Bart's position andmanner. His easy familiarity of pose offended her. Instinctively sheglanced about the room, wondering if any of her guests had seen it. That Lucy did not resent it surprised her. She supposed her sister'srecent training would have made her a little more fastidious. 

"Come, Lucy, " she called gently, moving toward her, "bring Bart overhere and join the other girls. "

"All right, Miss Jane, we'll be there in a minute, " Bart answered inLucy's stead. Then he bent his head and said in a low voice:

"Won't you give me half those blossoms?"

"No; it would spoil the bunch. "

"Please--"

"No, not a single one. You wouldn't care for them, anyway. "

"Yes, I would. " Here he stretched out his hand and touched the blossomson her neck. 

Lucy ducked her head in merry glee, sprang up, and with a triumphantcurtsy and a "No, you don't, sir--not this time, " joined her sister, followed by art. 

The guests were now separated into big and little groups. Uncle Ephraimand the judge were hob-nobbing around the fireplace, listening to UncleEphraim's stories and joining in the laughter which every now and thenfilled the room. Captain Nat was deep in a discussion with Doctor Johnover some seafaring matter, and Jane and Mrs. Benson were discussing alocal charity with Pastor Dellenbaugh. 

The younger people being left to themselves soon began to pair off, thewhite-haired young lawyer disappearing with the older Miss Cromartinand Bart soon following with Lucy:--the outer porch and the long walkdown the garden path among the trees, despite the chilliness of thenight, seemed to be the only place in which they could be comfortable. 

During a lull in the discussion of Captain Nat's maritime news andwhile Mrs. Benson was talking to the pastor, Doctor John seized theopportunity to seat himself again by Jane. 

"Don't you think Lucy improved?" she asked, motioning the doctor to aplace beside her. 

"She's much more beautiful than I thought she would be, " he answered ina hesitating way, looking toward Lucy, and seating himself in hisfavorite attitude, hands in his lap, one leg crossed over the other andhanging straight beside its fellow; only a man like the doctor, of morethan usual repose and of a certain elegance of form, Jane always said, could sit this way any length of time and be comfortable andunconscious of his posture. Then he added slowly, and as if he hadgiven the subject some consideration, "You won't keep her long, I'mafraid. "

"Oh, don't say that, " Jane cried with a nervous start. "I don't knowwhat I would do if she should marry. "

"That don't sound like you, Miss Jane. You would be the first to denyyourself. You are too good to do otherwise. " He spoke with a slightquiver in his voice, and yet with an emphasis that showed he believedit. 

"No; it is you who are good to think so, " she replied in a softer tone, bending her head as she spoke, her eyes intent on her fan. "And nowtell me, " she added quickly, raising her eyes to his as if to bar anyfurther tribute he might be on the point of paying to her--"I hear yourmother takes greatly to heart your having refused the hospitalappointment. "

"Yes, I'm afraid she does. Mother has a good many new-fashioned notionsnowadays. " He laughed--a mellow, genial laugh; more in the spirit ofapology than of criticism. 

"And you don't want to go?" she asked, her eyes fixed on his. 

"Want to go? No, why should I? There would be nobody to look after thepeople here if I went away. You don't want me to leave, do you?" headded suddenly in an anxious tone. 

"Nobody does, doctor, " she replied, parrying the question, her faceflushing with pleasure. 

Here Martha entered the room hurriedly and bending over Jane'sshoulder, whispered something in her ear. The doctor straightenedhimself and leaned back out of hearing. 

"Well, but I don't think she will take cold, " Jane whispered in return, looking up into Martha's face. "Has she anything around her?"

"Yes, your big red cloak; but the child's head is bare and there'smighty little on her neck, and she ought to come in. The wind's begunto blow and it's gettin' cold. "

"Where is she?" Jane continued, her face showing her surprise atMartha's statement. 

"Out by the gate with that dare-devil. He don't care who he gives cold. I told her she'd get her death, but she won't mind me. "

"Why, Martha, how can you talk so!" Jane retorted, with a disapprovingfrown. Then raising her voice so that the doctor could be brought intothe conversation, she added in her natural tone, "Whom did you say shewas with?"

"Bart Holt, " cried Martha aloud, nodding to the doctor as if to get hisassistance in saving her bairn from possible danger. 

Jane colored slightly and turned to Doctor John. 

"You go please, doctor, and bring them all in, or you may have some newpatients on your hands. "

The doctor looked from one to the other in doubt as to the cause of hisselection, but Jane's face showed none of the anxiety in Martha's. 

"Yes, certainly, " he answered simply; "but I'll get myself into ahornet's nest. These young people don't like to be told what's good forthem, " he added with a laugh, rising from his seat. "And after thatyou'll permit me to slip away without telling anybody, won't you? Mylast minute has come, " and he glanced at his watch. 

"Going so soon? Why, I wanted you to stay for supper. It will be readyin a few minutes. " Her voice had lost its buoyancy now. She neverwanted him to go. She never let him know it, but it pained her all thesame. 

"I would like to, but I cannot. " All his heart was in his eyes as hespoke. 

"Someone ill?" she asked. 

"Yes, Fogarty's child. The little fellow may develop croup beforemorning. I saw him to-day, and his pulse was not right, he's a sturdylittle chap with a thick neck, and that kind always suffers most. Ifhe's worse Fogarty is to send word to my office, " he added, holding outhis hand in parting. 

"Can I help?" Jane asked, retaining the doctor's hand in hers as if toget the answer. 

"No, I'll watch him closely. Good-night, " and with a smile he bent hishead and withdrew. 

Martha followed the doctor to the outer door, and then grumbling hersatisfaction went back to the pantry to direct the servants inarranging upon the small table in the supper-room the simplerefreshments which always characterized the Cobdens' entertainments. 

Soon the girls and their beaux came trooping in to join their elders onthe way to the supper-room. Lucy hung back until the last (she had notliked the doctor's interference), Jane's long red cloak draped from hershoulders, the hood hanging down her back, her cheeks radiant, herbeautiful blond hair ruffled with the night wind, an aureole of goldframing her face. Bart followed close behind, a pleased, almosttriumphant smile playing about his lips. 

He had carried his point. The cluster of blossoms which had rested uponLucy's bosom was pinned to the lapel of his coat. 

CHAPTER III

LITTLE TOD FOGARTY

With the warmth of Jane's parting grasp lingering in his own DoctorJohn untied the mare, sprang into his gig, and was soon clear of thevillage and speeding along the causeway that stretched across the saltmarshes leading past his own home to the inner beach beyond. As hedrove slowly through his own gate, so as to make as little noise aspossible, the cottage, blanketed under its clinging vines, seemed inthe soft light of the low-lying moon to be fast asleep. Only one eyewas open; this was the window of his office, through which streamed theglow of a lamp, its light falling on the gravel path and lilac bushesbeyond. 

Rex gave a bark of welcome and raced beside the wheels. 

"Keep still, old dog! Down, Rex! Been lonely, old fellow?"

The dog in answer leaped in the air as his master drew rein, and witheager springs tried to reach his hands, barking all the while in shortand joyful yelps. 

Doctor John threw the lines across the dash-board, jumped from the gig, and pushing open the hall door--it was never locked--stepped quicklyinto his office, and turning up the lamp, threw himself into a chair athis desk. The sorrel made no attempt to go to the stable--both horseand man were accustomed to delays--sometimes of long hours andsometimes of whole nights. 

The appointments and fittings of the office--old-fashioned andpractical as they were--reflected in a marked degree the aims andtastes of the occupant. While low bookcases stood against the wallssurmounted by rows of test-tubes, mortars and pestles, cases ofinstruments, and a line of bottles labelled with names of variousmixtures (in those days doctors were chemists as well as physicians), there could also be found a bust of the young Augustus; one or twolithographs of Heidelberg, where he had studied; and some lineengravings in black frames--one a view of Oxford with the Thameswandering by, another a portrait of the Duke of Wellington, and stillanother of Nell Gwynn. Scattered about the room were easy-chairs andsmall tables piled high with books, a copy of Tacitus and an earlyedition of Milton being among them, while under the wide, low windowstood a narrow bench crowded with flowering plants in earthen pots, theremnants of the winter's bloom. There were also souvenirs of hisearlier student life--a life which few of his friends in Warehold, except Jane Cobden, knew or cared anything about--including a pair ofcrossed foils and two boxing-gloves; these last hung over a portrait ofMacaulay. 

What the place lacked was the touch of a woman's hand in vase, flower, or ornament--a touch that his mother, for reasons of her own, nevergave and which no other woman had yet dared suggest. 

For an instant the doctor sat with his elbows on the desk in deepthought, the light illuminating his calm, finely chiselled features andhands--those thin, sure hands which could guide a knife within a hair'sbreadth of instant death--and leaning forward, with an indrawn sighexamined some letters lying under his eye. Then, as if suddenlyremembering, he glanced at the office slate, his face lighting up as hefound it bare of any entry except the date. 

Rex had been watching his master with ears cocked, and was now on hishaunches, cuddling close, his nose resting on the doctor's knee. DoctorJohn laid his hand on the dog's head and smoothing the long, silkyears, said with a sigh of relief, as he settled himself in his chair:

"Little Tod must be better, Rex, and we are going to have a quietnight. "

The anxiety over his patients relieved, his thoughts reverted to Janeand their talk. He remembered the tone of her voice and the quick wayin which she had warded off his tribute to her goodness; he recalledher anxiety over Lucy; he looked again into the deep, trusting eyesthat gazed into his as she appealed to him for assistance; he caughtonce more the poise of the head as she listened to his account oflittle Tod Fogarty's illness and heard her quick offer to help, andfelt for the second time her instant tenderness and sympathy, neverwithheld from the sick and suffering, and always so generous andspontaneous. 

A certain feeling of thankfulness welled up in his heart. Perhaps shehad at last begun to depend upon him--a dependence which, with a womansuch as Jane, must, he felt sure, eventually end in love. 

With these thoughts filling his mind, he settled deeper in his chair. These were the times in which he loved to think of her--when, with pipein mouth, he could sit alone by his fire and build castles in thecoals, every rosy mountain-top aglow with the love he bore her; with nowatchful mother's face trying to fathom his thoughts; only his faithfuldog stretched at his feet. 

Picking up his brierwood, lying on a pile of books on his desk, andwithin reach of his hand, he started to fill the bowl, when a scrap ofpaper covered with a scrawl written in pencil came into view. He turnedit to the light and sprang to his feet. 

"Tod worse, " he said to himself. "I wonder how long this has been here. "

The dog was now beside him looking up into the doctor's eyes. It wasnot the first time that he had seen his master's face grow suddenlyserious as he had read the tell-tale slate or had opened some noteawaiting his arrival. 

Doctor John lowered the lamp, stepped noiselessly to the foot of thewinding stairs that led to the sleeping rooms above--the dog close athis heels, watching his every movement--and called gently:

"Mother! mother, dear!" He never left his office when she was at homeand awake without telling her where he was going. 

No one answered. 

"She is asleep. I will slip out without waking her. Stay where you are, Rex--I will be back some time before daylight, " and throwing hisnight-cloak about his shoulders, he started for his gig. 

The dog stopped with his paws resting on the outer edge of the top stepof the porch, the line he was not to pass, and looked wistfully afterthe doctor. His loneliness was to continue, and his poor master to goout into the night alone. His tail ceased to wag, only his eyes moved. 

Once outside Doctor John patted the mare's neck as if in apology andloosened the reins. "Come, old girl, " he said; "I'm sorry, but it can'tbe helped, " and springing into the gig, he walked the mare clear of thegravel beyond the gate, so as not to rouse his mother, touched herlightly with the whip, and sent her spinning along the road on the wayto Fogarty's. 

The route led toward the sea, branching off within the sight of thecottage porch, past the low, conical ice-houses used by the fishermenin which to cool their fish during the hot weather, along thesand-dunes, and down a steep grade to the shore. The tide was makingflood, and the crawling surf spent itself in long shelving reaches offoam. These so packed the sand that the wheels of the gig hardly madean impression upon it. Along this smooth surface the mare trottedbriskly, her nimble feet wet with the farthest reaches of the incomingwash. 

As he approached the old House of Refuge, black in the moonlight andlooking twice its size in the stretch of the endless beach, he noticedfor the hundredth time how like a crouching woman it appeared, with itshipped roof hunched up like a shoulder close propped against the duneand its overhanging eaves but a draped hood shading its thoughtfulbrow; an illusion which vanished when its square form, with its widedoor and long platform pointing to the sea, came into view. 

More than once in its brief history the doctor had seen the volunteercrew, aroused from their cabins along the shore by the boom of a gunfrom some stranded vessel, throw wide its door and with a wild cheerwhirl the life-boat housed beneath its roof into the boiling surf, andmany a time had he helped to bring back to life the benumbed bodiesdrawn from the merciless sea by their strong arms. 

There were other houses like it up and down the coast. Some hadremained unused for years, desolate and forlorn, no unhappy ship havingfoundered or struck the breakers within their reach; others had been inconstant use. The crews were gathered from the immediate neighborhoodby the custodian, who was the only man to receive pay from theGovernment. If he lived near by he kept the key; if not, the nearestfisherman held it. Fogarty, the father of the sick child, and whosecabin was within gunshot of this house, kept the key this year. Noother protection was given these isolated houses and none was needed. These black-hooded Sisters of the Coast, keeping their lonely vigils, were as safe from beach-combers and sea-prowlers as their white-cappednamesakes would have been threading the lonely suburbs of some city. 

The sound of the mare's feet on the oyster-shell path outside his cabinbrought Fogarty, a tall, thin, weather-beaten fisherman, to the door. He was still wearing his hip-boots and sou'wester--he was just in fromthe surf--and stood outside the low doorway with a lantern. Its lightstreamed over the sand and made wavering patterns about the mare's feet. 

"Thought ye'd never come, Doc, " he whispered, as he threw the blanketover the mare. "Wife's nigh crazy. Tod's fightin' for all he's worth, but there ain't much breath left in him. I was off the inlet when itcome on. "

The wife, a thick-set woman in a close-fitting cap, her arms bared tothe elbow, her petticoats above the tops of her shoes, met him insidethe door. She had been crying and her eyelids were still wet and hercheeks swollen. The light of the ship's lantern fastened to the wallfell upon a crib in the corner, on which lay the child, his shortcurls, tangled with much tossing, smoothed back from his face. Thedoctor's ears had caught the sound of the child's breathing before heentered the room. 

"When did this come on?" Doctor John asked, settling down beside thecrib upon a stool that the wife had brushed off with her apron. 

"'Bout sundown, sir, " she answered, her tear-soaked eyes fixed onlittle Tod's face. Her teeth chattered as she spoke and her arms weretight pressed against her sides, her fingers opening and shutting inher agony. Now and then in her nervousness she would wipe her foreheadwith the back of her wrist as if it were wet, or press her two fingersdeep into her swollen cheek. 

Fogarty had followed close behind the doctor and now stood looking downat the crib with fixed eyes, his thin lips close shut, his square jawsunk in the collar of his shirt. There were no dangers that the seacould unfold which this silent surfman had not met and conquered, andwould again. Every fisherman on the coast knew Fogarty's pluck andskill, and many of them owed their lives to him. To-night, before thisinvisible power slowly closing about his child he was as powerless as askiff without oars caught in the swirl of a Barnegat tide. 

"Why didn't you let me know sooner, Fogarty? You understood mydirections?" Doctor John asked in a surprised tone. "You shouldn't haveleft him without letting me know. " It was only when his orders weredisobeyed and life endangered that he spoke thus. 

The fisherman turned his head and was about to reply when the wifestepped in front of him. 

"My husband got ketched in the inlet, sir, " she said in an apologetictone, as if to excuse his absence. "The tide set ag'in him and he hadhard pullin' makin' the p'int. It cuts in turrible there, you know, doctor. Tod seemed to be all right when he left him this mornin'. I hadhusband's mate take the note I wrote ye. Mate said nobody was at homeand he laid it under your pipe. He thought ye'd sure find it there whenye come in. "

Doctor John was not listening to her explanations; he was leaning overthe rude crib, his ear to the child's breast. Regaining his position, he smoothed the curls tenderly from the forehead of the little fellow, who still lay with eyes closed, one stout brown hand and arm clear ofthe coverlet, and stood watching his breathing. Every now and then aspasm of pain would cross the child's face; the chubby hand would openconvulsively and a muffled cry escape him. Doctor John watched hisbreathing for some minutes, laid his hand again on the child'sforehead, and rose from the stool. 

"Start up that fire, Fogarty, " he said in a crisp tone, turning up hisshirt-cuffs, slipping off his evening coat, and handing the garment tothe wife, who hung it mechanically over a chair, her eyes all the timesearching Doctor John's face for some gleam of hope. 

"Now get a pan, " he continued, "fill it with water and some corn-meal, and get me some cotton cloth--half an apron, piece of an old petticoat, anything, but be quick about it. "

The woman, glad of something to do, hastened to obey. Somehow, thetones of his voice had put new courage into her heart. Fogarty threw aheap of driftwood on the smouldering fire and filled the kettle; thedry splinters crackled into a blaze. 

The noise aroused the child. 

The doctor held up his finger for silence and again caressed the boy'sforehead. Fogarty, with a fresh look of alarm in his face, tiptoed backof the crib and stood behind the restless sufferer. Under the doctor'stouch the child once more became quiet. 

"Is he bad off?" the wife murmured when the doctor moved to the fireand began stirring the mush she was preparing. "The other one went thisway; we can't lose him. You won't lose him, will ye, doctor, dear? Idon't want to live if this one goes. Please, doctor--"

The doctor looked into the wife's eyes, blurred with tears, and laidhis hand tenderly on her shoulder. 

"Keep a good heart, wife, " he said; "we'll pull him through. Tod is atough little chap with plenty of fight in him yet. I've seen them muchworse. It will soon be over; don't worry. "

Mrs. Fogarty's eyes brightened and even the fisherman's grim facerelaxed. Silent men in grave crises suffer most; the habit of theirlives precludes the giving out of words that soothe and heal; whenothers speak them, they sink into their thirsty souls like drops ofrain after a long drought. It was just such timely expressions as thesethat helped Doctor John's patients most--often their only hope hung onsome word uttered with a buoyancy of spirit that for a moment stifledall their anxieties. 

The effect of the treatment began to tell upon the little sufferer--hisbreathing became less difficult, the spasms less frequent. The doctorwhispered the change to the wife, sitting close at his elbow, hisimpassive face brightening as he spoke; there was an oven chance nowfor the boy's life. 

The vigil continued. 

No one moved except Fogarty, who would now and then tiptoe quickly tothe hearth, add a fresh log to the embers, and as quickly move back tohis position behind the child's crib. The rising and falling of theblaze, keeping rhythm, as it were, to the hopes and fears of the group, lighted up in turn each figure in the room. First the doctor sittingwith hands resting on his knees, his aquiline nose and brow clearlyoutlined against the shadowy background in the gold chalk of thedancing flames, his black evening clothes in strong contrast to thehigh white of the coverlet, framing the child's face like a nimbus. Next the bent body of the wife, her face in half-tones, her stoutshoulders in high relief, and behind, swallowed up in the gloom, out ofreach of the fire-. Gleam, the straight, motionless form of thefisherman, standing with folded arms, grim and silent, his unseen eyesfixed on his child. 

Far into the night, and until the gray dawn streaked the sky, thisvigil continued; the doctor, assisted by Fogarty and the wife, changingthe poultices, filling the child's lungs with hot steam by means of apaper funnel, and encouraging the mother by his talk. At one time hewould tell her in half-whispered tones of a child who had recovered andwho had been much weaker than this one. Again he would turn to Fogartyand talk of the sea, of the fishing outside the inlet, of the bigthree-masted schooner which had been built by the men at Tom's River, of the new light they thought of building at Barnegat to take the placeof the old one--anything to divert their minds and lessen theiranxieties, stopping only to note the sound of every cough the boy gaveor to change the treatment as the little sufferer struggled on fightingfor his life. 

When the child dozed no one moved, no word was spoken. Then in thesilence there would come to their ears above the labored breathing ofthe boy the long swinging tick of the clock, dull and ominous, as iftolling the minutes of a passing life; the ceaseless crunch of the sea, chewing its cud on the beach outside or the low moan of the outer barturning restlessly on its bed of sand. 

Suddenly, and without warning, and out of an apparent sleep, the childstarted up from his pillow with staring eyes and began beating the airfor breath. 

The doctor leaned quickly forward, listened for a moment, his ear tothe boy's chest, and said in a quiet, restrained voice:

"Go into the other room, Mrs. Fogarty, and stay there till I call you. "The woman raised her eyes to his and obeyed mechanically. She was wornout, mind and body, and had lost her power of resistance. 

As the door shut upon her Doctor John sprang from the stool, caught thelamp from the wall, handed it to Fogarty, and picking the child up fromthe crib, laid it flat upon his knees. 

He now slipped his hand into his pocket and took from it a leather casefilled with instruments. 

"Hold the light, Fogarty, " he said in a firm, decided tone, "and keepyour nerve. I thought he'd pull through without it, but he'll strangleif I don't. "

"What ye goin' to do--not cut him?" whispered the fisherman in atrembling voice. 

"Yes. It's his only chance. I've seen it coming on for the lasthour--no nonsense now. Steady, old fellow. It'll be over in a minute.... There, my boy, that'll help you. Now, Fogarty, hand me that cloth.... All right, little man; don't cry; it's all over. Now open the doorand let your wife in, " and he laid the child back on the pillow. 

When the doctor took the blanket from the sorrel tethered outsideFogarty's cabin and turned his horse's head homeward the sails of thefishing-boats lying in a string on the far horizon flashed silver inthe morning sun, His groom met him at the stable door, and without aword led the mare into the barn. 

The lamp in his study was still burning in yellow mockery of the rosydawn. He laid his case of instruments on the desk, hung his cloak andhat to a peg in the closet, and ascended the staircase on the way tohis bedroom. As he passed his mother's open door she heard his step. 

"Why, it's broad daylight, son, " she called in a voice ending in a yawn. 

"Yes, mother. "

"Where have you been?"

"To see little Tod Fogarty, " he answered simply. 

"What's the matter with him?"

"Croup. "

"Is he going to die?"

"No, not this time. "

"Well, what did you stay out all night for?" The voice had now grownstronger, with a petulant tone through it. 

"Well, I could hardly help it. They are very simple people, and were sobadly frightened that they were helpless. It's the only child they haveleft to them--the last one died of croup. "

"Well, are you going to turn nurse for half the paupers in the county?All children have croup, and they don't all die!" The petulant voicehad now developed into one of indignation. 

"No, mother, but I couldn't take any risks. This little chap is worthsaving. "

There came a pause, during which the tired man waited patiently. 

"You were at the Cobdens'?"

"Yes; or I should have reached Fogarty's sooner. "

"And Miss Jane detained you, of course. "

"No, mother. "

"Good-night, John. "

"Say rather 'Good-day, ' mother, " he answered with a smile and continuedon to his room. 

CHAPTER IV

ANN GOSSAWAY'S RED CLOAK

The merrymakings at Yardley continued for weeks, a new impetus andflavor being lent them by the arrival of two of Lucy's friends--herschoolmate and bosom companion, Maria Collins, of Trenton, and Maria'sdevoted admirer, Max Feilding, of Walnut Hill, Philadelphia. 

Jane, in her joy over Lucy's home-coming, and in her desire to meet hersister's every wish, gladly welcomed the new arrivals, although MissCollins, strange to say, had not made a very good impression upon her. Max she thought better of. He was a quiet, well-bred young fellow;older than either Lucy or Maria, and having lived abroad a year, knewsomething of the outside world. Moreover, their families had alwaysbeen intimate in the old days, his ancestral home being always open toJane's mother when a girl. 

The arrival of these two strangers only added to the general gayety. Picnics were planned to the woods back of Warehold to which the youngpeople of the town were invited, and in which Billy Tatham with histeam took a prominent part. Sailing and fishing parties outside ofBarnegat were gotten up; dances were held in the old parlor, and eventableaux were arranged under Max's artistic guidance. In one of theseMaria wore a Spanish costume fashioned out of a white lace shawlbelonging to Jane's grand-mother draped over her head and shoulders, and made the more bewitching by a red japonica fixed in her hair, andLucy appeared as a dairy-maid decked out in one of Martha's caps, altered to fit her shapely head. 

The village itself was greatly stirred. 

"Have you seen them two fly-up-the-creeks?" Billy Tatham, thestage-driver, asked of Uncle Ephraim Tipple as he was driving him downto the boat-landing. 

"No, what do they look like?"

"The He-one had on a two-inch hat with a green ribbon and wore a whitebob-tail coat that 'bout reached to the top o' his pants. Looks like helived on water-crackers and milk, his skin's that white. The She-onehad a set o' hoops on her big as a circus tent. Much as I could do togit her in the 'bus--as it was, she come in sideways. And her trunk!Well, it oughter been on wheels--one o' them travellin' houses. Ithought one spell I'd take the old plug out the shafts and hook on toit and git it up that-a-way. "

"Some of Lucy's chums, I guess, " chuckled Uncle Ephraim. "Miss Janetold me they were coming. How long are they going to stay?"

"Dunno. Till they git fed up and fattened, maybe. If they was mine I'dhave killin' time to-day. "

Ann Gossaway and some of her cronies also gave free rein to theirtongues. 

"Learned them tricks at a finishin' school, did they?" broke out thedressmaker. (Lucy had been the only young woman in Warehold who hadever enjoyed that privilege. ) "Wearin' each other's hats, rollin' roundin the sand, and hollerin' so you could hear 'em clear to thelighthouse. If I had my way I'd finish 'em, And that's where they'llgit if they don't mind, and quick, too!"

The Dellenbaughs, Cromartins, and Bunsbys, being of another class, viewed the young couple's visit in a different light. "Mr. Feilding hassuch nice hands and wears such lovely cravats, " the younger MissCromartin said, and "Miss Collins is too sweet for anything. " Prim Mr. Bunsby, having superior notions of life and deportment, only shook hishead. He looked for more dignity, he said; but then this Byronic youngman had not been invited to any of the outings. 

In all these merrymakings and outings Lucy was the central figure. Herbeauty, her joyous nature, her freedom from affectation andconventionality, her love of the out-of-doors, her pretty clothes andthe way she wore them, all added to her popularity. In the swing andtoss of her freedom, her true temperament developed. She was like asummer rose, making everything and everybody glad about her, loving theair she breathed as much for the color it put into her cheeks as forthe new bound it gave to her blood. Just as she loved the sunlight forits warmth and the dip and swell of the sea for its thrill. So, too, when the roses were a glory of bloom, not only would she revel in thebeauty of the blossoms, but intoxicated by their color and fragrance, would bury her face in the wealth of their abundance, taking in greatdraughts of their perfume, caressing them with her cheeks, drinking inthe honey of their petals. 

This was also true of her voice--a rich, full, vibrating voice, thatdominated the room and thrilled the hearts of all who heard her. Whenshe sang she sang as a bird sings, as much to relieve its ownovercharged little body, full to bursting with the music in its soul, as to gladden the surrounding woods with its melody--because, too, shecould not help it and because the notes lay nearest her bubbling heartand could find their only outlet through the lips. 

Bart was her constant companion. Under his instructions she had learnedto hold the tiller in sailing in and out of the inlet; to swim overhand; to dive from a plank, no matter how high the jump; and to join inall his outdoor sports. Lucy had been his constant inspiration in allof this. She had surveyed the field that first night of their meetingand had discovered that the young man's personality offered the onlymaterial in Warehold available for her purpose. With him, or someonelike him--one who had leisure and freedom, one who was quick and strongand skilful (and Bart was all of these)--the success of her summerwould be assured. Without him many of her plans could not be carriedout. 

And her victory over him had been an easy one. Held first by the spellof her beauty and controlled later by her tact and stronger will, theyoung man's effrontery--almost impudence at times--had changed to acertain respectful subservience, which showed itself in his constanteffort to please and amuse her. When they were not sailing they wereback in the orchard out of sight of the house, or were walking togethernobody knew where. Often Bart would call for her immediately afterbreakfast, and the two would pack a lunch-basket and be gone all day, Lucy arranging the details of the outing, and Bart entering into themwith a dash and an eagerness which, to a man of his temperament, cemented the bond between them all the closer. Had they been two fableddenizens of the wood--she a nymph and he a dryad--they could not havebeen more closely linked with sky and earth. 

As for Jane, she watched the increasing intimacy with alarm. She hadsuddenly become aroused to the fact that Lucy's love affair with Bartwas going far beyond the limits of prudence. The son of CaptainNathaniel Holt, late of the Black Ball Line of packets, would always bewelcome as a visitor at the home, the captain being an old and triedfriend of her father's; but neither Bart's education nor prospects, nor, for that matter, his social position--a point which usually hadvery little weight with Jane--could possibly entitle him to ask thehand of the granddaughter of Archibald Cobden in marriage. She began toregret that she had thrown them together. Her own ideas of reforminghim had never contemplated any such intimacy as now existed between theyoung man and her sister. The side of his nature which he had alwaysshown her had been one of respectful attention to her wishes; so muchso that she had been greatly encouraged in her efforts to makesomething more of him than even his best friends predicted could bedone; but she had never for one instant intended that her friendlyinterest should go any further, nor could she have conceived of such anissue. 

And yet Jane did nothing to prevent the meetings and outings of theyoung couple, even after Maria's and Max's departure. 

When Martha, in her own ever-increasing anxiety, spoke of the growingintimacy she looked grave, but she gave no indication of her ownthoughts. Her pride prevented her discussing the situation with the oldnurse and her love for Lucy from intervening in her pleasures. 

"She has been cooped up at school so long, Martha, dear, " she answeredin extenuation, "that I hate to interfere in anything she wants to do. She is very happy; let her alone. I wish, though, she would return someof the calls of these good people who have been so kind to her. Perhapsshe will if you speak to her. But don't worry about Bart; that willwear itself out. All young girls must have their love-affairs. "

Jane's voice had lacked the ring of true sincerity when she spoke about"wearing itself out, " and Martha had gone to her room more dissatisfiedthan before. This feeling became all the more intense when, the nextday, from her window she watched Bart tying on Lucy's hat, puffing outthe big bow under her chin, smoothing her hair from the flying strings. Lucy's eyes were dancing, her face turned toward Bart's, her prettylips near his own. There was a knot or a twist, or a collection ofknots and twists, or perhaps Bart's fingers bungled, for minutes passedbefore the hat could be fastened to suit either of them. Martha's headhad all this time been thrust out of the easement, her gaze apparentlyfixed on a birdcage hung from a hook near the shutter. 

Bart caught her eye and whispered to Lucy that that "old spy-cat" waswatching them; whereupon Lucy faced about, waved her hand to the oldnurse, and turning quickly, raced up the orchard and out of sight, followed by Bart carrying a shawl for them to sit upon. 

After that Martha, unconsciously, perhaps, to herself, kept watch, sofar as she could, upon their movements, without, as she thought, betraying herself: making excuses to go to the village when they twowent off together in that direction; traversing the orchard, ostensiblylooking for Meg when she knew all the time that the dog was soundasleep in the woodshed; or yielding to a sudden desire to give therascal a bath whenever Lucy announced that she and Bart were going tospend the morning down by the water. 

As the weeks flew by and Lucy had shown no willingness to assume hershare of any of the responsibilities of the house, --any that interferedwith her personal enjoyment, --Jane became more and more restless andunhappy. The older village people had shown her sister every attention, she said to herself, --more than was her due, considering heryouth, --and yet Lucy had never crossed any one of their thresholds. Sheagain pleaded with the girl to remember her social duties and to paysome regard to the neighbors who had called upon her and who had shownher so much kindness; to which the happy-hearted sister had laughedback in reply:

"What for, you dear sister? These old fossils don't want to see me, andI'm sure I don't want to see them. Some of them give me the shivers, they are so prim. "

It was with glad surprise, therefore, that Jane heard Lucy say inMartha's hearing one bright afternoon:

"Now, I'm going to begin, sister, and you won't have to scold me anymore. Everyone of these old tabbies I will take in a row: Mrs. Cavendish first, and then the Cromartins, and the balance of the bunchwhen I can reach them. I am going to Rose Cottage to see Mrs. Cavendishthis very afternoon. "

The selection of Mrs. Cavendish as first on her list only increasedJane's wonder. Rose Cottage lay some two miles from Warehold, near theupper end of the beach, and few of their other friends lived near it. Then again, Jane knew that Lucy had not liked the doctor's calling herinto the house the night of her arrival, and had heretofore made oneexcuse after another when urged to call on his mother. Her delight, therefore, over Lucy's sudden sense of duty was all the more keen. 

"I'll go with you, darling, " she answered, slipping her arm aboutLucy's waist, "and we'll take Meg for a walk. "

So they started, Lucy in her prettiest frock and hat and Jane with herbig red cloak over her arm to protect the young girl from the breezefrom the sea, which in the early autumn was often cool, especially ifthey should sit out on Mrs. Cavendish's piazza. 

The doctor's mother met them on the porch. She had seen them enter thegarden gate, and had left her seat by the window, and was standing onthe top step to welcome them. Rex, as usual, in the doctor's absence, did the honors of the office. He loved Jane, and always sprang straightat her, his big paws resting on her shoulders. These courtesies, however, he did not extend to Meg. The high-bred setter had no othersalutation for the clay-colored remnant than a lifting of his nose, atightening of his legs, and a smothered growl when Meg ventured toonear his lordship. 

"Come up, my dear, and let me look at you, " were Mrs. Cavendish's firstwords of salutation to Lucy. "I hear you have quite turned the heads ofall the gallants in Warehold. John says you are very beautiful, and youknow the doctor is a good judge, is he not, Miss Jane?" she added, holding out her hands to them both. "And he's quite right; you are justlike your dear mother, who was known as the Rose of Barnegat longbefore you were born. Shall we sit here, or will you come into mylittle salon for a cup of tea?" It was always a salon to Mrs. Cavendish, never a "sitting-room. "

"Oh, please let me sit here, " Lucy answered, checking a rising smile atthe word, "the view is so lovely, " and without further comment or anyreference to the compliments showered upon her, she took her seat uponthe top step and began to play with Rex, who had already offered tomake friends with her, his invariable habit with well-dressed people. 

Jane meanwhile improved the occasion to ask the doctor's mother aboutthe hospital they were building near Barnegat, and whether she and oneor two of the other ladies at Warehold would not be useful as visitors, and, perhaps, in case of emergency, as nurses. 

While the talk was in progress Lucy sat smoothing Rex's silky ears, listening to every word her hostess spoke, watching her gestures andthe expressions that crossed her face, and settling in her mind for alltime, after the manner of young girls, what sort of woman the doctor'smother might be; any opinions she might have had two years before beingnow outlawed by this advanced young woman in her present maturejudgment. 

In that comprehensive glance, with the profound wisdom of her seventeensummers to help her, she had come to the conclusion that Mrs. Cavendishwas a high-strung, nervous, fussy little woman of fifty, with anoutward show of good-will and an inward intention to rip everybody upthe back who opposed her; proud of her home, of her blood, and of herson, and determined, if she could manage it, to break off hisattachment for Jane, no matter at what cost. This last Lucy caught froma peculiar look in the little old woman's eyes and a slightly scornfulcurve of the lower lip as she listened to Jane's talk about thehospital, all of which was lost on "plain Jane Cobden, " as the doctor'smother invariably called her sister behind her back. 

Then the young mind-reader turned her attention to the house andgrounds and the buildings lying above and before her, especially to theway the matted vines hung to the porches and clambered over the roofand dormers. Later on she listened to Mrs. Cavendish's description ofits age and ancestry: How it had come down to her from her grandfather, whose large estate was near Trenton, where as a girl she had spent herlife; how in those days it was but a small villa to which old NicholasErskine, her great-uncle, would bring his guests when the August daysmade Trenton unbearable; and how in later years under the big treesback of the house and over the lawn--"you can see them from where yousit, my dear"--tea had been served to twenty or more of "the firstgentlemen and ladies of the land. "

Jane had heard it all a dozen times before, and so had every othervisitor at Rose Cottage, but to Lucy it was only confirmation of herlatter-day opinion of her hostess. Nothing, however, could be moregracious than the close attention which the young girl gave Mrs. Cavendish's every word when the talk was again directed to her, bendingher pretty head and laughing at the right time--a courtesy which socharmed the dear lady that she insisted on giving first Lucy, and thenJane, a bunch of roses from her "own favorite bush" before the twogirls took their leave. 

With these evidences of her delight made clear, Lucy pushed Rex fromher side--he had become presuming and had left the imprint of his dustypaw upon her spotless frock--and with the remark that she had othervisits to pay, her only regret being that this one was so short, shegot up from her seat on the step, called Meg, and stood waiting forJane with some slight impatience in her manner. 

Jane immediately rose from her chair. She had been greatly pleaded atthe impression Lucy had made. Her manner, her courtesy, her respect forthe older woman, her humoring her whims, show her to be the daughter ofa Cobden. As to her own place during the visit, she had never given ita thought. She would always be willing to act as foil to heraccomplished, brilliant sister if by so doing she could make otherpeople love Lucy the more. 

As they walked through the doctor's study, Mrs. Cavendish precedingthem, Jane lingered for a moment and gave a hurried glance about her. There stood his chair and his lounge where he had thrown himself sooften when tired out. There, too, was the closet where he hung his coatand hat, and the desk covered with books and papers. A certain feelingof reverence not unmixed with curiosity took possession of her, as whenone enters a sanctuary in the absence of the priest. For an instant shepassed her hand gently over the leather back of the chair where hishead rested, smoothing it with her fingers. Then her eyes wandered overthe room, noting each appointment in detail. Suddenly a sense ofinjustice rose in her mind as she thought that nothing of beauty hadever been added to these plain surroundings; even the plants in theboxes by the windows looked half faded. With a quick glance at the opendoor she slipped a rose from the bunch in her hand, leaned over, andwith the feeling of a devotee laying an offering on the altar, placedthe flower hurried on the doctor's slate. Then she joined Mrs. Cavendish. 

Lucy walked slowly from the gate, her eyes every now and then turned tothe sea. When she and Jane had reached the cross-road that branched offtoward the beach--it ran within sight of Mrs. Cavendish's windows--Lucysaid:

"The afternoon is so lovely I'm not going to pay any more visits, sister. Suppose I go to the beach and give Meg a bath. You won't mind, will you? Come, Meg!"

"Oh, how happy you will make him!" cried Jane. "But you are not dressedwarm enough, dearie. You know how cool it gets toward evening. Here, take my cloak. Perhaps I'd better go with you--"

"No, do you keep on home. I want to see if the little wretch will becontented with me alone. Good-by, " and without giving her sister timeto protest, she called to Meg, and with a wave of her hand, the redcloak flying from her shoulders, ran toward the beach, Meg boundingafter her. 

Jane waved back in answer, and kept her eyes on the graceful figureskipping along the road, her head and shoulders in silhouette againstthe blue sea, her white skirts brushing the yellow grass of thesand-dune. All the mother-love in her heart welled up in her breast. She was so proud of her, so much in love with her, so thankful for her!All these foolish love affairs and girl fancies would soon be over andBart and the others like him out of Lucy's mind and heart. Why worryabout it? Some great strong soul would come by and by and take thischild in his arms and make a woman of her. Some strong soul--

She stopped short in her walk and her thoughts went back to the redrose lying on the doctor's desk. 

"Will he know?" she said to herself; "he loves flowers so, and I don'tbelieve anybody ever puts one on his desk. Poor fellow! how hard heworks and how good he is to everybody! Little Tod would have died butfor his tenderness. " Then, with a prayer in her heart and a new lightin her eyes, she kept on her way. 

Lucy, as she bounded along the edge of the bluff, Meg scurrying afterher, had never once lost sight of her sister's slender figure. When aturn in the road shut her from view, she crouched down behind asand-dune, waited until she was sure Jane would not change her mind andjoin her, and then folding the cloak over her arm, gathered up herskirts and ran with all her speed along the wet sand to the House ofRefuge. As she reached its side, Bart Holt stepped out into theafternoon light. 

"I thought you'd never come, darling, " he said, catching her in hisarms and kissing her. 

"I couldn't help it, sweetheart. I told sister I was going to see Mrs. Cavendish, and she was so delighted she said she would go, too. "

"Where is she?" he interrupted, turning his head and looking anxiouslyup the beach. 

"Gone home. Oh, I fixed that. I was scared to death for a minute, butyou trust me when I want to get off. "

"Why didn't you let her take that beast of a dog with her? We don'twant him, " he rejoined, pointing to Meg, who had come to a suddenstandstill at the sight of Bart. 

"Why, you silly! That's how I got away. She thought I was going to givehim a bath. How long have you been waiting, my precious?" Her hand wason his shoulder now, her eyes raised to his. 

"Oh, 'bout a year. It really seems like a year, Luce" (his pet name forher), "when I'm waiting for you. I was sure something was up. Wait tillI open the door. " The two turned toward the house. 

"Why! can we get in? I thought Fogarty, the fisherman, had the key, "she asked, with a tone of pleasant surprise in her voice. 

"So he has, " he laughed. "Got it now hanging up behind his clock. Iborrowed it yesterday and had one made just like it. I'm of age. " Thiscame with a sly wink, followed by a low laugh of triumph. 

Lucy smiled. She liked his daring; she liked, too, his resources. Whena thing was to be done, Bart always found the way to do it. She waiteduntil he had fitted the new bright key into the rusty lock, her hand inhis. 

"Now, come inside, " he cried, swinging wide the big doors. "Isn't it ajolly place?" He slipped his arm about her and drew her to him. "See, there's the stove with the kindling-wood all ready to light whenanything comes ashore, and up on that shelf are life-preservers; andhere's a table and some stools and a lantern--two of 'em; and there'sthe big life-boat, all ready to push out. Good place to come Sundayswith some of the fellows, isn't it? Play all night here, and not a soulwould find you out, " he chuckled as he pointed to the different things. "You didn't think, now, I was going to have a cubby-hole like this tohide you in where that old spot-cat Martha can't be watching us, didyou?" he added, drawing her toward him and again kissing her with asudden intensity. 

Lucy slipped from his arms and began examining everything with thegreatest interest. She had never seen anything but the outside of thehouse before and she always wondered what it contained, and as a childhad stood up on her toes and tried to peep in through the crack of thebig door. When she had looked the boat all over and felt the oars, andwondered whether the fire could be lighted quick enough, and picturedin her mind the half-drowned people huddled around it in theirsea-drenched clothes, she moved to the door. Bart wanted her to sitdown inside, but she refused. 

"No, come outside and lie on the sand. Nobody comes along here, " sheinsisted. "Oh, see how beautiful the sea is! I love that green, " anddrawing Jane's red cloak around her, she settled herself on the sand, Bart throwing himself at her feet. 

The sun was now nearing the horizon, and its golden rays fell acrosstheir faces. Away off on the sky-line trailed the smoke of an incomingsteamer; nearer in idled a schooner bound in to Barnegat Inlet withevery sail set. At their feet the surf rose sleepily under the gentlepressure of the incoming tide, its wavelets spreading themselves inwidening circles as if bent on kissing the feet of the radiant girl. 

As they sat and talked, filled with the happiness of being alone, theireyes now on the sea and now looking into each other's, Meg, who hadamused himself by barking at the swooping gulls, chasing the sand-snipeand digging holes in the sand for imaginary muskrats, lifted his headand gave a short yelp. Bart, annoyed by the sound, picked up a bit ofdriftwood and hurled it at him, missing him by a few inches. Thenarrowness of the escape silenced the dog and sent him to the rear withdrooping tail and ears. 

Bart should have minded Meg's warning. A broad beach in the full glareof the setting sun, even when protected by a House of Refuge, is a poorplace to be alone in. 

A woman was passing along the edge of the bluffs, carrying a basket inone hand and a green umbrella in the other; a tall, thin, angularwoman, with the eye of a ferret. It was Ann Gossaway's day for visitingthe sick, and she had just left Fogarty's cabin, where little Tod, withhis throat tied up in red flannel, had tried on her mitts and playedwith her spectacles. Miss Gossaway had heard Meg's bark and had beenaccorded a full view of Lucy's back covered by Jane's red cloak, withBart sitting beside her, their shoulders touching. 

Lovers with their heads together interested the gossip no longer, except as a topic to talk about. Such trifles had these many yearspassed out of the dress-maker's life. 

So Miss Gossaway, busy with her own thoughts, kept on her way unnoticedby either Lucy or Bart. 

When she reached the cross-road she met Doctor John driving in. Hetightened the reins on the sorrel and stopped. 

"Lovely afternoon, Miss Gossaway. Where are you from--looking at thesunset?"

"No, I ain't got no time for spoonin'. I might be if I was Miss Janeand Bart Holt. Just see 'em a spell ago squattin' down behind the Houseo' Refuge. She wouldn't look at me. I been to Fogarty's; she's on mylist this week, and it's my day for visitin', fust in two weeks. Thattwo-year-old of hers is all right ag'in after your sewing him up;they'll never get over tellin' how you set up all night with him. Youought to hear Mrs. Fogarty go on--'Oh, the goodness of him!'" and shemimicked the good woman's dialect. "'If Tod'd been his own child hecouldn't a-done more for him. ' That's the way she talks. I heard, doctor, ye never left him till daylight. You're a wonder. "

The doctor touched his hat and drove on. 

Miss Gossaway's sharp, rasping voice and incisive manner of speakinggrated upon him. He liked neither her tone nor the way in which shespoke of the mistress of Yardley. No one else dared as much. If Janewas really on the beach and with Bart, she had some good purpose in hermind. It may have been her day for visiting, and Bart, perhaps, hadaccompanied her. But why had Miss Gossaway not met Miss Cobden atFogarty's, his being the only cabin that far down the beach? Then hisface brightened. Perhaps, after all, it was Lucy whom she had seen. Hehad placed that same red cloak around her shoulders the night of thereception at Yardley--and when she was with Bart, too. 

Mrs. Cavendish was sitting by her window when the doctor entered hisown house. She rose, and putting down her book, advanced to meet him. 

"You should have come earlier, John, " she said with a laugh; "such acharming girl and so pretty and gracious. Why, I was quite overcome. She is very different from her sister. What do you think Miss Janewants to do now? Nurse in the new hospital when it is built! Prettyposition for a lady, isn't it?"

"Any position she would fill would gain by her presence, " said thedoctor gravely. "Have they been gone long?" he asked, changing thesubject. He never discussed Jane Cobden with his mother if he couldhelp it. 

"Oh, yes, some time. Lucy must have kept on home, for I saw Miss Janegoing toward the beach alone. "

"Are you sure, mother?" There was a note of anxiety in his voice. 

"Yes, certainly. She had that red cloak of hers with her and thatmiserable little dog; that's how I know. She must be going to staylate. You look tired, my son; have you had a hard day?" added she, kissing him on the cheek. 

"Yes, perhaps I am a little tired, but I'll be all right. Have youlooked at the slate lately? I'll go myself, " and he turned and enteredhis office. 

On the slate lay the rose. He picked it up and held it to his nose in apreoccupied way. 

"One of mother's, " he said listlessly, laying it back among his papers. "She so seldom does that sort of thing. Funny that she should havegiven it to me to-day; and after Miss Jane's visit, too. " Then he shutthe office door, threw himself into his chair, and buried his face inhis hands. He was still there when his mother called him to supper. 

When Lucy reached home it was nearly dark. She came alone, leaving Bartat the entrance to the village. At her suggestion they had avoided themain road and had crossed the marsh by the foot-path, the dog boundingon ahead and springing at the nurse, who stood in the gate awaitingLucy's return. 

"Why, he's as dry as a bone!" Martha cried, stroking Meg's rough hairwith her plump hand. "He didn't get much of a bath, did he?"

"No, I couldn't get him into the water. Every time I got my hand on himhe'd dart away again. "

"Anybody on the beach, darlin'?"

"Not a soul except Meg and the sandsnipe. "

CHAPTER V

CAPTAIN NAT'S DECISION

When Martha, with Meg at her heels, passed Ann Gossaway's cottage thenext morning on her way to the post-office--her daily custom--thedressmaker, who was sitting in the window, one eye on her needle andthe other on the street, craned her head clear of the calico curtainframing the sash and beckoned to her. 

This perch of Ann Gossaway's was the eyrie from which she swept thevillage street, bordered with a double row of wide-spreading elms andfringed with sloping grassy banks spaced at short intervals byhitching-posts and horse-blocks. Her own cottage stood somewhat nearerthe flagged street path than the others, and as the garden fences werelow and her lookout flanked by two windows, one on each end of hercorner, she could not only note what went on about the fronts of herneighbors' houses, but much of what took place in their back yards. From this angle, too, she could see quite easily, and without more thantwisting her attenuated neck, the whole village street from theCromartins' gate to the spire of the village church, as well aseverything that passed up and down the shadow-flecked road: whichchild, for instance, was late for school, and how often, and what itwore and whether its clothes were new or inherited from an eldersister; who came to the Bronsons' next door, and how long they stayed, and whether they brought anything with them or carried anything away;the peddler with his pack; the gunner on his way to the marshes, histwo dogs following at his heels in a leash; Dr. John Cavendish's gig, and whether it was about to stop at Uncle Ephraim Tipple's or keep on, as usual, and whirl into the open gate of Cobden Manor; Billy Tatham'spassenger list, as the ricketty stage passed with the side curtains up, and the number of trunks and bags, and the size of them, all indicativeof where they were bound and for how long; details of village life--noone of which concerned her in the least--being matters of profoundinterest to Miss Gossaway. 

These several discoveries she shared daily with a faded old mother whosat huddled up in a rocking-chair by the stove, winter and summer, whether it had any fire in it or not. 

Uncle Ephraim Tipple, in his outspoken way, always referred to thesetwo gossips as the "spiders. " "When the thin one has sucked the lifeout of you, " he would say with a laugh, "she passes you on to her oldmother, who sits doubled up inside the web, and when she gets donemunching there isn't anything left but your hide and bones. "

It was but one of Uncle Ephraim's jokes. The mother was only a forlorn, half-alive old woman who dozed in her chair by the hour--the relict ofa fisherman who had gone to sea in his yawl some twenty years beforeand who had never come back. The daughter, with the courage of youth, had then stepped into the gap and had alone made the fight for bread. Gradually, as the years went by the roses in her cheeks--never toofresh at any time--had begun to fade, her face and figure to shrink, and her brow to tighten. At last, embittered by her responsibilitiesand disappointments, she had lost faith in human kind and had become ashrew. Since then her tongue had swept on as relentlessly as a scythe, sparing neither flower nor noxious weed, a movement which it was wise, sometimes, to check. 

When, therefore, Martha, with Meg now bounding before her, caught sightof Ann Gossaway's beckoning hand thrust out of the low window of hercottage--the spider-web referred to by Uncle Ephraim--she halted in herwalk, lingered a moment as if undecided, expressed her opinion of thedressmaker to Meg in an undertone, and swinging open the gate with itsball and chain, made her way over the grass-plot and stood outside thewindow, level with the sill. 

"Well, it ain't none of my business, of course, Martha Sands, " MissGossaway began, "and that's just what I said to mother when I comehome, but if I was some folks I'd see my company in my parlor, long asI had one, 'stead of hidin' down behind the House o' Refuge. I said tomother soon's I got in, 'I'm goin' to tell Martha Sands fust minute Isee her. She ain't got no idee how them girls of hers is carryin' on orshe'd stop it. ' That's what I said, didn't I, mother?"

Martha caught an inarticulate sound escaping from a figure muffled in ablanket shawl, but nothing else followed. 

"I thought fust it was you when I heard that draggle-tail dog of yoursbarkin', but it was only Miss Jane and Bart Holt. "

"Down on the beach! When?" asked Martha. She had not understood a wordof Miss Gossaway's outburst. 

"Why, yesterday afternoon, of course--didn't I tell ye so? I'd beendown to Fogarty's; it's my week. Miss Jane and Bart didn't seeme--didn't want to. Might a' been a pair of scissors, they was thatclose together. "

"Miss Jane warn't on the beach yesterday afternoon, " said Martha in apositive tone, still in the dark. 

"She warn't, warn't she? Well, I guess I know Miss Jane Cobden. She andBart was hunched up that close you couldn't get a bodkin 'tween 'em. She had that red cloak around her and the hood up ever her head. Notknow her, and she within ten feet o' me? Well, I guess I got my eyesleft, ain't I?"

Martha stood stunned. She knew now who it was. She had taken the redcloak from Lucy's shoulders the evening before. Then a cold chill creptover her as she remembered the lie Lucy had told--"not a soul on thebeach but Meg and the sandsnipe. " For an instant she stood withoutanswering. But for the window-sill on which her hand rested she wouldhave betrayed her emotion in the swaying of her body. She tried tocollect her thoughts. To deny Jane's identity too positively would onlymake the situation worse. If either one of the sisters were to becriticised Jane could stand it best. 

"You got sharp eyes and ears, Ann Gossaway, nobody will deny you them, but still I don't think Miss Jane was on the beach yesterday. "

"Don't think, don't you? Maybe you think I can't tell a cloak from abed blanket, never havin' made one, and maybe ye think I don't know myown clo'es when I see 'em on folks. I made that red cloak for Miss Janetwo years ago, and I know every stitch in it. Don't you try and teachAnn Gossaway how to cut and baste or you'll git worsted, " and thegossip looked over her spectacles at Martha and shook her side-curls ina threatening way. 

Miss Gossaway had no love for the old nurse. There had been a time whenMartha "weren't no better'n she oughter be, so everybody said, " whenshe came to the village, and the dressmaker never let a chance slip tohumiliate the old woman. Martha's open denunciation of the dressmaker'svinegar tongue had only increased the outspoken dislike each had forthe other. She saw now, to her delight, that the incident which hadseemed to be only a bit of flotsam that had drifted to her shore andwhich but from Martha's manner would have been forgotten by her thenext day, might be a fragment detached from some floating family wreck. Before she could press the matter to an explanation Martha turnedabruptly on her heel, called Meg, and with the single remark, "Well, Iguess Miss Jane's of age, " walked quickly across the grass-plot and outof the gate, the ball and chain closing it behind her with a clang. 

Once on the street Martha paused with her brain on fire. The lie whichLucy had told frightened her. She knew why she had told it, and sheknew, too, what harm would come to her bairn if that kind of gossip gotabroad in the village. She was no longer the gentle, loving nurse withthe soft caressing hand, but a woman of purpose. The sudden terroraroused in her heart had the effect of tightening her grip and bracingher shoulders as if the better to withstand some expected shock. 

She forgot Meg; forgot her errand to the post-office; forgoteverything, in fact, except the safety of the child she loved. ThatLucy had neglected and even avoided her of late, keeping out of her wayeven when she was in the house, and that she had received only coolindifference in place of loyal love, had greatly grieved her, but ithad not lessened the idolatry with which she worshipped her bairn. Hours at a time she had spent puzzling her brain trying to account forthe change which had come over the girl during two short years ofschool. She had until now laid this change to her youth, her love ofadmiration, and had forgiven it. Now she understood it; it was that boyBart. He had a way with him. He had even ingratiated himself into MissJane's confidence. And now this young girl had fallen a victim to hiswiles. That Lucy should lie to her, of all persons, and in so calm andself-possessed a manner; and about Bart, of all men--sent a shudderthrough her heart, that paled her cheek and tightened her lips. Oncebefore she had consulted Jane and had been rebuffed. Now she woulddepend upon herself. 

Retracing her steps and turning sharply to the right, she ordered Meghome in a firm voice, watched the dog slink off and then walkedstraight down a side road to Captain Nat Holt's house. That the captainoccupied a different station in life from herself did not deter her. She felt at the moment that the honor of the Cobden name lay in herkeeping. The family had stood by her in her trouble; now she wouldstand by them. 

The captain sat on his front porch reading a newspaper. He was in hisshirt-sleeves and bareheaded, his straight hair standing straight outlike the bristles of a shoe-brush. Since the death of his wife a fewyears before he had left the service, and now spent most of his days athome, tending his garden and enjoying his savings. He was a man ofpositive character and generally had his own way in everything. It wastherefore with some astonishment that he heard Martha say when she hadmounted the porch steps and pushed open the front door, her breathalmost gone in her hurried walk, "Come inside. "

Captain Holt threw down his paper and rising hurriedly from his chair, followed her into the sitting-room. The manner of the nurse surprisedhim. He had known her for years, ever since his old friend, Lucy'sfather, had died, and the tones of her voice, so different from herusual deferential air, filled him with apprehension. 

"Ain't nobody sick, is there, Martha?"

"No, but there will be. Are ye alone?"

"Yes. "

"Then shut that door behind ye and sit down. I've got something to say. "

The grizzled, weather-beaten man who had made twenty voyages aroundCape Horn, and who was known as a man of few words, and those always ofcommand, closed the door upon them, drew down the shade on the sunnyside of the room and faced her. He saw now that something of more thanusual importance absorbed her. 

"Now, what is it?" he asked. His manner had by this time regainedsomething of the dictatorial tone he always showed those beneath him inauthority. 

"It's about Bart. You've got to send him away. " She had not moved fromher position in the middle of the room. 

The captain changed color and his voice lost its sharpness. 

"Bart! What's he done now?"

"He sneaks off with our Lucy every chance he gets. They were on thebeach yesterday hidin' behind the House o' Refuge with their headstogether. She had on Miss Jane's red cloak, and Ann Gossaway thought itwas Miss Jane, and I let it go at that. "

The captain looked at Martha incredulously for a moment, and then brokeinto a loud laugh as the absurdity of the whole thing burst upon him. Then dropping back a step, he stood leaning against the old-fashionedsideboard, his elbows behind him, his large frame thrust toward her. 

"Well, what if they were--ain't she pretty enough?" he burst out. "Itold her she'd have 'em all crazy, and I hear Bart ain't done nothin'but follow in her wake since he seen her launched. "

Martha stepped closer to the captain and held her fist in his face. 

"He's got to stop it. Do ye hear me?" she shouted. "If he don'tthere'll be trouble, for you and him and everybody. It's me that'scrazy, not him. "

"Stop it!" roared the captain, straightening up, the glasses on thesideboard ringing with his sudden lurch. "My boy keep away from thedaughter of Morton Cobden, who was the best friend I ever had and towhom I owe more than any man who ever lived! And this is what youtraipsed up here to tell me, is it, you mollycoddle?"

Again Martha edged nearer; her body bent forward, her eyes searchinghis--so close that she could have touched his face with her knuckles. 

"Hold your tongue and stop talkin' foolishness, " she blazed out, thecourage of a tigress fighting for her young in her eyes, the same boldring in her voice. "I tell ye, Captain Holt, it's got to stop shortoff, and NOW! I know men; have known 'em to my misery. I know whenthey're honest and I know when they ain't, and so do you, if you wouldopen your eyes. Bart don't mean no good to my bairn. I see it in hisface. I see it in the way he touches her hand and ties on her bonnet. I've watched him ever since the first night he laid eyes on her. Heain't a man with a heart in him; he's a sneak with a lie in his mouth. Why don't he come round like any of the others and say where he's goin'and what he wants to do instead of peepin' round the gate-postswatchin' for her and sendin' her notes on the sly, and makin' her lieto me, her old nurse, who's done nothin' but love her? Doctor Johndon't treat Miss Jane so--he loves her like a man ought to love a womanand he ain't got nothin' to hide--and you didn't treat your wife so. There's something here that tells me"--and she laid her hand on herbosom--"tells me more'n I dare tell ye. I warn ye now ag'in. Send himto sea--anywhere, before it is too late. She ain't got no mother; shewon't mind a word I say; Miss Jane is blind as a bat; out with him andNOW!"

The captain straightened himself up, and with his clenched fist raisedabove his head like a hammer about to strike, cried:

"If he harmed the daughter of Morton Cobden I'd kill him!" The wordsjumped hot from his throat with a slight hissing sound, his eyes stillaflame. 

"Well, then, stop it before it gets too late. I walk the floor nightsand I'm scared to death every hour I live. " Then her voice broke. "Please, captain, please, " she added in a piteous tone. "Don't mind meif I talk wild, my heart is breakin', and I can't hold in no longer, "and she burst into a paroxysm of tears. 

The captain leaned against the sideboard again and looked down upon thefloor as if in deep thought. Martha's tears did not move him. The tearsof few women did. He was only concerned in getting hold of somepositive facts upon which he could base his judgment. 

"Come, now, " he said in an authoritative voice, "let me get that chairand set down and then I'll see what all this amounts to. Sounds like ayarn of a horse-marine. " As he spoke he crossed the room and, dragginga rocking-chair from its place beside the wall, settled himself in it. Martha found a seat upon the sofa and turned her tear-stained facetoward him. 

"Now, what's these young people been doin' that makes ye so almightynarvous?" he continued, lying back in his chair and looking at her fromunder his bushy eyebrows, his fingers supporting his forehead. 

"Everything. Goes out sailin' with her and goes driftin' past with hishead in her lap. Fogarty's man who brings fish to the house told me. "She had regained something of her old composure now. 

"Anything else?" The captain's voice had a relieved, almostcondescending tone in it. He had taken his thumb and forefinger fromhis eyebrow now and sat drumming with his stiffened knuckles on the armof the rocker. 

"Yes, a heap more--ain't that enough along with the other things I'vetold ye?" Martha's eyes were beginning to blaze again. 

"No, that's just as it ought to be. Boys and girls will be boys andgirls the world over. " The tone of the captain's voice indicated thecondition of his mind. He had at last arrived at a conclusion. Martha'shead was muddled because of her inordinate and unnatural love for thechild she had nursed. She had found a spookship in a fog bank, that wasall. Jealousy might be at the bottom of it or a certain nervousfussiness. Whatever it was it was too trivial for him to waste his timeover. 

The captain rose from his chair, crossed the sitting-room, and openedthe door leading to the porch, letting in the sunshine. Martha followedclose at his heels. 

"You're runnin' on a wrong tack, old woman, and first thing ye knowye'll be in the breakers, " he said, with his hand on the knob. "Easeoff a little and don't be too hard on 'em. They'll make harbor allright. You're makin' more fuss than a hen over one chicken. Miss Janeknows what she's about. She's got a level head, and when she tells methat my Bart ain't good enough to ship alongside the daughter of MortonCobden, I'll sign papers for him somewhere else, and not before. I'llhave to get you to excuse me now; I'm busy. Good-day, " and picking uphis paper, he re-entered the house and closed the door upon her. 

CHAPTER VI

A GAME OF CARDS

Should Miss Gossaway have been sitting at her lookout some weeks afterMartha's interview with Captain Nat Holt, and should she have watchedthe movements of Doctor John's gig as it rounded into the open gate ofCobden Manor, she must have decided that something out of the commonwas either happening or about to happen inside Yardley's hospitabledoors. Not only was the sorrel trotting at her best, the doctorflapping the lines along her brown back, his body swaying from side toside with the motion of the light vehicle, but as he passed her househe was also consulting the contents of a small envelope which he hadtaken from his pocket. 

"Please come early, " it read. "I have something important to talk overwith you. "

A note of this character signed with so adorable a name as "JaneCobden" was so rare in the doctor's experience that he had at oncegiven up his round of morning visits and, springing into his waitinggig, had started to answer it in person. 

He was alive with expectancy. What could she want with him except totalk over some subject that they had left unfinished? As he hurried onthere came into his mind half a dozen matters, any one of which itwould have been a delight to revive. He knew from the way she wordedthe note that nothing had occurred since he had seen her--within theweek, in fact--to cause her either annoyance or suffering. No; it wasonly to continue one of their confidential talks, which were the joy ofhis life. 

Jane was waiting for him in the morning-room. Her face lighted up as heentered and took her hand, and immediately relaxed again into anexpression of anxiety. 

All his eagerness vanished. He saw with a sinking of the heart, evenbefore she had time to speak, that something outside of his ownaffairs, or hers, had caused her to write the note. 

"I came at once, " he said, keeping her hand in his. "You look troubled;what has happened?"

"Nothing yet, " she answered, leading him to the sofa, "It is aboutLucy. She wants to go away for the winter. "

"Where to?" he asked. He had placed a cushion at her back and hadsettled himself beside her. 

"To Trenton, to visit her friend Miss Collins and study music. She saysWarehold bores her. "

"And you don't want her to go?"

"No; I don't fancy Miss Collins, and I am afraid she has too strong aninfluence over Lucy. Her personality grates on me; she is soboisterous, and she laughs so loud; and the views she holds areunaccountable to me in so young a girl. She seems to have had no hometraining whatever. Why Lucy likes her, and why she should have selectedher as an intimate friend, has always puzzled me. " She spoke with herusual frankness and with that directness which always characterized herin matters of this kind. "I had no one else to talk to and am verymiserable about it all. You don't mind my sending for you, do you?"

"Mind! Why do you ask such a question? I am never so happy as when I amserving you. "

That she should send for him at all was happiness. Not sickness thistime, nor some question of investment, nor the repair of the barn orgate or out-buildings--but Lucy, who lay nearest her heart! That waseven better than he had expected. 

"Tell me all about it, so I can get it right, " he continued in astraightforward tone--the tone of the physician, not the lover. She hadrelied on him, and he intended to give her the best counsel of which hewas capable. The lover could wait. 

"Well, she received a letter a week ago from Miss Collins, saying shehad come to Trenton for the winter and had taken some rooms in a housebelonging to her aunt, who would live with her. She wants to be withinreach of the same music-teacher who taught the girls at Miss Parkham'sschool. She says if Lucy will come it will reduce the expenses and theycan both have the benefit of the tuition. At first Lucy did not want togo at all, now she insists, and, strange to say, Martha encourages her. "

"Martha wants her to leave?" he asked in surprise. 

"She says so. "

The doctor's face assumed a puzzled expression. He could account forLucy's wanting the freedom and novelty of the change, but that Marthashould be willing to part with her bairn for the winter mystified him. He knew nothing of the flirtation, of course, and its effect on the oldnurse, and could not, therefore, understand Martha's delight in Lucy'sand Bart's separation. 

"You will be very lonely, " he said, and a certain tender tone developedin his voice. 

"Yes, dreadfully so, but I would not mind if I thought it was for hergood. But I don't think so. I may be wrong, and in the uncertainty Iwanted to talk it over with you. I get so desolate sometimes. I neverseemed to miss my father so much as now. Perhaps it is because Lucy'sbabyhood and childhood are over and she is entering upon womanhood withall the dangers it brings. And she frightens me so sometimes, " shecontinued after a slight pause. "She is different; more self-willed, more self-centred. Besides, her touch has altered. She doesn't seem tolove me as she did--not in the same way. "

"But she could never do anything else but love you, " he interruptedquickly, speaking for himself as well as Lucy, his voice vibratingunder his emotions. It was all he could do to keep his hands from herown; her sending for him alone restrained him. 

"I know that, but it is not in the old way. It used to be 'Sister, darling, don't tire yourself, ' or 'Sister, dear, let me go upstairs foryou, ' or 'Cuddle close here, and let us talk it all out together. 'There is no more of that. She goes her own way, and when I chide herlaughs and leaves me alone until I make some new advance. Help me, please, and with all the wisdom you can give me; I have no one else inwhom I can trust, no one who is big enough to know what should be done. I might have talked to Mr. Dellenbaugh about it, but he is away. "

"No; talk it all out to me, " he said simply. "I so want to helpyou"--his whole heart was going out to her in her distress. 

"I know you feel sorry for me. " She withdrew her hand gently so as notto hurt him; she too did not want to be misunderstood--having sent forhim. "I know how sincere your friendship is for me, but put all thataside. Don't let your sympathy for me cloud your judgment. What shall Ido with Lucy? Answer me as if you were her father and mine, " and shelooked straight into his eyes. 

The doctor tightened the muscles of his throat, closed his teeth, andsummoned all his resolution. If he could only tell her what was in hisheart how much easier it would all be! For some moments he satperfectly still, then he answered slowly--as her man of business wouldhave done:

"I should let her go. "

"Why do you say so?"

"Because she will find out in that way sooner than in any other how toappreciate you and her home. Living in two rooms and studying musicwill not suit Lucy. When the novelty wears off she will long for herhome, and when she comes back it will be with a better appreciation ofits comforts. Let her go, and make her going as happy as you can. "

And so Jane gave her consent--it is doubtful whether Lucy would havewaited for it once her mind was made up--and in a week she was off, Doctor John taking her himself as far as the Junction, and seeing hersafe on the road to Trenton. Martha was evidently delighted at thechange, for the old nurse's face was wreathed in smiles that lastmorning as they all stood out by the gate while Billy Tatham loadedLucy's trunks and boxes. Only once did a frown cross her face, and thatwas when Lucy leaned over and whispering something in Bart's ear, slipped a small scrap of paper between his fingers. Bart crunched ittight and slid his hand carelessly into his pocket, but the gesture didnot deceive the nurse: it haunted her for days thereafter. 

As the weeks flew by and the letters from Trenton told of thehappenings in Maria's home, it became more and more evident to Janethat the doctor's advice had been the wisest and best. Lucy would oftendevote a page or more of her letters to recalling the comforts of herown room at Yardley, so different from what she was enduring atTrenton, and longing for them to come again. Parts of these lettersJane read to the doctor, and all of them to Martha, who received themwith varying comment. It became evident, too, that neither theexcitement of Bart's letters, nor the visits of the occasional schoolfriends who called upon them both, nor the pursuit of her newaccomplishment, had satisfied the girl. 

Jane was not surprised, therefore, remembering the doctor's almostprophetic words, to learn of the arrival of a letter from Lucy beggingMartha to come to her at once for a day or two. The letter was enclosedin one to Bart and was handed to the nurse by that young man in person. As he did so he remarked meaningly that Miss Lucy wanted Martha's visitto be kept a secret from everybody but Miss Jane, "just as a surprise, "but Martha answered in a positive tone that she had no secrets fromthose who had a right to know them, and that he could write Lucy shewas coming next day, and that Jane and everybody else who might inquirewould know of it before she started. 

She rather liked Bart's receiving the letter. As long as that young mankept away from Trenton and confined himself to Warehold, where shecould keep her eyes on him, she was content. 

To Jane Martha said: "Oh, bless the darlin'! She can't do a day longerwithout her Martha. I'll go in the mornin'. It's a little pettin' shewants--that's all. "

So the old nurse bade Meg good-by, pinned her big gray shawl about her, tied on her bonnet, took a little basket with some delicacies and a potof jelly, and like a true Mother Hubbard, started off, while Jane, having persuaded herself that perhaps "the surprise" was meant for her, and that she might be welcoming two exiles instead of one the followingnight, began to put Lucy's room in order and to lay out the many prettythings she loved, especially the new dressing-gown she had made forher, lined with blue silk--her favorite color. 

All that day and evening, and far into the next afternoon, Jane wentabout the house with the refrain of an old song welling up into herheart--one that had been stifled for months. The thought of theround-about way in which Lucy had sent for Martha did not dull itsmelody. That ruse, she knew, came from the foolish pride of youth, thepride that could not meet defeat. Underneath it she detected, with athrill, the love of home; this, after all, was what her sister couldnot do without. It was not Bart this time. That affair, as she hadpredicted and had repeatedly told Martha, had worn itself out and hadbeen replaced by her love of music. She had simply come to herself oncemore and would again be her old-time sister and her child. Then, too--and this sent another wave of delight tingling through her--it hadall been the doctor's doing! But for his advice she would never havelet Lucy go. 

Half a dozen times, although the November afternoon was raw and chilly, with the wind fresh from the sea and the sky dull, she was out on thefront porch without shawl or hat, looking down the path, covered nowwith dead leaves, and scanning closely every team that passed the gate, only to return again to her place by the fire, more impatient than ever. 

Meg's quick ear first caught the grating of the wheels. Jane followedhim with a cry of joyous expectation, and flew to the door to meet thestage, which for some reason--why, she could not tell--had stopped fora moment outside the gate, dropping only one passenger, and that onethe nurse. 

"And Lucy did not come, Martha!" Jane exclaimed, with almost a sob inher voice. She had reached her side now, followed by Meg, who wasspringing straight at the nurse in the joy of his welcome. 

The old woman glanced back at the stage, as if afraid of beingoverheard, and muttered under her breath:

"No, she couldn't come. "

"Oh, I am so disappointed! Why not?"

Martha did not answer. She seemed to have lost her breath. Jane put herarm about her and led her up the path. Once she stumbled, her step wasso unsteady, and she would have fallen but for Jane's assistance. 

The two had now reached the hand-railing of the porch. Here Martha'strembling foot began to feel about for the step. Jane caught her in herarms. 

"You're ill, Martha!" she cried in alarm. "Give me the bag. What's thematter?"

Again Martha did not answer. 

"Tell me what it is. "

"Upstairs! Upstairs!" Martha gasped in reply. "Quick!"

"What has happened?"

"Not here; upstairs. "

They climbed the staircase together, Jane half carrying the faintingwoman, her mind in a whirl. 

"Where were you taken ill? Why did you try to come home? Why didn'tLucy come with you?"

They had reached the door of Jane's bedroom now, Martha clinging to herarm. 

Once inside, the nurse leaned panting against the door, put her bandsto her face as if she would shut out some dreadful spectre, and sankslowly to the floor. 

"It is not me, " she moaned, wringing her hands, "not me--not--"

"Who?"

"Oh, I can't say it!"

"Lucy?"

"Yes"

"Not ill?"

"No; worse!"

"Oh, Martha! Not dead?"

"O God, I wish she were!"

An hour passed--an hour of agony, of humiliation and despair. 

Again the door opened and Jane stepped out--slowly, as if in pain, herlips tight drawn, her face ghastly white, the thin cheeks sunken intodeeper hollows, the eyes burning. Only the mouth preserved its lines, but firmer, more rigid, more severe, as if tightened by the strength ofsome great resolve. In her hand she held a letter. 

Martha lay on the bed, her face to the wall, her head still in herpalms. She had ceased sobbing and was quite still, as if exhausted. 

Jane leaned over the banisters, called to one of the servants, anddropping the letter to the floor below, said:

"Take that to Captain Holt's. When he comes bring him upstairs hereinto my sitting-room. "

Before the servant could reply there came a knock at the front door. Jane knew its sound--it was Doctor John's. Leaning far over, graspingthe top rail of the banisters to steady herself, she said to theservant in a low, restrained voice:

"If that is Dr. Cavendish, please say to him that Martha is just homefrom Trenton, greatly fatigued, and I beg him to excuse me. When thedoctor has driven away, you can take the letter. "

She kept her grasp on the hand-rail until she heard the tones of hisvoice through the open hall door and caught the note of sorrow thattinged them. 

"Oh, I'm so sorry! Poor Martha!" she heard him say. "She is getting tooold to go about alone. Please tell Miss Jane she must not hesitate tosend for me if I can be of the slightest service. " Then she re-enteredthe room where Martha lay and closed the door. 

Another and louder knock now broke the stillness of the chamber andchecked the sobs of the nurse; Captain Holt had met Jane's servant ashe was passing the gate. He stopped for an instant in the hall, slippedoff his coat, and walked straight upstairs, humming a tune as he came. Jane heard his firm tread, opened the door of their room, and she andMartha crossed the hall to a smaller apartment where Jane alwaysattended to the business affairs of the house. The captain's face waswreathed in a broad smile as he extended his hand to Jane in welcome. 

"It's lucky ye caught me, Miss Jane. I was just goin' out, and in aminute I'd been gone for the night. Hello, Mother Martha! I thoughtyou'd gone to Trenton. "

The two women made no reply to his cheery salutation, except to motionhim to a seat. Then Jane closed the door and turned the key in the lock. 

When the captain emerged from the chamber he stepped out alone. Hiscolor was gone, his eyes flashing, his jaw tight set. About his mouththere hovered a savage, almost brutal look, the look of a bulldog whobares his teeth before he tears and strangles--a look his men knew whensomeone of them purposely disobeyed his orders. For a moment he stoodas if dazed. All he remembered clearly was the white, drawn face of awoman gazing at him with staring, tear-drenched eyes, the slow droppingof words that blistered as they fell, and the figure of the nursewringing her hands and moaning: "Oh, I told ye so! I told ye so! Whydidn't ye listen?" With it came the pain of some sudden blow thatdeadened his brain and stilled his heart. 

With a strong effort, like one throwing off a stupor, he raised hishead, braced his shoulders, and strode firmly along the corridor anddown the stairs on his way to the front door. Catching up his coat, hethrew it about him, pulled his hat on, with a jerk, slamming the frontdoor, plunged along through the dry leaves that covered the path, andso on out to the main road. Once beyond the gate he hesitated, lookedup and down, turned to the right and then to the left, as if in doubt, and lunged forward in the direction of the tavern. 

It was Sunday night, and the lounging room was full. One of the inmatesrose and offered him a chair--he was much respected in the village, especially among the rougher class, some of whom had sailed withhim--but he only waved his hand in thanks. 

"I don't want to sit down; I'm looking for Bart. Has he been here?" Thesound came as if from between closed teeth. 

"Not as I know of, cap'n, " answered the landlord; "not since sundown, nohow. "

"Do any of you know where he is?" The look in the captain's eyes andthe sharp, cutting tones of his voice began to be noticed. 

"Do ye want him bad?" asked a man tilted back in a chair against thewall. 

"Yes. "

"Well, I kin tell ye where to find him, "

"Where?"

"Down on the beach in the Refuge shanty. He and the boys have a deckthere Sunday nights. Been at it all fall--thought ye knowed it. "

Out into the night again, and without a word of thanks, down the roadand across the causeway to the hard beach, drenched with the ceaselessthrash of the rising sea. He followed no path, picked out no road. Stumbling along in the half-gloom of the twilight, he could make outthe heads of the sand-dunes, bearded with yellow grass blown flatagainst their cheeks. Soon he reached the prow of the old wreck withits shattered timbers and the water-holes left by the tide. These heavoided, but the smaller objects he trampled upon and over as he strodeon, without caring where he stepped or how often he stumbled. Outlinedagainst the sand-hills, bleached white under the dull light, he lookedlike some evil presence bent on mischief, so direct and forceful washis unceasing, persistent stride. 

When the House of Refuge loomed up against the gray froth of the surfhe stopped and drew breath. Bending forward, he scanned the beachahead, shading his eyes with his hand as he would have done on his ownship in a fog. He could make out now some streaks of yellow lightshowing through the cracks one above the other along the side of thehouse and a dull patch of red. He knew what it meant. Bart and hisfellows were inside, and were using one of the ship lanterns to see by. 

This settled in his mind, the captain strode on, but at a slower pace. He had found his bearings, and would steer with caution. 

Hugging the dunes closer, he approached the house from the rear. Thebig door was shut and a bit of matting had been tacked over the onewindow to deaden the light. This was why the patch of red was dull. Hestood now so near the outside planking that he could hear the laughterand talk of those within. By this time the wind had risen to half agale and the moan on the outer bar could be heard in the intervals ofthe pounding surf. The captain crept under the eaves of the roof andlistened. He wanted to be sure of Bart's voice before he acted. 

At this instant a sudden gust of wind burst in the big door, extinguishing the light of the lantern, and Bart's voice rang out:

"Stay where you are, boys! Don't touch the cards. I know the door, andcan fix it; it's only the bolt that's slipped. "

As Bart passed out into the gloom the captain darted forward, seizedhim with a grip of steel, dragged him clear of the door, and up thesand-dunes out of hearing. Then he flung him loose and stood facing thecowering boy. 

"Now stand back and keep away from me, for I'm afraid I'll kill you!"

"What have I done?" cringed Bart, shielding his face with his elbow asif to ward off a blow. The suddenness of the attack had stunned him. 

"Don't ask me, you whelp, or I'll strangle you. Look at me! That's whatyou been up to, is it?"

Bart straightened himself, and made some show of resistance. His breathwas coming back to him. 

"I haven't done anything--and if I did--"

"You lie! Martha's back from Trenton and Lucy told her. You neverthought of me. You never thought of that sister of hers whose heartyou've broke, nor of the old woman who nursed her like a mother. Youthought of nobody but your stinkin' self. You're not a man! You're acur! a dog! Don't move! Keep away from me, I tell ye, or I may losehold of myself. "

Bart was stretching out his hands now as if in supplication. He hadnever seen his father like this--the sight frightened him. 

"Father, will you listen--" he pleaded. 

"I'll listen to nothin'--"

"Will you, please? It's not all my fault. She ought to have kept out ofmy way--"

"Stop! Take that back! You'd blame HER, would ye--a child just out ofschool, and as innocent as a baby? By God, you'll do right by her oryou'll never set foot inside my house again!"

Bart faced his father again. 

"I want to tell you the whole story before you judge me. I want to--"

"You'll tell me nothin'! Will you act square with her?"

"I must tell you first. You wouldn't understand unless--"

"You won't? That's what you mean--you mean you WON'T! Damn ye!" Thecaptain raised his clenched fist, quivered for an instant as ifstruggling against something beyond his control, dropped it slowly tohis side and whirling suddenly, strode back up the beach. 

Bart staggered back against the planking, threw out his hand to keepfrom falling, and watched his father's uncertain, stumbling figureuntil he was swallowed up in the gloom. The words rang in his ears likea knell. The realization of his position and what it meant, and mightmean, rushed over him. For an instant he leaned heavily against theplanking until he had caught his breath. Then, with quivering lips andshaking legs, he walked slowly back into the house, shutting the bigdoor behind him. 

"Boys, " he said with a forced smile, "who do you think's been outside?My father! Somebody told him, and he's just been giving me hell forplaying cards on Sunday. "

CHAPTER VII

THE EYES OF AN OLD PORTRAIT

Before another Sunday night had arrived Warehold village was alive withtwo important pieces of news. 

The first was the disappearance of Bart Holt. 

Captain Nat, so the story ran, had caught him carousing in the House ofRefuge on Sunday night with some of his boon companions, and after astormy interview in which the boy pleaded for forgiveness, had drivenhim out into the night. Bart had left town the next morning at daylightand had shipped as a common sailor on board a British bark bound forBrazil. No one had seen him go--not even his companions of the nightbefore. 

The second announcement was more startling. 

The Cobden girls were going to Paris. Lucy Cobden had developed anextraordinary talent for music during her short stay in Trenton withher friend Maria Collins, and Miss Jane, with her customaryunselfishness and devotion to her younger sister, had decided to gowith her. They might be gone two years or five--it depended on Lucy'ssuccess. Martha would remain at Yardley and take care of the old home. 

Bart's banishment coming first served as a target for the fire of thegossip some days before Jane's decision had reached the ears of thevillagers. 

"I always knew he would come to no good end, " Miss Gossaway called outto a passer-by from her eyrie; "and there's more like him if theirfathers would look after 'em. Guess sea's the best place for him. "

Billy Tatham, the stage-driver, did not altogether agree with theextremist. 

"You hearn tell, I s'pose, of how Captain Nat handled his boy t'othernight, didn't ye?" he remarked to the passenger next to him on thefront seat. "It might be the way they did things 'board the Black BallLine, but 'tain't human and decent, an' I told Cap'n Nat so to-day. Shut his door in his face an' told him he'd kill him if he tried tocome in, and all because he ketched him playin' cards on Sunday down onthe beach. Bart warn't no worse than the others he run with, but yecan't tell what these old sea-dogs will do when they git riled. I guessit was the rum more'n the cards. Them fellers used to drink a power o'rum in that shanty. I've seen 'em staggerin' home many a Monday mornin'when I got down early to open up for my team. It's the rum that riledthe cap'n, I guess. He wouldn't stand it aboard ship and used to puthis men in irons, I've hearn tell, when they come aboard drunk. Whatgits me is that the cap'n didn't know them fellers met there everynight they could git away, week-days as well as Sundays. Everybody'round here knew it 'cept him and the light-keeper, and he's so durnedlazy he never once dropped on to 'em. He'd git bounced if the Gov'mentfound out he was lettin' a gang run the House o' Refuge whenever theyfelt like it. Fogarty, the fisherman's, got the key, or oughter haveit, but the light-keeper's responsible, so I hearn tell. Git-up, Billy, " and the talk drifted into other channels. 

The incident was soon forgotten. One young man more or less did notmake much difference in Warehold. As to Captain Nat, he was known to bea scrupulously honest, exact man who knew no law outside of his duty. He probably did it for the boy's good, although everybody agreed thathe could have accomplished his purpose in some more merciful way. 

The other sensation--the departure of the two Cobden girls, and theirpossible prolonged stay abroad--did not subside so easily. Not only didthe neighbors look upon the Manor House as the show-place of thevillage, but the girls themselves were greatly beloved, Jane beingespecially idolized from Warehold to Barnegat and the sea. To loseJane's presence among them was a positive calamity entailing a sorrowthat most of her neighbors could not bring themselves to face. No onecould take her place. 

Pastor Dellenbaugh, when he heard the news, sank into his study chairand threw up his hands as if to ward off some blow. 

"Miss Jane going abroad!" he cried; "and you say nobody knows when shewill come back! I can't realize it! We might as well close the school;no one else in the village can keep it together. "

The Cromartins and the others all expressed similar opinions, theyounger ladies' sorrow being aggravated when they realized that withLucy away there would be no one to lead in their merrymakings. 

Martha held her peace; she would stay at home, she told Mrs. Dellenbaugh, and wait for their return and look after the place. Herheart was broken with the loneliness that would come, she moaned, butwhat was best for her bairn she was willing to bear. It didn't makemuch difference either way; she wasn't long for this world. 

The doctor's mother heard the news with ill-concealed satisfaction. 

"A most extraordinary thing has occurred here, my dear, " she said toone of her Philadelphia friends who was visiting her--she was toopolitic to talk openly to the neighbors. "You have, of course, met thatMiss Cobden who lives at Yardley--not the pretty one--the plain one. Well, she is the most quixotic creature in the world. Only a few weeksago she wanted to become a nurse in the public hospital here, and nowshe proposes to close her house and go abroad for nobody knows howlong, simply because her younger sister wants to study music, as if aschool-girl couldn't get all the instruction of that kind here that isnecessary. Really, I never heard of such a thing. "

To Mrs. Benson, a neighbor, she said, behind her hand and in strictconfidence: "Miss Cobden is morbidly conscientious over trifles. A finewoman, one of the very finest we have, but a little too strait-laced, and, if I must say it, somewhat commonplace, especially for a woman ofher birth and education. "

To herself she said: "Never while I live shall Jane Cobden marry myJohn! She can never help any man's career. She has neither the worldlyknowledge, nor the personal presence, nor the money. "

Jane gave but one answer to all inquiries--and there were many. 

"Yes, I know the move is a sudden one, " she would say, "but it is forLucy's good, and there is no one to go with her but me. " No one sawbeneath the mask that hid her breaking heart. To them the drawn faceand the weary look in her eyes only showed her grief at leaving homeand those who loved her: to Mrs. Cavendish it seemed part of Jane'speculiar temperament. 

Nor could they watch her in the silence of the night tossing on herbed, or closeted with Martha in her search for the initial steps thathad led to this horror. Had the Philadelphia school undermined her ownsisterly teachings or had her companions been at fault? Perhaps it wasdue to the blood of some long-forgotten ancestor, which in the cycle ofyears had cropped out in this generation, poisoning the fountain of heryouth. Bart, she realized, had played the villain and the ingrate, butyet it was also true that Bart, and all his class, would have beenpowerless before a woman of a different temperament. Who, then, hadundermined this citadel and given it over to plunder and disgrace? Thenwith merciless exactness she searched her own heart. Had it been herfault? What safeguard had she herself neglected? Wherein had she beenfalse to her trust and her promise to her dying father? What could shehave done to avert it? These ever-haunting, ever-recurring doubtsmaddened her. 

One thing she was determined upon, cost what it might--to protect hersister's name. No daughter of Morton Cobden's should be pointed at inscorn. For generations no stain of dishonor had tarnished the familyname. This must be preserved, no matter who suffered. In this she wassustained by Martha, her only confidante. 

Doctor John heard the news from Jane's lips before it was known to thevillagers. He had come to inquire after Martha. 

She met him at the porch entrance, and led him into the drawing-room, without a word of welcome. Then shutting the door, she motioned him toa seat opposite her own on the sofa. The calm, determined way withwhich this was done--so unusual in one so cordial--startled him. Hefelt that something of momentous interest, and, judging from Jane'sface, of serious import, had happened. He invariably took his cue fromher face, and his own spirits always rose or fell as the light in hereyes flashed or dimmed. 

"Is there anything the matter?" he asked nervously. "Martha worse?"

"No, not that; Martha is around again--it is about Lucy and me. " Thevoice did not sound like Jane's. 

The doctor looked at her intently, but he did not speak. Janecontinued, her face now deathly pale, her words coming slowly. 

"You advised me some time ago about Lucy's going to Trenton, and I amglad I followed it. You thought it would strengthen her love for us alland teach her to love me the better. It has--so much so that hereafterwe will never be separated. I hope now you will also approve of what Ihave just decided upon. Lucy is going abroad to live, and I am goingwith her. "

As the words fell from her lips her eyes crept up to his face, watchingthe effect of her statement. It was a cold, almost brutal way ofputting it, she knew, but she dared not trust herself with anythingless formal. 

For a moment he sat perfectly still, the color gone from his cheeks, his eyes fixed on hers, a cold chill benumbing the roots of his hair. The suddenness of the announcement seemed to have stunned him. 

"For how long?" he asked in a halting voice. 

"I don't know. Not less than two years; perhaps longer. "

"TWO YEARS? Is Lucy ill?"

"No; she wants to study music, and she couldn't go alone. "

"Have you made up your mind to this?" he asked, in a more positivetone. His self-control was returning now. 

"Yes. "

Doctor John rose from his chair, paced the room slowly for a moment, and crossing to the fireplace with his back to Jane, stood under herfather's portrait, his elbows on the mantel, his head in his hand. Interwoven with the pain which the announcement had given him was thesharper sorrow of her neglect of him. In forming her plans she hadnever once thought of her lifelong friend. 

"Why did you not tell me something of this before?" The inquiry was notaddressed to Jane, but to the smouldering coals. "How have I everfailed you? What has my daily life been but an open book for you toread, and here you leave me for years, and never give me a thought. "

Jane started in her seat. 

"Forgive me, my dear friend!" she answered quickly in a voice full oftenderness. "I did not mean to hurt you. It is not that I love all myfriends here the less--and you know how truly I appreciate your ownfriendship--but only that I love my sister more; and my duty is withher. I only decided last night. Don't turn your back on me. Come andsit by me, and talk to me, " she pleaded, holding out her hand. "I needall your strength. " As she spoke the tears started to her eyes and hervoice sank almost to a whisper. 

The doctor lifted his head from his palm and walked quickly toward her. The suffering in her voice had robbed him of all resentment. 

"Forgive me, I did not mean it. Tell me, " he said, in a sudden burst oftenderness--all feeling about himself had dropped away--"why must yougo so soon? Why not wait until spring?" He had taken his seat besideher now and sat looking into her eyes. 

"Lucy wants to go at once, " she replied, in a tone as if the matter didnot admit of any discussion. 

"Yes, I know. That's just like her. What she wants she can never wait aminute for, but she certainly would sacrifice some pleasure of her ownto please you. If she was determined to be a musician it would bedifferent, but it is only for her pleasure, and as an accomplishment. "He spoke earnestly and impersonally, as he always did when sheconsulted him on any of her affairs, He was trying, too, to wipe fromher mind all remembrance of his impatience. 

Jane kept her eyes on the carpet for a moment, and then said quietly, and he thought in rather a hopeless tone:

"It is best we go at once. "

The doctor looked at her searchingly--with the eye of a scientist, thistime, probing for a hidden meaning. 

"Then there is something else you have not told me; someone is annoyingher, or there is someone with whom you are afraid she will fall inlove. Who is it? You know how I could help in a matter of that kind. "

"No; there is no one. "

Doctor John leaned back thoughtfully and tapped the arm of the sofawith his fingers. He felt as if a door had been shut in his face. 

"I don't understand it, " he said slowly, and in a baffled tone. "I havenever known you to do a thing like this before. It is entirely unlikeyou. There is some mystery you are keeping from me. Tell me, and let mehelp. "

"I can tell you nothing more. Can't you trust me to do my duty in myown way?" She stole a look at him as she spoke and again lowered hereyelids. 

"And you are determined to go?" he asked in his former cross-examiningtone. 

"Yes. "

Again the doctor kept silence. Despite her assumed courage anddetermined air, his experienced eye caught beneath it all the shrinkinghelplessness of the woman. 

"Then I, too, have reached a sudden resolve, " he said in a manneralmost professional in its precision. "You cannot and shall not goalone. "

"Oh, but Lucy and I can get along together, " she exclaimed with nervoushaste. "There is no one we could take but Martha, and she is too old. Besides she must look after the house while we are away. "

"No; Martha will not do. No woman will do. I know Paris and its life;it is not the place for two women to live in alone, especially sopretty and light-hearted a woman as Lucy. "

"I am not afraid. "

"No, but I am, " he answered in a softened voice, "very much afraid. " Itwas no longer the physician who spoke, but the friend. 

"Of what?"

"Of a dozen things you do not understand, and cannot until youencounter them, " he replied, smoothing her hand tenderly. 

"Yes, but it cannot be helped. There is no one to go with us. " Thiscame with some positiveness, yet with a note of impatience in her voice. 

"Yes, there is, " he answered gently. 

"Who?" she asked slowly, withdrawing her hand from his caress, anundefined fear rising in her mind. 

"Me. I will go with you. "

Jane looked at him with widening eyes. She knew now. She had caught hismeaning in the tones of his voice before he had expressed it, and hadtried to think of some way to ward off what she saw was coming, but shewas swept helplessly on. 

"Let us go together, Jane, " he burst out, drawing closer to her. Allreserve was gone. The words which had pressed so long for utterancecould no longer be held back. "I cannot live here alone without you. You know it, and have always known it. I love you so--don't let us liveapart any more. If you must go, go as my wife. "

A thrill of joy ran through her. Her lips quivered. She wanted to cryout, to put her arms around his neck, to tell him everything in herheart. Then came a quick, sharp pain that stifled every other thought. For the first time the real bitterness of the situation confronted her. This phase of it she had not counted upon. 

She shrank back a little. "Don't ask me that!" she moaned in a tonealmost of pain. "I can stand anything now but that. Not now--not now!"

Her hand was still under his, her fingers lying limp, all the pathos ofher suffering in her face: determination to do her duty, horror overthe situation, and above them all her overwhelming love for him. 

He put his arm about her shoulders and drew her to him. 

"You love me, Jane, don't you?"

"Yes, more than all else in the world, " she answered simply. "Toowell"--and her voice broke--"to have you give up your career for me ormine. "

"Then why should we live apart? I am willing to do as much for Lucy asyou would. Let me share the care and responsibility. You needn't, perhaps, be gone more than a year, and then we will all come backtogether, and I take up my work again. I need you, my beloved. Nothingthat I do seems of any use without you. You are my great, strong light, and have always been since the first day I loved you. Let me help bearthese burdens. You have carried them so long alone. "

His face lay against hers now, her hand still clasped tight in his. Foran instant she did not answer or move; then she straightened a littleand lifted her cheek from his. 

"John, " she said--it was the first time in all her life she had calledhim thus--"you wouldn't love me if I should consent. You have work todo here and I now have work to do on the other side. We cannot worktogether; we must work apart. Your heart is speaking, and I love youfor it, but we must not think of it now. It may come right sometime--God only knows! My duty is plain--I must go with Lucy. Neitheryou nor my dead father would love me if I did differently. "

"I only know that I love you and that you love me and nothing elseshould count, " he pleaded impatiently. "Nothing else shall count. Thereis nothing you could do would make me love you less. You are practicaland wise about all your plans. Why has this whim of Lucy's taken holdof you as it has? And it is only a whim; Lucy will want something elsein six months. Oh, I cannot--cannot let you go. I'm so desolate withoutyou--my whole life is yours--everything I do is for you. O Jane, mybeloved, don't shut me out of your life! I will not let you go withoutme!" His voice vibrated with a certain indignation, as if he had beenunjustly treated. She raised one hand and laid it on his forehead, smoothing his brow as a mother would that of a child. The other stilllay in his. 

"Don't, John, " she moaned, in a half-piteous tone. "Don't! Don't talkso! I can only bear comforting words to-day. I am too wretched--tooutterly broken and miserable. Please! please, John!"

He dropped her hand and leaning forward put both of his own to hishead. He knew how strong was her will and how futile would be hisefforts to change her mind unless her conscience agreed. 

"I won't, " he answered, as a strong man answers who is baffled. "I didnot mean to be impatient or exacting. " Then he raised his head andlooked steadily into her eyes. "What would you have me do, then?"

"Wait. "

"But you give me no promise. "

"No, I cannot--not now. I am like one staggering along, following a dimlight that leads hither and thither, and which may any moment go outand leave me in utter darkness. "

"Then there is something you have not told me?"

"O John! Can't you trust me?"

"And yet you love me?"

"As my life, John. "

When he had gone and she had closed the door upon him, she went back tothe sofa where the two had sat together, and with her hands claspedtight above her head, sank down upon its cushions. The tears came likerain now, bitter, blinding tears that she could not check. 

"I have hurt him, " she moaned. "He is so good, and strong, and helpful. He never thinks of himself; it is always of me--me, who can do nothing. The tears were in his eyes--I saw them. Oh, I've hurt him--hurt him!And yet, dear God, thou knowest I could not help it. "

Maddened with the pain of it all she sprang up, determined to go to himand tell him everything. To throw herself into his arms and begforgiveness for her cruelty and crave the protection of his strength. Then her gaze fell upon her father's portrait! The cold, steadfast eyeswere looking down upon her as if they could read her very soul. "No!No!" she sobbed, putting her hands over her eyes as if to shut out somespectre she had not the courage to face. "It must not be--it CANNOTbe, " and she sank back exhausted. 

When the paroxysm was over she rose to her feet, dried her eyes, smoothed her hair with both hands, and then, with lips tight pressedand faltering steps, walked upstairs to where Martha was getting Lucy'sthings ready for the coming journey. Crossing the room, she stood withher elbows on the mantel, her cheeks tight pressed between her palms, her eyes on the embers. Martha moved from the open trunk and stoodbehind her. 

"It was Doctor John, wasn't it?" she asked in a broken voice that toldof her suffering. 

"Yes, " moaned Jane from between her hands. 

"And ye told him about your goin'?"

"Yes, Martha. " Her frame was shaking with her sobs. 

"And about Lucy?"

"No, I could not. "

Martha leaned forward and laid her hand on Jane's shoulder. 

"Poor lassie!" she said, patting it softly. "Poor lassie! That was thehardest part. He's big and strong and could 'a' comforted ye. My heartaches for ye both!"

CHAPTER VIII

AN ARRIVAL

With the departure of Jane and Lucy the old homestead took on thatdesolate, abandoned look which comes to most homes when all the lifeand joyousness have gone from them. Weeds grew in the roadway betweenthe lilacs, dandelions flaunted themselves over the grass-plots; theshutters of the porch side of the house were closed, and the main gatealways thrown wide day and night in ungoverned welcome, was seldomopened except to a few intimate friends of the old nurse. 

At first Pastor Dellenbaugh had been considerate enough to mount thelong path to inquire for news of the travelers and to see how Marthawas getting along, but after the receipt of the earlier letters fromJane telling of their safe arrival and their sojourn in a littlevillage but a short distance out of Paris, convenient to the greatcity, even his visits ceased. Captain Holt never darkened the door; nordid he ever willingly stop to talk to Martha when he met her on theroad. She felt the slight, and avoided him when she could. Thisresulted in their seldom speaking to each other, and then only in themost casual way. She fancied he might think she wanted news of Bart, and so gave him no opportunity to discuss him or his whereabouts; butshe was mistaken. The captain never mentioned his name to friend orstranger. To him the boy was dead for all time. Nor had anyone of hiscompanions heard from him since that stormy night on the beach. 

Doctor John's struggle had lasted for months, but he had come throughit chastened and determined. For the first few days he went about hiswork as one in a dream, his mind on the woman he loved, his handmechanically doing its duty. Jane had so woven herself into his lifethat her sudden departure had been like the upwrenching of a plant, tearing out the fibres twisted about his heart, cutting off all hissustenance and strength. The inconsistencies of her conduct especiallytroubled him. If she loved him--and she had told him that she did, andwith their cheeks touching--how could she leave him in order to indulgea mere whim of her sister's? And if she loved him well enough to tellhim so, why had she refused to plight him her troth? Such a course wasunnatural, and out of his own and everyone else's experience. Women wholoved men with a great, strong, healthy love, the love he could giveher, and the love he knew she could give him, never permitted suchtrifles to come between them and their life's happiness. What, he askedhimself a thousand times, had brought this change?

As the months went by these doubts and speculations one by one passedout of his mind, and only the image of the woman he adored, with allher qualities--loyalty to her trust, tenderness over Lucy andunquestioned love for himself--rose clear. No, he would believe in herto the end! She was still all he had in life. If she would not be hiswife she should be his friend. That happiness was worth all else to himin the world. His was not to criticise, but to help. Help as SHE wantedit; preserving her standard of personal honor, her devotion to herideals, her loyalty, her blind obedience to her trust. 

Mrs. Cavendish had seen the change in her son's demeanor and hadwatched him closely through his varying moods, but though she divinedtheir cause she had not sought to probe his secret. 

His greatest comfort was in his visits to Martha. He always dropped into see her when he made his rounds in the neighborhood; sometimes everyday, sometimes once a week, depending on his patients and theircondition--visits which were always prolonged when a letter came fromeither of the girls, for at first Lucy wrote to the old nurse as oftenas did Jane. Apart from this the doctor loved the patient caretaker, both for her loyalty and for her gentleness. And she loved him inreturn; clinging to him as an older woman clings to a strong man, following his advice (he never gave orders) to the minutest detail whensomething in the management or care of house or grounds exceeded hergrasp. Consulting him, too, and this at Jane's specialrequest--regarding any financial complications which needed promptattention, and which, but for his services, might have required Jane'simmediate return to disentangle. She loved, too, to talk of Lucy and ofMiss Jane's goodness to her bairn, saying she had been both a sisterand a mother to her, to which the doctor would invariably add sometribute of his own which only bound the friendship the closer. 

His main relief, however, lay in his work, and in this he became eachday more engrossed. He seemed never to be out of his gig unless at thebedside of some patient. So long and wearing had the routesbecome--often beyond Barnegat and as far as Westfield--that the sorrelgave out, and he was obliged to add another horse to his stable. Hispatients saw the weary look in his eyes--as of one who had often lookedon sorrow--and thought it was the hard work and anxiety over them thathad caused it. But the old nurse knew better. 

"His heart's breakin' for love of her, " she would say to Meg, lookingdown into his sleepy eyes--she cuddled him more than ever thesedays--"and I don't wonder. God knows how it'll all end. "

Jane wrote to him but seldom; only half a dozen letters in all duringthe first year of her absence among them one to tell him of their safearrival, another to thank him for his kindness to Martha, and a thirdto acknowledge the receipt of a letter of introduction to a studentfriend of his who was now a prominent physician in Paris, and who mightbe useful in case either of them fell ill. He had written to his friendat the same time, giving the address of the two girls, but thephysician had answered that he had called at the street and number, butno one knew of them. The doctor reported this to Jane in his nextletter, asking her to write to his friend so that he might know oftheir whereabouts should they need his services, for which Jane, in asubsequent letter, thanked him, but made no mention of sending to hisfriend should occasion require. These subsequent letters said verylittle about their plans and carefully avoided all reference to theirdaily life or to Lucy's advancement in her studies, and never once setany time for their coming home. He wondered at her neglect of him, andwhen no answer came to his continued letters, except at long intervals, he could contain himself no longer, and laid the whole matter beforeMartha. 

"She means nothing, doctor, dear, " she had answered, taking his handand looking up into his troubled face. "Her heart is all right; she'sgoin' through deep waters, bein' away from everybody she loves--youmost of all. Don't worry; keep on lovin' her, ye'll never have cause torepent it. "

That same night Martha wrote to Jane, giving her every detail of theinterview, and in due course of time handed the doctor a letter inwhich Jane wrote: "He MUST NOT stop writing to me; his letters are allthe comfort I have"--a line not intended for the doctor's eyes, butwhich the good soul could not keep from him, so eager was she torelieve his pain. 

Jane's letter to him in answer to his own expressing his unhappinessover her neglect was less direct, but none the less comforting to him. "I am constantly moving about, " the letter ran, "and have much to doand cannot always answer your letters, so please do not expect them toooften. But I am always thinking of you and your kindness to dearMartha. You do for me when you do for her. "

After this it became a settled habit between them, he writing by theweekly steamer, telling her every thought of his life, and she replyingat long intervals. In these no word of love was spoken on her side; norwas any reference made to their last interview. But this fact did notcool the warmth of his affection nor weaken his faith. She had told himshe loved him, and with her own lips. That was enough--enough from awoman like Jane. He would lose faith when she denied it in the sameway. In the meantime she was his very breath and being. 

One morning two years after Jane's departure, while the doctor and hismother sat at breakfast, Mrs. Cavendish filling the tea-cups, thespring sunshine lighting up the snow-white cloth and polished silver, the mail arrived and two letters were laid at their respective plates, one for the doctor and the other for his mother. 

As Doctor John glanced at the handwriting his face flushed, and hiseyes danced with pleasure. With eager, trembling fingers he broke theseal and ran his eyes hungrily over the contents. It had been his habitto turn to the bottom of the last page before he read the precedingones, so that he might see the signature and note the final words ofaffection or friendship, such as "Ever your friend, " or "Affectionatelyyours, " or simply "Your friend, " written above Jane's name. These wereto him the thermometric readings of the warmth of her heart. 

Half way down the first page--before he had time to turn the leaf--hecaught his breath in an effort to smother a sudden outburst of joy. Then with a supreme effort he regained his self-control and read theletter to the end. (He rarely mentioned Jane's name to his mother, andhe did not want his delight over the contents of the letter to be madethe basis of comment. )

Mrs. Cavendish's outburst over the contents of her own envelope brokethe silence and relieved his tension. 

"Oh, how fortunate!" she exclaimed. "Listen, John; now I really havegood news for you. You remember I told you that I met old Dr. Pencoydthe last time I was in Philadelphia, and had a long talk with him. Itold him how you were buried here and how hard you worked and howanxious I was that you should leave Barnegat, and he promised to writeto me, and he has. Here's his letter. He says he is getting too old tocontinue his practice alone, that his assistant has fallen ill, andthat if you will come to him at once he will take you into partnershipand give you half his practice. I always knew something good would comeout of my last visit to Philadelphia. Aren't you delighted, my son?"

"Yes, perfectly overjoyed, " answered the doctor, laughing. He was morethan delighted--brimming over with happiness, in fact--but not over hismother's news; it was the letter held tight in his grasp that wassending electric thrills through him. "A fine old fellow is Dr. Pencoyd--known him for years, " he continued; "I attended his lecturesbefore I went abroad. Lives in a musty old house on Chestnut Street, stuffed full of family portraits and old mahogany furniture, and not acomfortable chair or sofa in the place; wears yellow Nankeenwaist-coats, takes snuff, and carries a fob. Oh, yes, same old fellow. Very kind of him, mother, but wouldn't you rather have the sunlightdance in upon you as it does here and catch a glimpse of the seathrough the window than to look across at your neighbors' back wallsand white marble steps?" It was across that same sea that Jane wascoming, and the sunshine would come with her!

"Yes; but, John, surely you are not going to refuse this withoutlooking into it?" she argued, eyeing him through her gold-rimmedglasses. "Go and see him, and then you can judge. It's his practice youwant, not his house. "

"No; that's just what I don't want. I've got too much practice now. Somehow I can't keep my people well. No, mother, dear, don't botheryour dear head over the old doctor and his wants. Write him that I ammost grateful, but that the fact is I need an assistant myself, and ifhe will be good enough to send someone down here, I'll keep him busyevery hour of the day and night. Then, again, " he continued, a moreserious tone in his voice, "I couldn't possibly leave here now, even ifI wished to, which I do not. "

Mrs. Cavendish eyed him intently. She had expected just such a refusalNothing that she ever planned for his advancement did he agree to. 

"Why not?" she asked, with some impatience. 

"The new hospital is about finished, and I am going to take charge ofit. "

"Do they pay you for it?" she continued, in an incisive tone. 

"No, I don't think they will, nor can. It's not, that kind of ahospital, " answered the doctor gravely. 

"And you will look after these people just as you do after Fogarty andthe Branscombs, and everybody else up and down the shore, and nevertake a penny in pay!" she retorted with some indignation. 

"I am afraid I will, mother. A disappointing son, am I not? But there'sno one to blame but yourself, old lady, " and with a laugh he rose fromhis seat, Jane's letter in his hand, and kissed his mother on the cheek. 

"But, John, dear, " she exclaimed in a pleading petulance as she lookedinto his face, still holding on to the sleeve of his coat to detain himthe longer, "just think of this letter of Pencoyd's; nothing has everbeen offered you better than this. He has the very best people inPhiladelphia on his list, and you would get--"

The doctor slipped his hand under his mother's chin, as he would havedone to a child, and said with a twinkle in his eye--he was very happythis morning:

"That's precisely my case--I've got the very best people in threecounties on my list. That's much better than the old doctor. "

"Who are they, pray?" She was softening under her son's caress. 

"Well, let me think. There's the distinguished Mr. Tatham, who attendsto the transportation of the cities of Warehold and Barnegat; and theRight Honorable Mr. Tipple, and Mrs. And Miss Gossaway, renowned fortheir toilets--"

Mrs. Cavendish bit her lip. When her son was in one of these moods itwas all she could do to keep her temper. 

"And the wonderful Mrs. Malmsley, and--"

Mrs. Cavendish looked up. The name had an aristocratic sound, but itwas unknown to her. 

"Who is she?"

"Why, don't you know the wonderful Mrs. Malmsley?" inquired the doctor, with a quizzical smile. 

"No, I never heard of her. "

"Well, she's just moved into Warehold. Poor woman, she hasn't been outof bed for years! She's the wife of the new butcher, and--"

"The butcher's wife?"

"The butcher's wife, my dear mother, a most delightful old person, whohas brought up three sons, and each one a credit to her. "

Mrs. Cavendish let go her hold on the doctor's sleeve and settled backin her chair. 

"And you won't even write to Dr. Pencoyd?" she asked in a disheartenedway, as if she knew he would refuse. 

"Oh, with pleasure, and thank him most kindly, but I couldn't leaveBarnegat; not now. Not at any time, so far as I can see. "

"And I suppose when Jane Cobden comes home in a year or so she willwork with you in the hospital. She wanted to turn nurse the last time Italked to her. " This special arrow in her maternal quiver, poisonedwith her jealousy, was always ready. 

"I hope so, " he replied, with a smile that lighted up his whole face;"only it will not be a year. Miss Jane will be here on the nextsteamer. "

Mrs. Cavendish put down her tea-cup and looked at her son inastonishment. The doctor still kept his eyes on her face. 

"Be here by the next steamer! How do you know?"

The doctor held up the letter. 

"Lucy will remain, " he added. "She is going to Germany to continue herstudies. "

"And Jane is coming home alone?"

"No, she brings a little child with her, the son of a friend, shewrites. She asks that I arrange to have Martha meet them at the dock. "

"Somebody, I suppose, she has picked up out of the streets. She isalways doing these wild, unpractical things. Whose child is it?"

"She doesn't say, but I quite agree with you that it was helpless, orshe wouldn't have protected it. "

"Why don't Lucy come with her?"

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. 

"And I suppose you will go to the ship to meet her?"

The doctor drew himself up, clicked his heels together with the air ofan officer saluting his superior--really to hide his joy--and said withmock gravity, his hand on his heart:

"I shall, most honorable mother, be the first to take her ladyship'shand as she walks down the gangplank. " Then he added, with a tone ofmild reproof in his voice: "What a funny, queer old mother you are!Always worrying yourself over the unimportant and the impossible, " andstooping down, he kissed her again on the cheek and passed out of theroom on the way to his office. 

"That woman always comes up at the wrong moment, " Mrs. Cavendish saidto herself in a bitter tone. "I knew he had received some word fromher, I saw it in his face. He would have gone to Philadelphia but forJane Cobden. "

CHAPTER IX

THE SPREAD OF FIRE

The doctor kept his word. His hand was the first that touched Jane'swhen she came down the gangplank, Martha beside him, holding out herarms for the child, cuddling it to her bosom, wrapping her shawl aboutit as if to protect it from the gaze of the inquisitive. 

"O doctor! it was so good of you!" were Jane's first words. It hurt herto call him thus, but she wanted to establish the new relation clearly. She had shouldered her cross and must bear its weight alone and in herown way. "You don't know what it is to see a face from home! I am soglad to get here. But you should not have left your people; I wroteMartha and told her so. All I wanted you to do was to have her meet mehere. Thank you, dear friend, for coming. "

She had not let go his hand, clinging to him as a timid woman incrossing a narrow bridge spanning an abyss clings to the strong arm ofa man. 

He helped her to the dock as tenderly as if she had been a child;asking her if the voyage had been a rough one, whether she had been illin her berth, and whether she had taken care of the baby herself, andwhy she had brought no nurse with her. She saw his meaning, but she didnot explain her weakness or offer any explanation of the cause of herappearance or of the absence of a nurse. In a moment she changed thesubject, asking after his mother and his own work, and seemedinterested in what he told her about the neighbors. 

When the joy of hearing her voice and of looking into her dear faceonce more had passed, his skilled eyes probed the deeper. He noted witha sinking at the heart the dark circles under the drooping lids, thedrawn, pallid skin and telltale furrows that had cut their way deepinto her cheeks. Her eyes, too, had lost their lustre, and her steplacked the spring and vigor of her old self. The diagnosis alarmed him. Even the mould of her face, so distinguished, and to him so beautiful, had undergone a change; whether through illness, or because of somemental anguish, he could not decide. 

When he pressed his inquiries about Lucy she answered with ahalf-stifled sigh that Lucy had decided to remain abroad for a yearlonger; adding that it had been a great relief to her, and that atfirst she had thought of remaining with her, but that their affairs, ashe knew, had become so involved at home that she feared their means ofliving might be jeopardized if she did not return at once. The child, however, would be a comfort to both Martha and herself until Lucy came. Then she added in a constrained voice:

"Its mother would not, or could not care for it, and so I brought itwith me. "

Once at home and the little waif safely tucked away in the crib thathad sheltered Lucy in the old days, the neighbors began to flock in;Uncle Ephraim among the first. 

"My, but I'm glad you're back!" he burst out. "Martha's been lonelierthan a cat in a garret, and down at our house we ain't much better. Andso that Bunch of Roses is going to stay over there, is she, and setthose Frenchies crazy?"

Pastor Dellenbaugh took both of Jane's hands into his own and lookinginto her face, said:

"Ah, but we've missed you! There has been no standard, my dear MissJane, since you've been gone. I have felt it, and so has everyone inthe church. It is good to have you once more with us. "

Mrs. Cavendish could hardly conceal her satisfaction, although she wascareful what she said to her son. Her hope was that the care of thechild would so absorb Jane that John would regain his freedom and be nolonger subservient to Miss Cobden's whims. 

"And so Lucy is to stay in Paris?" she said, with one of her sweetestsmiles. "She is so charming and innocent, that sweet sister of yours, my dear Miss Jane, and so sympathetic. I quite lost my heart to her. And to study music, too? A most noble accomplishment, my dear. Mygrandmother, who was an Erskine, you know, played divinely on the harp, and many of my ancestors, especially the Dagworthys, were accomplishedmusicians. Your sister will look lovely bending over a harp. Mygrandmother had her portrait painted that way by Peale, and it stillhangs in the old house in Trenton. And they tell me you have brought alittle angel with you to bring up and share your loneliness? Howpathetic, and how good of you!"

The village women--they came in groups--asked dozens of questionsbefore Jane had had even time to shake each one by the hand. Was Lucyso in love with the life abroad that she would never come back? was shejust as pretty as ever? what kind of bonnets were being worn? etc. , etc. 

The child in Martha's arms was, of course, the object of specialattention. They all agreed that it was a healthy, hearty, and mostbeautiful baby; just the kind of a child one would want to adopt if onehad any such extraordinary desires. 

This talk continued until they had gained the highway, when they alsoagreed--and this without a single dissenting voice--that in all thevillage Jane Cobden was the only woman conscientious enough to want tobring up somebody else's child, and a foreigner at that, when therewere any quantity of babies up and down the shore that could be had forthe asking. The little creature was, no doubt, helpless, and appealedto Miss Jane's sympathies, but why bring it home at all? Were there notplaces enough in France where it could be brought up? etc. , etc. Thissort of gossip went on for days after Jane's return, each dropper-in attea-table or village gathering having some view of her own to express, the women doing most of the talking. 

The discussion thus begun by friends was soon taken up by the sewingsocieties and church gatherings, one member in good standing remarkingloud enough to be heard by everybody:

"As for me, I ain't never surprised at nothin' Jane Cobden does. She'squeerer than Dick's hat-band, and allus was, and I've knowed her eversince she used to toddle up to my house and I baked cookies for her. I've seen her many a time feed the dog with what I give her, justbecause she said he looked hungry, which there warn't a mite o' truthin, for there ain't nothin' goes hungry round my place, and never was. She's queer, I tell ye. "

"Quite true, dear Mrs. Pokeberry, " remarked Pastor Dellenbaugh in hisgentlest tone--he had heard the discussion as he was passing throughthe room and had stopped to listen--"especially when mercy and kindnessis to be shown. Some poor little outcast, no doubt, with no one to takecare of it, and so this grand woman brings it home to nurse andeducate. I wish there were more Jane Cobdens in my parish. Many of youtalk good deeds, and justice, and Christian spirit; here is a woman whoputs them into practice. "

This statement having been made during the dispersal of a Wednesdaynight meeting, and in the hearing of half the congregation, furnishedthe key to the mystery, and so for a time the child and its new-foundmother ceased to be an active subject of discussion. 

Ann Gossaway, however, was not satisfied. The more she thought of thepastor's explanation the more she resented it as an affront to herintelligence. 

"If folks wants to pick up stray babies, " she shouted to her old motheron her return home one night, "and bring 'em home to nuss, they oughterlabel 'em with some sort o' pedigree, and not keep the villagea-guessin' as to who they is and where they come from. I don't believea word of this outcast yarn. Guess Miss Lucy is all right, and sheknows enough to stay away when all this tomfoolery's goin' on. Shedoesn't want to come back to a child's nussery. " To all of which hermother nodded her head, keeping it going like a toy mandarin long afterthe subject of discussion had been changed. 

Little by little the scandal spread: by innuendoes; by the wiseshakings of empty heads; by nods and winks; by the piecing out ofincomplete tattle. For the spread of gossip is like the spread of fire:First a smouldering heat--some friction of ill-feeling, perhaps, over asecret sin that cannot be smothered, try as we may; next a hot, blistering tongue of flame creeping stealthily; then a burst ofscorching candor and the roar that ends in ruin. Sometimes the victimis saved by a dash of honest water--the outspoken word of some bravefriend. More often those who should stamp out the burning brand standidly by until the final collapse and then warm themselves at the blaze. 

Here in Warehold it began with some whispered talk: Bart Holt haddisappeared; there was a woman in the case somewhere; Bart's exile hadnot been entirely caused by his love of cards and drink. Reference wasalso made to the fact that Jane had gone abroad but a short time AFTERBart's disappearance, and that knowing how fond she was of him, and howshe had tried to reform him, the probability was that she had met himin Paris. Doubts having been expressed that no woman of Jane Cobden'sposition would go to any such lengths to oblige so young a fellow asBart Holt, the details of their intimacy were passed from mouth tomouth, and when this was again scouted, reference was made to MissGossaway, who was supposed to know more than she was willing to tell. The dressmaker denied all responsibility for the story, but admittedthat she had once seen them on the beach "settin' as close together asthey could git, with the red cloak she had made for Miss Jane woundabout 'em. 

"'Twarn't none o' my business, and I told Martha so, and 'tain't noneo' my business now, but I'd rather die than tell a lie or scandalizeanybody, and so if ye ask me if I saw 'em I'll have to tell ye I did. Idon't believe, howsomever, that Miss Jane went away to oblige thatgood-for-nothin' or that she's ever laid eyes on him since. Lucy iswhat took her. She's one o' them flyaways. I see that when she washome, and there warn't no peace up to the Cobdens' house till they'dtaken her somewheres where she could git all the runnin' round shewanted. As for the baby, there ain't nobody knows where Miss Janepicked that up, but there ain't no doubt but what she loves it same'sif it was her own child. She's named it Archie, after her grandfather, anyhow. That's what Martha and she calls it. So they're not ashamed ofit. "

When the fire had spent itself, only one spot remained unscorched: thiswas the parentage of little Archie. That mystery still remainedunsolved. Those of her own class who knew Jane intimately admired herkindness of heart and respected her silence; those who did not soonforgot the boy's existence. 

The tavern loungers, however, some of whom only knew the Cobden girlsby reputation, had theories of their own; theories which werecommunicated to other loungers around other tavern stoves, most of whomwould not have known either of the ladies on the street. The fact thatboth women belonged to a social stratum far above them gave additionallicense to their tongues; they could never be called in question byanybody who overheard, and were therefore safe to discuss the situationat their will. Condensed into illogical shape, the story was that Janehad met a foreigner who had deserted her, leaving her to care for thechild alone; that Lucy had refused to come back to Warehold, had takenwhat money was coming to her, and, like a sensible woman, had stayedaway. That there was not the slightest foundation for this slander didnot lessen its acceptance by a certain class; many claimed that itoffered the only plausible solution to the mystery, and must, therefore, be true. 

It was not long before the echoes of these scandals reached Martha'sears. The gossips dare not affront Miss Jane with their suspicions, butMartha was different. If they could irritate her by speaking lightly ofher mistress, she might give out some information which would solve themystery. 

One night a servant of one of the neighbors stopped Martha on the roadand sent her flying home; not angry, but terrified. 

"They're beginnin' to talk, " she broke out savagely, as she enteredJane's room, her breath almost gone from her run to the house. "Ilaughed at it and said they dare not one of 'em say it to your face ormine, but they're beginnin' to talk. "

"Is it about Barton Holt? have they heard anything from him?" askedJane. The fear of his return had always haunted her. 

"No, and they won't. He'll never come back here ag'in. The captainwould kill him. "

"It isn't about Lucy, then, is it?" cried Jane, her color going. 

Martha shook her head in answer to save her breath. 

"Who, then?" cried Jane, nervously. "Not Archie?"

"Yes, Archie and you. "

"What do they say?" asked Jane, her voice fallen to a whisper. 

"They say it's your child, and that ye're afraid to tell who the fatheris. "

Jane caught at the chair for support and then sank slowly into her seat. 

"Who says so?" she gasped. 

"Nobody that you or I know; some of the beach-combers andhide-by-nights, I think, started it. Pokeberry's girl told me; herbrother works in the shipyard. "

Jane sat looking at Martha with staring eyes. 

"How dare they--"

"They dare do anything, and we can't answer back. That's what's goin'to make it hard. It's nobody's business, but that don't satisfy 'em. I've been through it meself; I know how mean they can be. "

"They shall never know--not while I have life left in me, " Janeexclaimed firmly. 

"Yes, but that won't keep 'em from lyin'. "

The two sat still for some minutes, Martha gazing into vacancy, Janelying back in her chair, her eyes closed. One emotion after anothercoursed through her with lightning rapidity--indignation at the charge, horror at the thought that any of her friends might believe it, followed by a shivering fear that her father's good name, for all hercare and suffering, might be smirched at last. 

Suddenly there arose the tall image of Doctor John, with his frank, tender face. What would he think of it, and how, if he questioned her, could she answer him? Then there came to her that day of parting inParis. She remembered Lucy's willingness to give up the child forever, and so cover up all traces of her sin, and her own immediatedetermination to risk everything for her sister's sake. As this lastthought welled up in her mind and she recalled her father's dyingcommand, her brow relaxed. Come what might, she was doing her duty. This was her solace and her strength. 

"Cruel, cruel people!" she said to Martha, relaxing her hands. "How canthey be so wicked? But I am glad it is I who must take the brunt of itall. If they would treat me so, who am innocent, what would they do tomy poor Lucy?"

CHAPTER X

A LATE VISITOR

These rumors never reached the doctor. No scandalmonger ever dared talkgossip to him. When he first began to practise among the people ofWarehold, and some garrulous old dame would seek to enrich his visit bytittle-tattle about her neighbors, she had never tried it a secondtime. Doctor John of Barnegat either received the news in silence oranswered it with some pleasantry; even Ann Gossaway held her peacewhenever the doctor had to be called in to prescribe for heroversensitive throat. 

He was aware that Jane had laid herself open to criticism in bringinghome a child about which she had made no explanation, but he neverspoke of it nor allowed anyone to say so to him. He would have beenmuch happier, of course, if she had given him her confidence in this asshe had in many other matters affecting her life; but he accepted hersilence as part of her whole attitude toward him. Knowing her as hedid, he was convinced that her sole incentive was one of lovingkindness, both for the child and for the poor mother whose sin or whosepoverty she was concealing. In this connection, he remembered how inone of her letters to Martha she had told of the numberless waifs shehad seen and how her heart ached for them; especially in the hospitalswhich she had visited and among the students. He recalled that hehimself had had many similar experiences in his Paris days, in which awoman like Jane Cobden would have been a veritable angel of mercy. 

Mrs. Cavendish's ears were more easily approached by the gossips ofWarehold and vicinity; then, again she was always curious over theinmates of the Cobden house, and any little scraps of news, reliable ornot, about either Jane or her absent sister were eagerly listened to. Finding it impossible to restrain herself any longer, she had seizedthe opportunity one evening when she and her son were sitting togetherin the salon, a rare occurrence for the doctor, and only possible whenhis patients were on the mend. 

"I'm sorry Jane Cobden was so foolish as to bring home that baby, " shebegan. 

"Why?" said the doctor, without lifting his eyes from the book he wasreading. 

"Oh, she lays herself open to criticism. It is, of course, but one ofher eccentricities, but she owes something to her position and birthand should not invite unnecessary comment. "

"Who criticises her?" asked the doctor, his eyes still on the pages. 

"Oh, you can't tell; everybody is talking about it. Some of the gossipis outrageous, some I could not even repeat. "

"I have no doubt of it, " answered the doctor quietly. "All small placeslike Warehold and Barnegat need topics of conversation, and Miss Janefor the moment is furnishing one of them. They utilize you, dearmother, and me, and everybody else in the same way. But that is noreason why we should lend our ears or our tongues to spread andencourage it. "

"I quite agree with you, my son, and I told the person who told me howfoolish and silly it was, but they will talk, no matter what you say tothem. "

"What do they say?" asked the doctor, laying down his book and risingfrom his chair. 

"Oh, all sorts of things. One rumor is that Captain Holt's son, Barton, the one that quarrelled with his father and who went to sea, could tellsomething of the child, if he could be found. "

The doctor laughed. "He can be found, " he answered. "I saw his fatheronly last week, and he told me Bart was in Brazil. That is somethousand of miles from Paris, but a little thing like that in geographydoesn't seem to make much difference to some of our good people. Why doyou listen to such nonsense?" he added as he kissed her tenderly and, with a pat on her cheek, left the room for his study. His mother's talkhad made but little impression upon him. Gossip of this kind was alwayscurrent when waifs like Archie formed the topic; but it hurt nobody, hesaid to himself--nobody like Jane. 

Sitting under his study lamp looking up some complicated case, hisbooks about him, Jane's sad face came before him. "Has she not hadtrouble enough, " he said to himself, "parted from Lucy and with herunsettled money affairs, without having to face these gnats whose stingshe cannot ward off?" With this came the thought of his ownhelplessness to comfort her. He had taken her at her word that nightbefore she left for Paris, when she had refused to give him her promiseand had told him to wait, and he was still ready to come at her call;loving her, watching ever her, absorbed in every detail of her dailylife, and eager to grant her slightest wish, and yet he could not butsee that she had, since her return, surrounded herself with a barrierwhich he could neither understand nor break down whenever he touched ontheir personal relations. 

Had he loved her less he would, in justice to himself, have faced allher opposition and demanded an answer--Yes or No--as to whether shewould yield to his wishes. But his generous nature forbade any suchstand and his reverence for her precluded any such mental attitude. 

Lifting his eyes from his books and gazing dreamily into the spacebefore him, he recalled, with a certain sinking of the heart, aconversation which had taken place between Jane and himself a few daysafter her arrival--an interview which had made a deep impression uponhim. The two, in the absence of Martha--she had left the room for amoment--were standing beside the crib watching the child's breathing. Seizing the opportunity, one he had watched for, he had told her howmuch he had missed her during the two years, and how much happier hislife was now that he could touch her hand and listen to her voice. Shehad evaded his meaning, making answer that his pleasure, was nothingcompared to her own when she thought how safe the baby would be in hishands; adding quickly that she could never thank him enough forremaining in Barnegat and not leaving her helpless and without a"physician. " The tone with which she pronounced the word had hurt him. He thought he detected a slight inflection, as if she were making adistinction between his skill as an expert and his love as a man, buthe was not sure. 

Still gazing into the shadows before him, his unread book in his hand, he recalled a later occasion when she appeared rather to shrink fromhim than to wish to be near him, speaking to him with downcast eyes andwithout the frank look in her face which was always his welcome. Onthis day she was more unstrung and more desolate than he had ever seenher. At length, emboldened by his intense desire to help, and puttingaside every obstacle, he had taken her hand and had said with all hisheart in his voice:

"Jane, you once told me you loved me. Is it still true?"

He remembered how at first she had not answered, and how after a momentshe had slowly withdrawn her hand and had replied in a voice almostinarticulate, so great was her emotion. 

"Yes, John, and always will be, but it can never go beyond that--never, never. Don't ask many more questions. Don't talk to me about it. Notnow, John--not now! Don't hate me! Let us be as we have alwaysbeen--please, John! You would not refuse me if you knew. "

He had started forward to take her in his arms; to insist that nowevery obstacle was removed she should give him at once the lawful rightto protect her, but she had shrunk back, the palms of her hands heldout as barriers, and before he could reason with her Martha had enteredwith something for little Archie, and so the interview had come to anend. 

Then, still absorbed in his thoughts, his eyes suddenly brightened anda certain joy trembled in his heart as he remembered that with allthese misgivings and doubts there were other times--and their sum wasin the ascendency--when she showed the same confidence in his judgementand the same readiness to take his advice; when the old light wouldonce more flash in her eyes as she grasped his hand and the old sadnessagain shadow her face when his visits came to an end. With this he mustbe for a time content. 

These and a hundred other thoughts raced through Doctor John's mind ashe sat to-night in his study chair, the lamplight falling on his openbooks and thin, delicately modelled hands. 

Once he rose from his seat and began pacing his study floor, his handsbehind his back, his mind on Jane, on her curious and incomprehensiblemoods, trying to solve them as he walked, trusting and leaning upon himone day and shrinking from him the next. Baffled for the hundredth timein this mental search, he dropped again into his chair, and adjustingthe lamp, pulled his books toward him to devote his mind to theircontents. As the light flared up he caught the sound of a step upon thegravel outside, and then a heavy tread upon the porch. An instant laterhis knocker sounded. Doctor Cavendish gave a sigh--he had hoped to haveone night at home--and rose to open the door. 

Captain Nat Holt stood outside. 

His pea-jacket was buttoned close up under his chin, his hat drawntight down over his forehead. His weather-beaten face, as the lightfell upon it, looked cracked and drawn, with dark hollows under theeyes, which the shadows from the lamplight deepened. 

"It's late, I know, doctor, " he said in a hoarse, strained voice; "teno'clock, maybe, but I got somethin' to talk to ye about, " and he strodeinto the room. "Alone, are ye?" he continued, as he loosened his coatand laid his hat on the desk. "Where's the good mother? Home, is she?"

"Yes, she's inside, " answered the doctor, pointing to the open doorleading to the salon and grasping the captain's brawny hand in welcome. "Why? Do you want to see her?"

"No, I don't want to see her; don't want to see nobody but you. Shecan't hear, can she? 'Scuse me--I'll close this door. "

The doctor looked at him curiously. The captain seemed to be laboringunder a nervous strain, unusual in one so stolid and self-possessed. 

The door closed, the captain moved back a cushion, dropped into acorner of the sofa, and sat looking at the doctor, with legs apart, hisopen palms resting on his knees. 

"I got bad news, doctor--awful bad news for everybody, " as he spoke hereached into his pocket and produced a letter with a foreign postmark. 

"You remember my son Bart, of course, don't ye, who left home some twoyears ago?" he went on. 

The doctor nodded. 

"Well, he's dead. "

"Your son Bart dead!" cried the doctor, repeating his name in thesurprise of the announcement. "How do you know?"

"This letter came by to-day's mail. It's from the consul at Rio. Bartcome in to see him dead broke and he helped him out. He'd run away fromthe ship and was goin' up into the mines to work, so the consul wroteme. He was in once after that and got a little money, and then he gotdown with yellow fever and they took him to the hospital, and he diedin three days. There ain't no doubt about it. Here's a list of the deadin the paper; you kin read his name plain as print. "

Doctor John reached for the letter and newspaper clipping and turnedthem toward the lamp. The envelope was stamped "Rio Janeiro" and theletter bore the official heading of the consulate. 

"That's dreadful, dreadful news, captain, " said the doctor insympathetic tones. "Poor boy! it's too bad. Perhaps, however, there maybe some mistake, after all. Foreign hospital registers are not alwaysreliable, " added the doctor in a hopeful tone. 

"No, it's all true, or Benham wouldn't write me what he has. I've knownhim for years. He knows me, too, and he don't go off half-cocked. Iwrote him to look after Bart and sent him some money and give him thename of the ship, and he watched for her and sent for him all right. Iwas pretty nigh crazy that night he left, and handled him, maybe, rougher'n I ou'ter, but I couldn't help it. There's some things I can'tstand, and what he done was one of 'em. It all comes back to me now, but I'd do it ag'in. " As he spoke the rough, hard sailor leaned forwardand rested his chin on his hand. The news had evidently been a greatshock to him. 

The doctor reached over and laid his hand on the captain's knee. "I'mvery, very sorry, captain, for you and for Bart; and the only son youhave, is it not?"

"Yes, and the only child we ever had. That makes it worse. Thank God, his mother's dead! All this would have broken her heart. " For a momentthe two men were silent, then the captain continued in a tone as if hewere talking to himself, his eyes on the lamp:

"But I couldn't have lived with him after that, and I told him so--nottill he acted fair and square, like a man. I hoped he would some day, but that's over now. "

"We're none of us bad all the way through, captain, " reasoned thedoctor, "and don't you think of him in that way. He would have come tohimself some day and been a comfort to you. I didn't know him as wellas I might, and only as I met him at Yardley, but he must have had agreat many fine qualities or the Cobdens wouldn't have liked him. MissJane used often to talk to me about him. She always believed in him. She will be greatly distressed over this news. "

"That's what brings me here. I want you to tell her, and not me. I'mafraid it'll git out and she'll hear it, and then she'll be worse offthan she is now. Maybe it's best to say nothin' 'bout it to nobody andlet it go. There ain't no one but me to grieve for him, and they don'tsend no bodies home, not from Rio, nor nowheres along that coast. Maybe, too, it ain't the time to say it to her. I was up there lastweek to see the baby, and she looked thinner and paler than I ever seeher. I didn't know what to do, so I says to myself, 'There's DoctorJohn, he's at her house reg'lar and knows the ins and outs of her, andI'll go and tell him 'bout it and ask his advice. ' I'd rather cut myhand off than hurt her, for if there's an angel on earth she's one. Sheshakes so when I mention Bart's name and gits so flustered, that's whyI dar'n't tell her. Now he's dead there won't be nobody to do right byArchie. I can't; I'm all muzzled up tight. She made me take an oath, same as she has you, and I ain't goin' to break it any more'n youwould. The little feller'll have to git 'long best way he kin now. "

Doctor John bent forward in his chair and looked at the captaincuriously. His words convey no meaning to him. For an instant hethought that the shock of his son's death had unsettled the man's mind. 

"Take an oath! What for?"

"'Bout Archie and herself. "

"But I've taken no oath!"

"Well, perhaps it isn't your habit; it ain't some men's. I did. "

"What about?"

It was the captain's turn now to look searchingly into his companion'sface. The doctor's back was toward the lamp, throwing his face intoshadow, but the captain could read its expression plainly. 

"You mean to tell me, doctor, you don't know what's goin' on up atYardley? You do, of course, but you won't say--that's like you doctors!"

"Yes, everything. But what has your son Bart got to do with it?"

"Got to do with it! Ain't Jane Cobden motherin' his child?"

The doctor lunged forward in his seat, his eyes staring straight at thecaptain. Had the old sailor struck him in the face he could not havebeen more astounded. 

"His child!" he cried savagely. 

"Certainly! Whose else is it? You knew, didn't ye?"

The doctor settled back in his chair with the movement of an ox felledby a sudden blow. With the appalling news there rang in his ears thetones of his mother's voice retailing the gossip of the village. This, then, was what she could not repeat. 

After a moment he raised his head and asked in a low, firm voice:

"Did Bart go to Paris after he left here?"

"No, of course not! Went 'board the Corsair bound for Rio, and has beenthere ever since. I told you that before. There weren't no necessityfor her to meet him in Paris. "

The doctor sprang from his chair and with eyes biasing and fiststightly clenched, stood over the captain. 

"And you dare to sit there and tell me that Miss Jane Cobden is thatchild's mother?"

The captain struggled to his feet, his open hands held up to the doctoras if to ward off a blow. 

"Miss Jane! No, by God! No! Are you crazy? Sit down, sit down, I tellye!"

"Who, then? Speak!"

"Lucy! That's what I drove Bart out for. Mort Cobden's daughter--Mort, mind ye, that was a brother to me since I was a boy! Jane that thatchild's mother! Yes, all the mother poor Archie's got! Ask Miss Jane, she'll tell ye. Tell ye how she sits and eats her heart out to save hersister that's too scared to come home. I want to cut my tongue out fortellin' ye, but I thought ye knew. Martha told me you loved her andthat she loved you, and I thought she'd told ye. Jane Cobden crooked!No more'n the angels are. Now, will you tell her Bart's dead, or shallI?"

"I will tell her, " answered the doctor firmly, "and to-night. "

CHAPTER XI

MORTON COBDEN'S DAUGHTER

The cold wind from the sea freighted with the raw mist churned by thebreakers cut sharply against Doctor John's cheeks as he sprang into hisgig and dashed out of his gate toward Yardley. Under the shadow of thesombre pines, along the ribbon of a road, dull gray in the light of thestars, and out on the broader highway leading to Warehold, the sharpclick of the mare's hoofs striking the hard road echoed through thenight. The neighbors recognized the tread and the speed, and UncleEphraim threw up a window to know whether it was a case of life ordeath, an accident, or both; but the doctor only nodded and sped on. ItWAS life and death--life for the woman he loved, death for all whotraduced her. The strange news that had dropped from the captain's lipsdid not affect him except as would the ending of any young life;neither was there any bitterness in his heart against the dead boy whohad wrecked Lucy's career and brought Jane humiliation and despair. Allhe thought of was the injustice of Jane's sufferings. Added to this wasan overpowering desire to reach her side before her misery shouldcontinue another moment; to fold her in his arms, stand between her andthe world; help her to grapple with the horror which was slowlycrushing out her life. That it was past her hour for retiring, and thatthere might be no one to answer his summons, made no difference to him. He must see her at all hazards before he closed his eyes. 

As he whirled into the open gates of Yardley and peered from under thehood of the gig at the outlines of the old house, looming dimly throughthe avenue of bushes, he saw that the occupants were asleep; no lightsshone from the upper windows and none burned in the hall below. Thisdiscovery checked to some extent the impetus with which he had flunghimself into the night, his whole being absorbed and dominated by oneidea. The cool wind, too, had begun to tell upon his nerves. He drewrein on the mare and stopped. For the first time since the captain'sstory had reached his ears his reason began to work. He was never animpetuous man; always a thoughtful and methodical one, and alwaysoverparticular in respecting the courtesies of life. He began suddenlyto realize that this midnight visit was at variance with every act ofhis life. Then his better judgment became aroused. Was it right for himto wake Jane and disturb the house at this hour, causing her, perhaps, a sleepless night, or should he wait until the morning, when he couldbreak the news to her in a more gentle and less sensational way?

While he sat thus wondering, undetermined whether to drive lightly outof the gate again or to push forward in the hope that someone would beawake, his mind unconsciously reverted to the figure of Jane making herway with weary steps down the gangplank of the steamer, the two yearsof her suffering deep cut into every line of her face. He recalled theshock her appearance had given him, and his perplexity over the cause. He remembered her refusal to give him her promise, her begging him towait, her unaccountable moods since her return. 

Then Lucy's face came before him, her whole career, in fact (in aflash, as a drowning man's life is pictured), from the first nightafter her return from school until he had bade her good-by to take thetrain for Trenton. Little scraps of talk sounded in his ears, andcertain expressions about the corners of her eyes revealed themselvesto his memory. He thought of her selfishness, of her love of pleasure, of her disregard of Jane's wishes, of her recklessness. 

Everything was clear now. 

"What a fool I have been!" he said to himself. "What a fool--FOOL! Iought to have known!"

Next the magnitude of the atonement, and the cruelty and cowardice ofthe woman who had put her sister into so false a position swept overhim. Then there arose, like the dawning of a light, the grand figure ofthe woman he loved, standing clear of all entanglements, a Madonnaamong the saints, more precious than ever in the radiance of her ownsacrifice. 

With this last vision his mind was made up. No, he would not wait amoment. Once this terrible secret out of the way, Jane would regain herold self and they two fight the world together. 

As he loosened the reins over the sorrel a light suddenly flashed fromone of the upper windows disappeared for a moment, and reappeared againat one of the smaller openings near the front steps. He drew reinagain. Someone was moving about--who he did not know; perhaps Jane, perhaps one of the servants. Tying the lines to the dashboard, hesprang from the gig, tethered the mare to one of the lilac bushes, andwalked briskly toward the house. As he neared the steps the door wasopened and Martha's voice rang clear:

"Meg, you rascal, come in, or shall I let ye stay out and freeze?"

Doctor John stepped upon the porch, the light of Martha's candlefalling on his face and figure. 

"It's I, Martha, don't be frightened; it's late, I know, but I hopedMiss Jane would be up. Has she gone to bed?"

The old nurse started back. "Lord, how ye skeered me! I don't knowwhether she's asleep or not. She's upstairs with Archie, anyhow. I comeout after this rapscallion that makes me look him up every night. I'vetalked to him till I'm sore, and he's promised me a dozen times, andhere he is out ag'in. Here! Where are ye? In with ye, ye little beast!"The dog shrank past her and darted into the hall. "Now, then, doctor, come in out of the cold. "

Doctor John stepped softly inside and stood in the flare of thecandle-light. He felt that he must give some reason for his appearanceat this late hour, even if he did not see Jane. It would be just aswell, therefore, to tell Martha of Bart's death at once, and not lether hear it, as she was sure to do, from someone on the street. Thenagain, he had kept few secrets from her where Jane was concerned; shehad helped him many times before, and her advice was always good. Heknew that she was familiar with every detail of the captain's story, but he did not propose to discuss Lucy's share in it with the oldnurse. That he would reserve for Jane's ears alone. 

"Bring your candle into the sitting-room, Martha; I have something totell you, " he said gravely, loosening the cape of his overcoat andlaying his hat on the hall table. 

The nurse followed. The measured tones of the doctor's voice, so unlikehis cheery greetings, especially to her, unnerved her. This, inconnection with the suppressed excitement under which he seemed tolabor and the late hour of his visit, at once convinced her thatsomething serious had happened. 

"Is there anything the matter?" she asked in a trembling voice. 

"Yes. "

"Is it about Lucy? There ain't nothin' gone wrong with her, doctordear, is there?"

"No, it is not about Lucy. It's about Barton Holt. "

"Ye don't tell me! Is he come back?"

"No, nor never will. He's dead!

"That villain dead! How do you know?" Her face paled and her lipsquivered, but she gave no other sign of the shock the news had been toher. 

"Captain Nat, his father, has just left my office. I promised I wouldtell Miss Jane to-night. He was too much broken up and too fearful ofits effect upon her to do it himself. I drove fast, but perhaps I'm toolate to see her. "

"Well, ye could see her no doubt, --she could throw somethin' aroundher--but ye mustn't tell her THAT news. She's been downhearted all dayand is tired out. Bart's dead, is he?" she repeated with an effort atindifference. "Well, that's too bad. I s'pose the captain's feelin'putty bad over it. Where did he die?"

"He died in Rio Janeiro of yellow fever, " said the doctor slowly, wondering at the self-control of the woman. Wondering, too, whether shewas glad or sorry over the event, her face and manner showing no indexto her feelings. 

"And will he be brought home to be buried?" she asked with a quickglance at the doctor's face. 

"No; they never bring them home with yellow fever. "

"And is that all ye come to tell her?" She was scrutinizing DoctorJohn's face, her quick, nervous glances revealing both suspicion andfear. 

"I had some other matters to talk about, but if she has retired, perhaps I had better come to-morrow, " answered the doctor in undecidedtones, as he gazed abstractedly at the flickering candle. 

The old woman hesitated. She saw that the doctor knew more than heintended to tell her. Her curiosity and her fear that some othercomplication had arisen--one which he was holding back--got the betterof her judgment. If it was anything about her bairn, she could not waituntil the morning. She had forgotten Meg now. 

"Well, maybe if ye break it to her easy-like she can stand it. I don'tsuppose she's gone to bed yet. Her door was open on a crack when I comedown, and she always shuts it 'fore she goes to sleep. I'll light acouple o' lamps so ye can see, and then I'll send her down to ye ifshe'll come. Wait here, doctor, dear. "

The lamps lighted and Martha gone, Doctor John looked about the room, his glance resting on the sofa where he had so often sat with her; onthe portrait of Morton Cobden, the captain's friend; on the work-basketfilled with needlework that Jane had left on a small table beside herchair, and upon the books her hands had touched. He thought he hadnever loved her so much as now. No one he had ever known or heard ofhad made so great a sacrifice. Not for herself this immolation, but fora sister who had betrayed her confidence and who had repaid a life'sdevotion with unforgivable humiliation and disgrace. This was the womanwhose heart he held. This was the woman he loved with every fibre ofhis being. But her sufferings were over now. He was ready to face theworld and its malignity beside her. Whatever sins her sister hadcommitted, and however soiled were Lucy's garments, Jane's robes wereas white as snow, he was glad he had yielded to the impulse and hadcome at once. The barrier between them once broken down and theterrible secret shared, her troubles would end. 

The whispering of her skirts on the stairs announced her coming beforeshe entered the room. She had been sitting by Archie's crib and had notwaited to change her loose white gown, whose clinging folds accentuatedher frail, delicate form. Her hair had been caught up hastily and hungin a dark mass, concealing her small, pale ears and making her face allthe whiter by contrast. 

"Something alarming has brought you at this hour, " she said, with anote of anxiety in her voice, walking rapidly toward him. "What can Ido? Who is ill?"

Doctor John sprang forward, held out both hands, and holding tight toher own, drew her close to him. 

"Has Martha told you?" he said tenderly. 

"No; only that you wanted me. I came as soon as I could. "

"It's about Barton Holt. His father has just left my office. I havevery sad news for you. The poor boy--"

Jane loosened her hands from his and drew back. The doctor paused inhis recital. 

"Is he ill?" she inquired, a slight shiver running through her. 

"Worse than ill! I'm afraid you'll never see him again. "

"You mean that he is dead? Where?"

"Yes, dead, in Rio. The letter arrived this morning. "

"And you came all the way up here to tell me this?" she asked, with aneffort to hide her astonishment. Her eyes dropped for a moment and hervoice trembled. Then she went on. "What does his father say?"

"I have just left him. He is greatly shaken. He would not tell youhimself, he said; he was afraid it might shock you too much, and askedme to come up. But it is not altogether that, Jane. I have heardsomething to-night that has driven me half out of my mind. That youshould suffer this way alone is torture to me. You cannot, you shallnot live another day as you have! Let me help!"

Instantly there flashed into her mind the story Martha had brought infrom the street. "He has heard it, " she said to herself, "but he doesnot believe it, and he comes to comfort me. I cannot tell the truthwithout betraying Lucy. "

She drew a step farther from him. 

"You refer to what the people about us call a mystery--that poor littlechild upstairs?" she said slowly, all her self-control in her voice. "You think it is a torture for me to care for this helpless baby? It isnot a torture; it is a joy--all the joy I have now. " She stood lookingat him as she spoke with searching eyes, wondering with theever-questioning doubt of those denied love's full expression. 

"But I know--"

"You know nothing--nothing but what I have told you; and what I havetold you is the truth. What I have not told you is mine to keep. Youlove me too well to probe it any further, I am sorry for the captain. He has an iron will and a rough exterior, but he has a warm heartunderneath. If you see him before I do give him my deepest sympathy. Now, my dear friend, I must go back to Archie; he is restless and needsme. Good-night, " and she held out her hand and passed out of the room. 

She was gone before he could stop her. He started forward as her handtouched the door, but she closed it quickly behind her, as if to leaveno doubt of her meaning. He saw that she had misunderstood him. He hadintended to talk to her of Archie's father, and of Lucy, and she hadsupposed he had only come to comfort her about the village gossip. 

For some minutes he stood like one dazed. Then a feeling of unspeakablereverence stole over him. Not only was she determined to suffer aloneand in silence, but she would guard her sister's secret at the cost ofher own happiness. Inside that sacred precinct he knew he could neverenter; that wine-press she intended to tread alone. 

Then a sudden indignation, followed by a contempt of his own weaknesstook possession of him. Being the older and stronger nature, he shouldhave compelled her to listen. The physician as well as the friendshould have asserted himself. No woman could be well balanced who wouldpush away the hand of a man held out to save her from ruin and misery. He would send Martha for her again and insist upon her listening to him. 

He started for the door and stopped irresolute. A new light broke inupon his heart. It was not against himself and her own happiness thatshe had taken this stand, but to save her father's and her sister'sname. He knew how strong was her devotion to her duty, how blind herlove for Lucy, how sacred she held the trust given to her by her deadfather. No; she was neither obstinate nor quixotic. Hers was the workof a martyr, not a fanatic. No one he had ever known or heard of hadborne so great a cross or made so noble a sacrifice. It was like thedeed of some grand old saint, the light of whose glory had shone downthe ages. He was wrong, cruelly wrong. The only thing left for him todo was to wait. For what he could not tell. Perhaps God in his mercywould one day find the way. 

Martha's kindly voice as she opened the door awoke him from his revery. 

"Did she take it bad?" she asked. 

"No, " he replied aimlessly, without thinking of what he said. "She senta message to the captain. I'll go now. No, please don't bring a lightto the door. The mare's only a short way down the road. "

When the old nurse had shut the front door after him she put out thelamps and ascended the stairs. The other servants were in bed. Jane'sdoor was partly open. Martha pushed it gently with her hand and steppedin. Jane had thrown herself at full length on the bed and lay with herface buried in her hands. She was talking to herself and had notnoticed Martha's footsteps. 

"O God! what have I done that this should be sent to me?" Martha heardher say between her sobs. "You would be big enough, my beloved, to bearit all for my sake; to take the stain and wear it; but I cannot hurtyou--not you, not you, my great, strong, sweet soul. Your heart achesfor me and you would give me all you have, but I could not bear yourname without telling you. You would forgive me, but I could neverforgive myself. No, no, you shall stand unstained if God will give mestrength!"

Martha walked softly to the bed and bent over Jane's prostrate body. 

"It's me, dear. What did he say to break your heart?"

Jane slipped her arm about the old nurse's neck, drawing her closer, and without lifting her own head from the pillow talked on. 

"Nothing, nothing. He came to comfort me, not to hurt me. "

"Do ye think it's all true 'bout Bart?" Martha whispered. 

Jane raised her body from the bed and rested her head on Martha'sshoulder. 

"Yes, it's all true about Bart, " she answered in a stronger and morecomposed tone. "I have been expecting it. Poor boy, he had nothing tolive for, and his conscience must have given him no rest. "

"Did the captain tell him about--" and Martha pointed toward the bed ofthe sleeping child. She could never bring herself to mention Lucy'sname when speaking either of Bart or Archie. 

Jane sat erect, brushed the tears from her eyes, smoothed her hair backfrom her temples, and said with something of her customary poise:

"No, I don't think so. The captain gave me his word, and he will notbreak it. Then, again, he will never discredit his own son. The doctordoesn't know, and there will be nobody to tell him. That's not what hecame to tell me. It was about the stories you heard last week and whichhave only just reached his ears. That's all. He wanted to protect mefrom their annoyance, but I would not listen to him. There is troubleenough without bringing him into it. Now go to bed, Martha. "

As she spoke Jane regained her feet, and crossing the room, settledinto a chair by the boy's crib. Long after Martha had closed her owndoor for the night Jane sat watching the sleeping child. One plump pinkhand lay outside the cover; the other little crumpled rose-leaf wastucked under the cheek, the face half-hidden in a tangle of glossycurls, now spun-gold in the light of the shaded lamp. 

"Poor little waif, " she sighed, "poor little motherless, fatherlesswaif! Why didn't you stay in heaven? This world has no place for you. "

Then she rose wearily, picked up the light, carried it across the roomto her desk, propped a book in front of it so that its rays would notfall upon the sleeping child, opened her portfolio, and sat down towrite. 

When she had finished and had sealed her letter it was long pastmidnight. It was addressed to Lucy in Dresden, and contained a fullaccount of all the doctor had told her of Bart's death. 

CHAPTER XII

A LETTER FROM PARIS

For the first year Jane watched Archie's growth and development withthe care of a self-appointed nurse temporarily doing her duty by hercharge. Later on, as the fact became burned into her mind that Lucywould never willingly return to Warehold, she clung to him with thatabsorbing love and devotion which an unmarried woman often lavishesupon a child not her own. In his innocent eyes she saw the fulfilmentof her promise to her father. He would grow to be a man of courage andstrength, the stain upon his birth forgotten, doing honor to himself, to her, and to the name he bore. In him, too, she sought refuge fromthat other sorrow which was often greater than she could bear--the lossof the closer companionship of Doctor John--a companionship which onlya wife's place could gain for her. The true mother-love--the love whichshe had denied herself, a love which had been poured out upon Lucysince her father's death--found its outlet, therefore, in little Archie. 

Under Martha's watchful care the helpless infant grew to be a big, roly-poly boy, never out of her arms when she could avoid it. At fivehe had lost his golden curls and short skirts and strutted about inknee-trousers. At seven he had begun to roam the streets, picking uphis acquaintances wherever he found them. 

Chief among them was Tod Fogarty, the son of the fisherman, now a boyof ten, big for his age and bubbling over with health and merriment, and whose life Doctor John had saved when he was a baby. Tod hadbrought a basket of fish to Yardley, and sneaking Meg, who was thenalive--he died the year after--had helped himself to part of thecontents, and the skirmish over its recovery had resulted in afriendship which was to last the boys all their lives. The doctorbelieved in Tod, and always spoke of his pluck and of his love for hismother, qualities which Jane admired--but then technical classdistinctions never troubled Jane--every honest body was Jane's friend, just as every honest body was Doctor John's. 

The doctor loved Archie with the love of an older brother; notaltogether because he was Jane's ward, but for the boy's ownqualities--for his courage, for his laugh--particularly for hisbuoyancy. Often, as he looked into the lad's eyes brimming with fun, hewould wish that he himself had been born with the same kind oftemperament. Then again the boy satisfied to a certain extent thelonging in his heart for home, wife, and child--a void which he knewnow would never be filled. Fate had decreed that he and the woman heloved should live apart--with this he must be content. Not that hisdisappointments had soured him; only that this ever-present sorrow hadadded to the cares of his life, and in later years had taken much ofthe spring and joyousness out of him. This drew him all the closer toArchie, and the lad soon became his constant companion; sitting besidehim in his gig, waiting for him at the doors of the fishermen's huts, or in the cabins of the poor on the outskirts of Barnegat and Warehold. 

"There goes Doctor John of Barnegat and his curly-head, " the neighborswould say; "when ye see one ye see t'other. "

Newcomers in Barnegat and Warehold thought Archie was his son, andwould talk to the doctor about him:

"Fine lad you got, doctor--don't look a bit like you, but maybe he willwhen he gets his growth. " At which the doctor would laugh and pat theboy's head. 

During all these years Lucy's letters came but seldom. When they didarrive, most of them were filled with elaborate excuses for herprolonged stay. The money, she wrote, which Jane had sent her from timeto time was ample for her needs; she was making many valuable friends, and she could not see how she could return until the followingspring--a spring which never came. In no one of them had she everanswered Jane's letter about Bart's death, except to acknowledge itsreceipt. Nor, strange to say, had she ever expressed any love forArchie. Jane's letters were always filled with the child's doings; hisillnesses and recoveries; but whenever Lucy mentioned his name, whichwas seldom, she invariably referred to him as "your little ward" or"your baby, " evidently intending to wipe that part of her lifecompletely out. Neither did she make any comment on the child'schristening--a ceremony which took place in the church, PastorDellenbaugh officiating--except to write that perhaps one name was asgood as another, and that she hoped he would not disgrace it when hegrew up. 

These things, however, made but little impression on Jane. She neverlost faith in her sister, and never gave up hope that one day theywould all three be reunited; how or where she could not tell orforesee, but in some way by which Lucy would know and love her son forhimself alone, and the two live together ever after--his parentagealways a secret. When Lucy once looked into her boy's face she wasconvinced she would love and cling to him. This was her constant prayer. 

All these hopes were dashed to the ground by the receipt of a letterfrom Lucy with a Geneva postmark. She had not written for months, andJane broke the seal with a murmur of delight, Martha leaning forward, eager to hear the first word from her bairn. As she read Jane's facegrew suddenly pale. 

"What is it?" Martha asked in a trembling voice. 

For some minutes Jane sat staring into space, her hand pressed to herside. She looked like one who had received a death message. Then, without a word, she handed the letter to Martha. 

The old woman adjusted her glasses, read the missive to the end withoutcomment, and laid it back on Jane's lap. The writing covered but partof the page, and announced Lucy's coming marriage with a Frenchman: "Aman of distinction; some years older than myself, and of ample means. He fell in love with me at Aix. "

There are certain crises in life with conclusions so evident that nospoken word can add to their clearness. There is no need of comment;neither is there room for doubt. The bare facts stand naked. Nosophistry can dull their outlines nor soften the insistence of theirhigh lights; nor can any reasoning explain away the results that willfollow. Both women, without the exchange of a word, knew instantly thatthe consummation of this marriage meant the loss of Lucy forever. Nowshe would never come back, and Archie would be motherless for life. They foresaw, too, that all their yearning to clasp Lucy once more intheir arms would go unsatisfied. In this marriage she had found a wayto slip as easily from out the ties that bound her to Yardley as shewould from an old dress. 

Martha rose from her chair, read the letter again to the end, andwithout opening her lips left the room. Jane kept her seat, her headresting on her hand, the letter once more in her lap. The revulsion offeeling had paralyzed her judgment, and for a time had benumbed heremotions. All she saw was Archie's eyes looking into hers as he waitedfor an answer to that question he would one day ask and which now sheknew she could never give. 

Then there rose before her, like some disembodied spirit from along-covered grave, the spectre of the past. An icy chill crept overher. Would Lucy begin this new life with the same deceit with which shehad begun the old? And if she did, would this Frenchman forgive herwhen he learned the facts? If he never learned them--and this was mostto be dreaded--what would Lucy's misery be all her life if she stillkept the secret close? Then with a pathos all the more intense becauseof her ignorance of the true situation--she fighting on alone, unconscious that the man she loved not only knew every pulsation of heraching heart, but would be as willing as herself to guard its secret, she cried:

"Yes, at any cost she must be saved from this living death! I know whatit is to sit beside the man I love, the man whose arm is ready tosustain me, whose heart is bursting for love of me, and yet be alwaysheld apart by a spectre which I dare not face. "

With this came the resolve to prevent the marriage at all hazards, evento leaving Yardley and taking the first steamer to Europe, that shemight plead with Lucy in person. 

While she sat searching her brain for some way out of the threatenedcalamity, the rapid rumbling of the doctor's gig was heard on thegravel road outside her open window. She knew from the speed with whichhe drove that something out of the common had happened. The gig stoppedand the doctor's voice rang out:

"Come as quick as you can, Jane, please. I've got a bad case some milesout of Warehold, and I need you; it's a compound fracture, and I wantyou to help with the chloroform. "

All her indecision vanished and all her doubts were swept away as shecaught the tones of his voice. Who else in the wide world understoodher as he did, and who but he should guide her now? Had he ever failedher? When was his hand withheld or his lips silent? How long would herpride shut out his sympathy? If he could help in the smaller things oflife why not trust him in this larger sorrow?--one that threatened tooverwhelm her, she whose heart ached for tenderness and wise counsel. Perhaps she could lean upon him without betraying her trust. After all, the question of Archie's birth--the one secret between them--need notcome up. It was Lucy's future happiness which was at stake. This mustbe made safe at any cost short of exposure. 

"Better put a few things in a bag, " Doctor John continued. "It may be acase of hours or days--I can't tell till I see him. The boy fell fromthe roof of the stable and is pretty badly hurt; both legs are broken, I hear; the right one in two places. "

She was upstairs in a moment, into her nursing dress, always hangingready in case the doctor called for her, and down again, standingbeside the gig, her bag in her hand, before he had time to turn hishorse and arrange the seat and robes for her comfort. 

"Who is it?" she asked hurriedly, resting her hand in his as he helpedher into the seat and took the one beside her, Martha and Archieassisting with her bag and big driving cloak. 

"Burton's boy. His father was coming for me and met me on the road. Ihave everything with me, so we will not lose any time. Good-by, myboy, " he called to Archie. "One day I'll make a doctor of you, and thenI won't have to take your dear mother from you so often. Good-by, Martha. You want to take care of that cough, old lady, or I shall haveto send up some of those plasters you love so. "

They were off and rattling down the path between the lilacs beforeeither Archie or the old woman could answer. To hearts like Jane's andthe doctor's, a suffering body, no matter how far away, was a sinkingship in the clutch of the breakers. Until the lifeboat reached her sideeverything was forgotten. 

The doctor adjusted the robe over Jane's lap and settled himself in hisseat. They had often driven thus together, and Jane's happiest hourshad been spent close to his side, both intent on the same errand ofmercy, and BOTH WORKING TOGETHER. That was the joy of it!

They talked of the wounded boy and of the needed treatment and whatpart each should take in the operation; of some new cases in thehospital and the remedies suggested for their comfort; of Archie's lifeon the beach and how ruddy and handsome he was growing, and of histender, loving nature; and of the thousand and one other things thattwo people who know every pulsation of each other's hearts are apt todiscuss--of everything, in fact, but the letter in her pocket. "It is aserious case, " she said to herself--"this to which we are hurrying--andnothing must disturb the sureness of his sensitive hand. "

Now and then, as he spoke, the two would turn their heads and look intoeach other's eyes. 

When a man's face lacks the lines and modellings that stand for beautythe woman who loves him is apt to omit in her eager glance everyfeature but his eyes. His eyes are the open doors to his soul; in theseshe finds her ideals, and in these she revels. But with Jane everyfeature was a joy--the way the smoothly cut hair was trimmed about hiswhite temples; the small, well-turned ears lying flat to his head; thelines of his eyebrows; the wide, sensitive nostrils and the gleam ofthe even teeth flashing from between well-drawn, mobile lips; thewhite, smooth, polished skin. Not all faces could boast this beauty;but then not all souls shone as clearly as did Doctor John's throughthe thin veil of his face. 

And she was equally young and beautiful to him. Her figure was stillthat of her youth; her face had not changed--he still caught the smileof the girl he loved. Often, when they had been driving along thecoast, the salt wind in their faces, and he had looked at her suddenly, a thrill of delight had swept through him as he noted how rosy were hercheeks and how ruddy the wrists above the gloves, hiding the dear handshe loved so well, the tapering fingers tipped with delicate pink nails. He could, if he sought them, find many telltale wrinkles about thecorners of the mouth and under the eyelids (he knew and loved themall), showing where the acid of anxiety had bitten deep into the plateon which the record of her life was being daily etched, but herbeautiful gray eyes still shone with the same true, kindly light, andalways flashed the brighter when they looked into his own. No, she wasever young and ever beautiful to him!

To-day, however, there was a strange tremor in her voice and ananxious, troubled expression in her face--one that he had not seen foryears. Nor had she once looked into his eyes in the old way. 

"Something worries you, Jane, " he said, his voice echoing his thoughts. "Tell me about it. "

"No--not now--it is nothing, " she answered quickly. 

"Yes, tell me. Don't keep any troubles from me. I have nothing else todo in life but smooth them out. Come, what is it?"

"Wait until we get through with Burton's boy. He may be hurt worse thanyou think. "

The doctor slackened the reins until they rested on the dashboard, andwith a quick movement turned half around and looked searchingly intoJane's eyes. 

"It is serious, then. What has happened?"

"Only a letter from Lucy. "

"Is she coming home?"

"No, she is going to be married. "

The doctor gave a low whistle. Instantly Archie's laughing eyes lookedinto his; then came the thought of the nameless grave of his father. 

"Well, upon my soul! You don't say so! Who to, pray?"

"To a Frenchman. " Jane's eyes were upon his, reading the effect of hernews. His tone of surprise left an uncomfortable feeling behind it. 

"How long has she known him?" he continued, tightening the reins againand chirruping to the mare.. 

"She does not say--not long, I should think. "

"What sort of a Frenchman is he? I've known several kinds in mylife--so have you, no doubt, " and a quiet smile overspread his face. "Come, Bess! Hurry up, old girl. "

"A gentleman, I should think, from what she writes. He is much olderthan Lucy, and she says very well off. "

"Then you didn't meet him on the other side?"

"And never heard of him before?"

"Not until I received this letter. "

The doctor reached for his whip and flecked off a fly that had settledon the mare's neck. 

"Lucy is about twenty-seven, is she not?"

"Yes, some eight years younger than I am. Why do you ask, John?"

"Because it is always a restless age for a woman. She has lost theprotecting ignorance of youth and she has not yet gained enough of theexperience of age to steady her. Marriage often comes as abalance-weight. She is coming home to be married, isn't she?"

"No; they are to be married in Geneva at his mother's. "

"I think that part of it is a mistake, " he said in a decided tone. "There is no reason why she should not be married here; she owes thatto you and to herself. " Then he added in a gentler tone, "And thisworries you?"

"More than I can tell you, John. " There was a note in her voice thatvibrated through him. He knew now how seriously the situation affectedher. 

"But why, Jane? If Lucy is happier in it we should do what we can tohelp her. "

"Yes, but not in this way. This will make her all the more miserable. Idon't want this marriage; I want her to come home and live with me andArchie. She makes me promises every year to come, and now it is oversix years since I left her and she has always put me off. This marriagemeans that she will never come. I want her here, John. It is not rightfor her to live as she does. Please think as I do!"

The doctor patted Jane's hand--it was the only mark of affection heever allowed himself--not in a caressing way, but more as a fatherwould pat the hand of a nervous child. 

"Well, let us go over it from the beginning. Maybe I don't know all thefacts. Have you the letter with you?"

She handed it to him. He passed the reins to her and read it carefullyto the end. 

"Have you answered it yet?"

"No, I wanted to talk to you about it. What do you think now?"

"I can't see that it will make any difference. She is not a woman tolive alone. I have always been surprised that she waited so long. Youare wrong, Jane, about this. It is best for everybody and everythingthat Lucy should be married. "

"John, dear, " she said in a half-pleading tone--there were some timeswhen this last word slipped out--"I don't want this marriage at all. Iam so wretched about it that I feel like taking the first steamer andbringing her home with me. She will forget all about him when she ishere; and it is only her loneliness that makes her want to marry. Idon't want her married; I want her to love me and Marthaand--Archie--and she will if she sees him. "

"Is that better than loving a man who loves her?" The words droppedfrom his lips before he could recall them--forced out, as it were, bythe pressure of his heart. 

Jane caught her breath and the color rose in her cheeks. She knew hedid not mean her, and yet she saw he spoke from his heart. DoctorJohn's face, however, gave no sign of his thoughts. 

"But, John, I don't know that she does love him. She doesn't sayso--she says HE loves her. And if she did, we cannot all follow our ownhearts. "

"Why not?" he replied calmly, looking straight ahead of him: at thebend in the road, at the crows flying in the air, at the leaden skybetween the rows of pines. If she wanted to give him her confidence hewas ready now with heart and arms wide open. Perhaps his hour had comeat last. 

"Because--because, " she faltered, "our duty comes in. That is holierthan love. " Then her voice rose and steadied itself--"Lucy's duty is tocome home. "

He understood. The gate was still shut; the wall still confronted him. He could not and would not scale it. She had risked her ownhappiness--even her reputation--to keep this skeleton hidden, thesecret inviolate. Only in the late years had she begun to recover fromthe strain. She had stood the brunt and borne the sufferings ofanother's sin without complaint, without reward, giving up everythingin life in consecration to her trust. He, of all men, could not tearthe mask away, nor could he stoop by the more subtle paths offriendship, love, or duty to seek to look behind it--not without herown free and willing hand to guide him. There was nothing else in allher life that she had not told him. Every thought was his, everyresolve, every joy. She would entrust him with this if it was hers togive. Until she did his lips would be sealed. As to Lucy, it could makeno difference. Bart lying in a foreign grave would never trouble heragain, and Archie would only be a stumbling-block in her career. Shewould never love the boy, come what might. If this Frenchman filled herideal, it was best for her to end her days across the water--bestcertainly for Jane, to whom she had only brought unhappiness. 

For some moments he busied himself with the reins, loosening them fromwhere they were caught in the harness; then he bent his head and saidslowly, and with the tone of the physician in consultation:

"Your protest will do no good, Jane, and your trip abroad will only bea waste of time and money. If Lucy has not changed, and this lettershows that she has not, she will laugh at your objections and end bydoing as she pleases. She has always been a law unto herself, and thisnew move of hers is part of her life-plan. Take my advice: stay whereyou are; write her a loving, sweet letter and tell her how happy youhope she will be, and send her your congratulations. She will notlisten to your objections, and your opposition might lose you her love. "

Before dark they were both on their way back to Yardley. Burton's boyhad not been hurt as badly as his father thought; but one leg wasbroken, and this was soon in splints, and without Jane's assistance. 

Before they had reached her door her mind was made up. 

The doctor's words, as they always did, had gone down deep into hermind, and all thoughts of going abroad, or of even protesting againstLucy's marriage, were given up. Only the spectre remained. That thedoctor knew nothing of, and that she must meet alone. 

Martha took Jane's answer to the post-office herself. She had talkedits contents over with the old nurse, and the two had put their heartsinto every line. 

"Tell him everything, " Jane wrote. "Don't begin a new life with an oldlie. With me it is different. I saved you, my sister, because I lovedyou, and because I could not bear that your sweet girlhood should bemarred. I shall live my life out in this duty. It came to me, and Icould not put it from me, and would not now if I could, but I know thetyranny of a secret you cannot share with the man who loves you. Iknow, too, the cruelty of it all. For years I have answered kindlymeant inquiry with discourteous silence, bearing insinuations, calumny, insults--and all because I cannot speak. Don't, I beseech you, beginyour new life in this slavery. But whatever the outcome, take him intoyour confidence. Better have him leave you now than after you aremarried. Remember, too, that if by this declaration you should lose hislove you will at least gain his respect. Perhaps, if his heart istender and he feels for the suffering and wronged, you may keep both. Forgive me, dear, but I have only your happiness at heart, and I loveyou too dearly not to warn you against any danger which would threatenyou. Martha agrees with me in the above, and knows you will do right byhim. "

When Lucy's answer arrived weeks afterward--after her marriage, infact--Jane read it with a clutching at her throat she had not knownsince that fatal afternoon when Martha returned from Trenton. 

"You dear, foolish sister, " Lucy's letter began, "what should I tellhim for? He loves me devotedly and we are very happy together, and I amnot going to cause him any pain by bringing any disagreeable thing intohis life. People don't do those wild, old-fashioned things over here. And then, again, there is no possibility of his finding out. Mariaagrees with me thoroughly, and says in her funny way that men nowadaysknow too much already. " Then followed an account of her wedding. 

This letter Jane did not read to the doctor--no part of it, in fact. She did not even mention its receipt, except to say that the weddinghad taken place in Geneva, where the Frenchman's mother lived, it beingimpossible, Lucy said, for her to come home, and that Maria Collins, who was staying with her, had been the only one of her old friends atthe ceremony. Neither did she read it all to Martha. The old nurse wasgrowing more feeble every year and she did not wish her blind faith inher bairn disturbed. 

For many days she kept the letter locked in her desk, not having thecourage to take it out again and read it. Then she sent for CaptainHolt, the only one, beside Martha, with whom she could discuss thematter. She knew his strong, honest nature, and his blunt, outspokenway of giving vent to his mind, and she hoped that his knowledge oflife might help to comfort her. 

"Married to one o' them furriners, is she?" the captain blurted out;"and goin' to keep right on livin' the lie she's lived ever since sheleft ye? You'll excuse me, Miss Jane, --you've been a mother, and asister and everything to her, and you're nearer the angels than anybodyI know. That's what I think when I look at you and Archie. I say itbehind your back and I say it now to your face, for it's true. As toLucy, I may be mistaken, and I may not. I don't want to condemn nothin''less I'm on the survey and kin look the craft over; that's why I'mpartic'lar. Maybe Bart was right in sayin' it warn't all his fault, whelp as he was to say it, and maybe he warn't. It ain't up before meand I ain't passin' on it, --but one thing is certain, when a ship'smade as many voyages as Lucy has and ain't been home for repairs nighon to seven years--ain't it?" and he looked at Jane forconfirmation--"she gits foul and sometimes a little miteworm-eaten--especially her bilge timbers, unless they'recopper-fastened or pretty good stuff. I've been thinkin' for some timethat you ain't got Lucy straight, and this last kick-up of hers makesme sure of it. Some timber is growed right and some timber is growedcrooked; and when it's growed crooked it gits leaky, and no 'mount o'tar and pitch kin stop it. Every twist the ship gives it opens theseams, and the pumps is goin' all the time. When your timber is growedright you kin all go to sleep and not a drop o' water'll git in. Yoursister Lucy ain't growed right. Maybe she kin help it and maybe shecan't, but she'll leak every time there comes a twist. See if shedon't. "

But Jane never lost faith nor wavered in her trust. With the old-timelove strong upon her she continued to make excuses for thisthoughtless, irresponsible woman, so easily influenced. "It is MariaCollins who has written the letter, and not Lucy, " she kept saying toherself. "Maria has been her bad angel from her girlhood, and stilldominates her. The poor child's sufferings have hardened her heart anddestroyed for a time her sense of right and wrong--that is all. "

With this thought uppermost in her mind she took the letter from herdesk, and stirring the smouldering embers, laid it upon the coals. Thesheet blazed and fell into ashes. 

"No one will ever know, " she said with a sigh. 

CHAPTER XIII

SCOOTSY'S EPITHET

Lying on Barnegat Beach, within sight of the House of Refuge andFogarty's cabin, was the hull of a sloop which had been whirled in onenight in a southeaster, with not a soul on board, riding the breakerslike a duck, and landing high and dry out of the hungry clutch of thesurf-dogs. She was light at the time and without ballast, and laystranded upright on her keel. All attempts by the beach-combers tofloat her had proved futile; they had stripped her of her standingrigging and everything else of value, and had then abandoned her. Onlythe evenly balanced hull was left, its bottom timbers broken and itsbent keelson buried in the sand. This hulk little Tod Fogarty, agedten, had taken possession of; particularly the after-part of the hold, over which he had placed a trusty henchman armed with a cutlass madefrom the hoop of a fish barrel. The henchman--aged seven--woreknee-trousers and a cap and answered to the name of Archie. The refugeitself bore the title of "The Bandit's Home. "

This new hulk had taken the place of the old schooner which had servedCaptain Holt as a landmark on that eventful night when he strodeBarnegat Beach in search of Bart, and which by the action of theever-changing tides, had gradually settled until now only a hillockmarked its grave--a fate which sooner or later would overtake thisnewly landed sloop itself. 

These Barnegat tides are the sponges that wipe clean the slate of thebeach. Each day a new record is made and each day it is wiped out:records from passing ships, an empty crate, broken spar or uselessbarrel grounded now and then by the tide in its flow as it moves up anddown the sand at the will of the waters. Records, too, of manyfootprints, --the lagging steps of happy lovers; the dimpled feet ofjoyous children; the tread of tramp, coast-guard or fisherman--allscoured clean when the merciful tide makes ebb. 

Other records are strewn along the beach; these the tide alone cannotefface--the bow of some hapless schooner it may be, wrenched from itshull, and sent whirling shoreward; the shattered mast and crosstrees ofa stranded ship beaten to death in the breakers; or some batteredcapstan carried in the white teeth of the surf-dogs and dropped beyondthe froth-line. To these with the help of the south wind, the tidesextend their mercy, burying them deep with successive blankets of sand, hiding their bruised bodies, covering their nakedness and the marks oftheir sufferings. All through the restful summer and late autumn thesebattered derelicts lie buried, while above their graves the childrenplay and watch the ships go by, or stretch themselves at length, theireyes on the circling gulls. 

With the coming of the autumn all this is changed. The cruel north windnow wakes, and with a loud roar joins hands with the savage easter; thestartled surf falls upon the beach like a scourge. Under their doublelash the outer bar cowers and sinks; the frightened sand flees hitherand thither. Soon the frenzied breakers throw themselves headlong, tearing with teeth and claws, burrowing deep into the hidden graves. Now the forgotten wrecks, like long-buried sins, rise and stand naked, showing every scar and stain. This is the work of the sea-puss--therevolving maniac born of close-wed wind and tide; a beast so terriblethat in a single night, with its auger-like snout, it bites huge inletsout of farm lands--mouthfuls deep enough for ships to sail where butyesterday the corn grew. 

In the hull of this newly stranded sloop, then--sitting high and dry, out of the reach of the summer surf, --Tod and Archie spent every hourof the day they could call their own; sallying forth on variouspiratical excursions, coming back laden with driftwood for a bonfire, or hugging some bottle, which was always opened with trembling, eagerfingers in the inmost recesses of the Home, in the hope that sometidings of a lost ship might be found inside; or with their pocketscrammed with clam-shells and other sea spoils with which to decoratethe inside timbers of what was left of the former captain's cabin. 

Jane had protested at first, but the doctor had looked the hull over, and found that there was nothing wide enough, nor deep enough, norsharp enough to do them harm, and so she was content. Then again, theboys were both strong for their age, and looked it, Tod easily passingfor a lad of twelve or fourteen, and Archie for a boy of ten. The onedanger discovered by the doctor lay in its height, the only way ofboarding the stranded craft being by means of a hand-over-hand climb upthe rusty chains of the bowsprit, a difficult and trousers-tearingoperation. This was obviated by Tod's father, who made a ladder for theboys out of a pair of old oars, which the two pirates pulled up afterthem whenever an enemy hove in sight. When friends approached it waslet down with more than elaborate ceremony, the guests being escortedby Archie and welcomed on board by Tod. 

Once Captain Holt's short, sturdy body was descried in the offingtramping the sand-dunes on his way to Fogarty's, and a signalflag--part of Mother Fogarty's flannel petticoat, and blood-red, asbefitted the desperate nature of the craft over which it floated, wasat once set in his honor. The captain put his helm hard down and cameup into the wind and alongside the hulk. 

"Well! well! well!" he cried in his best quarterdeck voice--"what areyou stowaways doin' here?" and he climbed the ladder and swung himselfover the battered rail. 

Archie took his hand and led him into the most sacred recesses of theden, explaining to him his plans for defence, his armament of barrelhoops, and his ammunition of shells and pebbles, Tod standing silentlyby and a little abashed, as was natural in one of his station; at whichthe captain laughed more loudly than before, catching Archie in hisarms, rubbing his curly head with his big, hard hand, and telling himhe was a chip of the old block, every inch of him--none of which dideither Archie or Tod understand. Before he climbed down the ladder heannounced with a solemn smile that he thought the craft was wellprotected so far as collisions on foggy nights were concerned, but hedoubted if their arms were sufficient and that he had better leave themhis big sea knife which had been twice around Cape Horn, and whichmight be useful in lopping off arms and legs whenever the cutthroatsgot too impudent and aggressive; whereupon Archie threw his arms aroundhis grizzled neck and said he was a "bully commodore, " and that if hewould come and live with them aboard the hulk they would obey hisorders to a man. 

Archie leaned over the rotten rail and saw the old salt stop a littleway from the hulk and stand looking at them for some minutes and thenwave his hand, at which the boys waved back, but the lad did not seethe tears that lingered for an instant on the captain's eyelids, andwhich the sea-breeze caught away; nor did he hear the words, as thecaptain resumed his walk: "He's all I've got left, and yet he don'tknow it and I can't tell him. Ain't it hell?"

Neither did they notice that he never once raised his eyes toward theHouse of Refuge as he passed its side. A new door and a new roof hadbeen added, but in other respects it was to him the same grewsome, lonely hut as on that last night when he had denounced his son outsideits swinging door. 

Often the boys made neighborly visits to friendly tribes and settlers. Fogarty was one of these, and Doctor Cavendish was another. Thedoctor's country was a place of buttered bread and preserves and a rompwith Rex, who was almost as feeble as Meg had been in his last days. But Fogarty's cabin was a mine of never-ending delight. In addition tothe quaint low house of clapboards and old ship-timber, with itssloping roof and little toy windows, so unlike his own at Yardley, andsmoked ceilings, there was a scrap heap piled up and scattered over theyard which in itself was a veritable treasure-house. Here were rustychains and wooden figure-heads of broken-nosed, blind maidens andtailless dolphins. Here were twisted iron rods, fish-baskets, brokenlobster-pots, rotting seines and tangled, useless nets--some used ascoverings for coops of restless chickens--old worn-out rope, tangledrigging--everything that a fisherman who had spent his life on Barnegatbeach could pull from the surf or find stranded on the sand. 

Besides all these priceless treasures, there was an old boat lyingafloat in a small lagoon back of the house, one of those seepage poolscommon to the coast--a boat which Fogarty had patched with a bit ofsail-cloth, and for which he had made two pairs of oars, one for eachof the "crew, " as he called the lads, and which Archie learned tohandle with such dexterity that the old fisherman declared he wouldmake a first-class boatman when he grew up, and would "shame the wholebunch of 'em. "

But these two valiant buccaneers were not to remain in undisturbedpossession of the Bandit's Home with its bewildering fittings andenchanting possibilities--not for long. The secret of the uses to whichthe stranded craft bad been put, and the attendant fun which CommodoreTod and his dauntless henchman, Archibald Cobden, Esquire, were dailygetting out of its battered timbers, had already become publicproperty. The youth of Barnegat--the very young youth, ranging fromnine to twelve, and all boys--received the news at first with hilariousjoy. This feeling soon gave way to unsuppressed indignation, followedby an active bitterness, when they realized in solemn conclave--themeeting was held in an open lot on Saturday morning--that the captureof the craft had been accomplished, not by dwellers under BarnegatLight, to whom every piece of sea-drift from a tomato-can to afull-rigged ship rightfully belonged, but by a couple of aliens, one ofwhom wore knee-pants and a white collar, --a distinction in dress highlyobnoxious to these lords of the soil. 

All these denizens of Barnegat had at one time or another climbed upthe sloop's chains and peered down the hatchway to the sand coveringthe keelson, and most of them had used it as a shelter behind which, inswimming-time, they had put on or peeled off such mutilated rags ascovered their nakedness, but no one of them had yet conceived the ideaof turning it into a Bandit's Home. That touch of the ideal, thatgilding of the commonplace, had been reserved for the brain of thecurly-haired boy who, with dancing eyes, his sturdy little legs restingon Tod's shoulder, had peered over the battered rail, and who, with aburst of enthusiasm, had shouted: "Oh, cracky! isn't it nice, Tod! It'sgot a place we can fix up for a robbers' den; and we'll be bandits andhave a flag. Oh, come up here! You never saw anything so fine, " etc. , etc. 

When, therefore, Scootsy Mulligan, aged nine, son of a ship-caulker whoworked in Martin Farguson's ship-yard, and Sandy Plummer, eldest ofthree, and their mother a widow--plain washing and ironing, two doorsfrom the cake-shop--heard that that French "spad, " Arch Cobden whatlived up to Yardley, and that red-headed Irish cub, Tod Fogarty--Tod'shair had turned very red--had pre-empted the Black Tub, as the wreckwas irreverently called, claiming it as their very own, "and-a-sayin'they wuz pirates and bloody Turks and sich, " these two quarrelsome townrats organized a posse in lower Barnegat for its recapture. 

Archie was sweeping the horizon from his perch on the "poop-deck" whenhis eagle eye detected a strange group of what appeared to be humanbeings advancing toward the wreck from the direction of Barnegatvillage. One, evidently a chief, was in the lead, the others followingbunched together. All were gesticulating wildly. The trusty henchmanimmediately gave warning to Tod, who was at work in the lower holdarranging a bundle of bean-poles which had drifted inshore the nightbefore--part of the deck-load, doubtless, of some passing vessel. 

"Ay, ay, sir!" cried the henchman with a hoist of his knee-pants, as aprelude to his announcement. 

"Ay, ay, yerself!" rumbled back the reply. "What's up?" The commodorehad not read as deeply in pirate lore as had Archie, and was not, therefore, so ready with its lingo. 

"Band of savages, sir, approaching down the beach. "

"Where away?" thundered back the commodore, his authority now assertingitself in the tones of his voice. 

"On the starboard bow, sir--six or seven of 'em. "

"Armed or peaceable?"

"Armed, sir. Scootsy Mulligan is leadin' 'em. "

"Scootsy Mulligan! Crickety! he's come to make trouble, " shouted backTod, climbing the ladder in a hurry--it was used as a means of descentinto the shallow hold when not needed outside. "Where are they? Oh, yes! I see 'em--lot of 'em, ain't they? Saturday, and they ain't noschool. Say, Arch, what are we goin' to do?" The terminal vowelssoftening his henchman's name were omitted in grave situations; so wasthe pirate lingo. 

"Do!" retorted Archie, his eyes snapping. "Why, we'll fight 'em; that'swhat we are pirates for. Fight 'em to the death. Hurray! They're notcoming aboard--no sir-ee! You go down, Toddy [the same free use ofterminals], and get two of the biggest bean-poles and I'll run up thedeath flag. We've got stones and shells enough. Hurry--big ones, mindyou!"

The attacking party, their leader ahead, had now reached the low sandheap marking the grave of the former wreck, but a dozen yards away--thesand had entombed it the year before. 

"You fellers think yer durned smart, don't ye?" yelled Mr. WilliamMulligan, surnamed "Scootsy" from his pronounced fleetness of foot. "We're goin' to run ye out o' that Tub. 'Tain't yourn, it's ourn--ain'tit, fellers?"

A shout went up in answer from the group on the hillock. 

"You can come as friends, but not as enemies, " cried Archiegrandiloquently. "The man who sets foot on this ship without permissiondies like a dog. We sail under the blood-red flag!" and Archie struckan attitude and pointed to the fragment of mother Fogarty's own nailedto a lath and hanging limp over the rail. 

"Hi! hi! hi!" yelled the gang in reply. "Oh, ain't he a beauty! Look atde cotton waddin' on his head!" (Archie's cropped curls. ) "Say, sissy, does yer mother know ye're out? Throw that ladder down; we're comin' upthere--don't make no diff'rence whether we got yer permish or not--andwe'll knock the stuffin' out o' ye if ye put up any job on us. H'istout that ladder!"

"Death and no quarter!" shouted back Archie, opening the big blade ofCaptain Holt's pocket knife and grasping it firmly in his wee hand. "We'll defend this ship with the last drop of our blood!"

"Ye will, will ye!" retorted Scootsy. "Come on, fellers--go for 'em!I'll show 'em, " and he dodged under the sloop's bow and sprang for theoverhanging chains. 

Tod had now clambered up from the hold. Under his arm were two stouthickory saplings. One he gave to Archie, the other he kept himself. 

"Give them the shells first, " commanded Archie, dodging a beach pebble;"and when their hands come up over the rail let them have this, " and hewaved the sapling over his head. "Run, Tod, --they're trying to climb upbehind. I'll take the bow. Avast there, ye lubbers!"

With this Archie dropped to his knees and crouched close to the heel ofthe rotting bowsprit, out of the way of the flying missiles--each boy'spockets were loaded--and looking cautiously over the side of the hulk, waited until Scootsy's dirty fingers--he was climbing the chain handover hand, his feet resting on a boy below him--came into view. 

"Off there, or I'll crack your fingers!"

"Crack and be--"

Bang! went Archie's hickory and down dropped the braggart, his oathlost in his cries. 

"He smashed me fist! He smashed me fist! Oh! Oh!" whined Scootsy, hopping about with the pain, sucking the injured hand and shaking itsmate at Archie, who was still brandishing the sapling and yellinghimself hoarse in his excitement. 

The attacking party now drew off to the hillock for a council of war. Only their heads could be seen--their bodies lay hidden in the longgrass of the dune. 

Archie and Tod were now dancing about the deck in a delirium ofdelight--calling out in true piratical terms, "We die, but we neversurrender!" Tod now and then falling into his native vernacular to theeffect that he'd "knock the liver and lights out o' the hull gang, " anexpression the meaning of which was wholly lost on Archie, he neverhaving cleaned a fish in his life. 

Here a boy in his shirt-sleeves straightened up in the yellow grass andlooked seaward. Then Sandy Plummer gave a yell and ran to the beach, rolling up what was left of his trousers legs, stopping now and then tountie first one shoe and then the other. Two of the gang followed on arun. When the three reached the water's edge they danced about likeCrusoe's savages, waving their arms and shouting. Sandy by this timehad stripped off his clothes and had dashed into the water. A longplank from some lumber schooner was drifting up the beach in the gentleswell of the tide. Sandy ran abreast of it for a time, sprang into thesurf, threw himself upon it flat like a frog, and then began paddlingshoreward. The other two now rushed into the water, grasping the nearend of the derelict, the whole party pushing and paddling until it washauled clean of the brine and landed high on the sand. 

A triumphant yell here came from the water's edge, and the balance ofthe gang--there were seven in all--rushed to the help of the dauntlessthree. 

Archie heaped a pile of pebbles within reach of his hand and waited theattack. What the savages were going to do with the plank neither he norTod could divine. The derelict was now dragged over the sand to thehulk, Tod and Archie pelting its rescuers with stones and shells asthey came within short range. 

"Up with her, fellers!" shouted Sandy, who, since Scootsy's unmanlytears, had risen to first place. "Run it under the bowsprit--up withher--there she goes! Altogether!"

Archie took his stand, his long sapling in his hand, and waited. Hethought first he would unseat the end of the plank, but it was too farbelow him and then again he would be exposed to their volleys ofstones, and if he was hurt he might not get back on his craft. Tod, whohad resigned command in favor of his henchman after Archie's masterlydefence in the last fight, stood behind him. Thermopylae was a narrowplace, and so was the famous Bridge of Horatius. He and his faithfulTod would now make the fight of their lives. Both of these close shavesfor immortality were closed books to Tod, but Archie knew every line oftheir records, Doctor John having spent many an hour reading to him, the boy curled up in his lap while Jane listened. 

Sandy, emboldened by the discovery of the plank, made the first rush upand was immediately knocked from his perch by Tod, whose pole swungaround his head like a flail. Then Scootsy tried it, crawling up, protecting his head by ducking it under his elbows, holding meanwhileby his hand. Tod's blows fell about his back, but the boy struggled onuntil Archie reached over the gunwale, and with a twist of his wrist, using all his strength, dropped the invader to the sand below. 

The success of this mode of attack was made apparent, provided theycould stick to the plank. Five boys now climbed up. Archie belaboredthe first one with the pole and Tod grappled with the second, trying tothrow him from the rail to the sand, some ten feet below, but the ratclose behind him, in spite of their efforts, reached forward, caughtthe rail, and scrambled up to his mate's assistance. In another instantboth had leaped to the sloop's deck. 

"Back! back! Run, Toddy!" screamed Archie, waving his arms. "Get on thepoop-deck; we can lick them there. Run!"

Tod darted back, and the two defenders clearing the intervening rottentimbers with a bound, sprang upon the roof of the old cabin--Archie's"poop. "

With a whoop the savages followed, jumping over the holes in theplanking and avoiding the nails in the open beams. 

In the melee Archie had lost his pole, and was now standing, hat off, his blue eves flashing, all the blood of his overheated little bodyblazing in his face. The tears of defeat were trembling under hiseyelids, He had been outnumbered, but he would die game. In his hand hecarried, unconsciously to himself, the big-bladed pocket knife thecaptain had given him. He would as soon have used it on his mother asupon one of his enemies, but the Barnegat invaders were ignorant ofthat fact, knives being the last resort in their environment. 

"Look out, Sandy!" yelled Scootsy to his leader, who was now sneakingup to Archie with the movement of an Indian in ambush;--"he's drawed aknife. "

Sandy stopped and straightened himself within three feet of Archie. Hishand still smarted from the blow Archie had given it. The "spad" hadnot stopped a second in that attack, and he might not in this; the nextthing he knew the knife might be between his ribs. 

"Drawed a knife, hev ye!" he snarled. "Drawed a knife, jes' like a spadthat ye are! Ye oughter put yer hair in curl-papers!"

Archie looked at the harmless knife in his hand. 

"I can fight you with my fists if you are bigger than me, " he cried, tossing the knife down the open hatchway into the sand below. "Hold mycoat, Tod, " and he began stripping off his little jacket. 

"I ain't fightin' no spads, " sneered Sandy. He didn't want to fightthis one. "Yer can't skeer nobody. You'll draw a pistol next. Yerbetter go home to yer mammy, if ye kin find her. "

"He ain't got no mammy, " snarled Scootsy. "He's a pick-up--me fathersays so. "

Archie sprang forward to avenge the insult, but before he could reachScootsy's side a yell arose from the bow of the hulk. 

"Yi! yi! Run, fellers! Here comes old man Fogarty! he's right on top o'ye! Not that side--this way. Yi! yi!"

The invaders turned and ran the length of the deck, scrambled over theside and dropped one after the other to the sand below just as theFogarty head appeared at the bow. It was but a step and a spring forhim, and with a lurch he gained the deck of the wreck. 

"By jiminy, boys, mother thought ye was all killed! Has them rats beenbotherin' ye? Ye oughter broke the heads of 'em. Where did they getthat plank? Come 'shore, did it? Here, Tod, catch hold of it; I jes'wanted a piece o' floorin' like that. Why, ye're all het up, Archie!Come, son, come to dinner; ye'll git cooled off, and mother's got amess o' clams for ye. Never mind 'bout the ladder; I'll lift it down. "

On the way over to the cabin, Fogarty and Tod carrying the plank andArchie walking beside them, the fisherman gleaned from the boys thedetails of the fight. Archie had recovered the captain's knife and itwas now in his hand. 

"Called ye a 'pick-up' did he, the rat, and said ye didn't have nomother. He's a liar! If ye ain't got a mother, and a good one, I don'tknow who has. That's the way with them town-crabs, allus cussin'somebody better'n themselves. "

When Fogarty had tilted the big plank against the side of the cabin andthe boys had entered the kitchen in search of the mess of clams, thefisherman winked to his wife, jerked his head meaningly over oneshoulder, and Mrs. Fogarty, in answer, followed him out to the woodshed. 

"Them sneaks from Barnegat, Mulligan's and Farguson's boys, and therest of 'em, been lettin' out on Archie: callin' him names, sayin' heain't got no mother and he's one o' them pass-ins ye find on yerdoorstep in a basket. I laughed it off and he 'peared to forgit it, butI thought he might ask ye, an' so I wanted to tip ye the wink. "

"Well, ye needn't worry. I ain't goin' to tell him what I don't know, "replied the wife, surprised that he should bring her all the way out tothe woodshed to tell her a thing like that. 

"But ye DO know, don't ye?"

"All I know is what Uncle Ephraim told me four or five years ago, andhe's so flighty half the time and talks so much ye can't believeone-half he says--something about Miss Jane comin' across Archie'smother in a horsepital in Paris, or some'er's and promisin' her a-dyin'that she'd look after the boy, and she has. She'd do that here if therewas women and babies up to Doctor John's horsepital 'stead o' men. It'sjes' like her, " and Mrs. Fogarty, not to lose her steps, stooped over apile of wood and began gathering up an armful. 

"Well, she ain't his mother, ye know, " rejoined Fogarty, helping hiswife with the sticks. "That's what they slammed in his face to-day, andhe'll git it ag'in as he grows up. But he don't want to hear it fromus. "

"And he won't. Miss Jane ain't no fool. She knows more about him thananybody else, and when she gits ready to tell him she'll tell him. Don't make no difference who his mother was--the one he's got now isgood enough for anybody. Tod would have been dead half a dozen times ifit hadn't been for her and Doctor John, and there ain't nobody knows itbetter'n me. It's just like her to let Archie come here so much withTod; she knows I ain't goin' to let nothin' happen to him. And as formothers, Sam Fogarty, " here Mrs. Fogarty lifted her free hand and shookher finger in a positive way--"when Archie gits short of mothers he'sgot one right here, don't make no difference what you or anybody elsesays, " and she tapped her broad bosom meaningly. 

Contrary, however, to Fogarty's hopes and surmises, Archie hadforgotten neither Sandy's insult nor Scootsy's epithet. "He's apick-up" and "he ain't got no mammy" kept ringing in his ears as hewalked back up the beach to his home. He remembered having heard thewords once before when he was some years younger, but then it had comefrom a passing neighbor and was not intended for him. This time it wasflung square in his face. Every now and then as he followed the trendof the beach on his way home he would stop and look out over the sea, watching the long threads of smoke being unwound from the spools of thesteamers and the sails of the fishing-boats as they caught the light ofthe setting sun. The epithet worried him. It was something to beashamed of, he knew, or they would not have used it. 

Jane, standing outside the gate-post, shading her eyes with her hand, scanning the village road, caught sight of his sturdy little figure themoment he turned the corner and ran to meet him. 

"I got so worried--aren't you late, my son?" she asked, putting her armabout him and kissing him tenderly. 

"Yes, it's awful late. I ran all the way from the church when I saw theclock. I didn't know it was past six. Oh, but we've had a bully day, mother! And we've had a fight. Tod and I were pirates, and ScootsyMulligan tried to--"

Jane stopped the boy's joyous account with a cry of surprise. They werenow walking back to Yardley's gate, hugging the stone wall. 

"A fight! Oh, my son!"

"Yes, a bully fight; only there were seven of them and only two of us. That warn't fair, but Mr. Fogarty says they always fight like that. Icould have licked 'em if they come on one at a time, but they got aplank and crawled up--"

"Crawled up where, my son?" asked Jane in astonishment. All this was anunknown world to her. She had seen the wreck and had known, of course, that the boys were making a playhouse of it, but this latterdevelopment was news to her. 

"Why, on the pirate ship, where we've got our Bandit's Home. Tod iscommodore and I'm first mate. Tod and I did all we could, but theydidn't fight fair, and Scootsy called me a 'pick-up' and said I hadn'tany mother. I asked Mr. Fogarty what he meant, but he wouldn't tell me. What's a 'pick-up, ' dearie?" and he lifted his face to Jane's, hishonest blue eyes searching her own. 

Jane caught her hand to her side and leaned for a moment against thestone wall. This was the question which for years she had expected himto ask--one to which she had framed a hundred imaginary answers. Whenas a baby he first began to talk she had determined to tell him she wasnot his mother, and so get him gradually accustomed to the conditionsof his birth. But every day she loved him the more, and every day shehad put it off. To-day it was no easier. He was too young, she knew, totake in its full meaning, even if she could muster up the courage totell him the half she was willing to tell him--that his mother was herfriend and on her sick-bed had entrusted her child to her care. She hadwanted to wait until he was old enough to understand, so that sheshould not lose his love when he came to know the truth. There hadbeen, moreover, always this fear--would he love her for shielding hismother, or would he hate Lucy when he came to know? She had once talkedit all over with Captain Holt, but she could never muster up thecourage to take his advice. 

"Tell him, " he had urged. "It'll save you a lot o' trouble in the end. That'll let me out and I kin do for him as I want to. You've livedunder this cloud long enough--there ain't nobody can live a lie a wholelifetime, Miss Jane. I'll take my share of the disgrace along of mydead boy, and you ain't done nothin', God knows, to be ashamed of. Tellhim! It's grease to yer throat halyards and everything'll run smootherafterward. Take my advice, Miss Jane. "

All these things rushed through her mind as she stood leaning againstthe stone wall, Archie's hand in hers, his big blue eyes still fixed onher own. 

"Who said that to you, my son?" she asked in assumed indifference, inorder to gain time in which to frame her answer and recover from theshock. 

"Scootsy Mulligan. "

"Is he a nice boy?"

"No, he's a coward, or he wouldn't fight as he does. "

"Then I wouldn't mind him, my boy, " and she smoothed back the hair fromhis forehead, her eyes avoiding the boy's steady gaze. It was only whensomeone opened the door of the closet concealing this spectre that Janefelt her knees give way and her heart turn sick within her. In all elseshe was fearless and strong. 

"Was he the boy who said you had no mother?"

"Yes. I gave him an awful whack when he came up the first time, and hewent heels over head. "

"Well, you have got a mother, haven't you, darling?" she continued, with a sigh of relief, now that Archie was not insistent. 

"You bet I have!" cried the boy, throwing his arms around her. 

"Then we won't either of us bother about those bad boys and what theysay, " she answered, stooping over and kissing him. 

And so for a time the remembrance of Scootsy's epithet faded out of theboy's mind. 

CHAPTER XIV

HIGH WATER AT YARDLEY

Ten years have passed away. 

The sturdy little fellow in knee-trousers is a lad of seventeen, bigand strong for his age; Tod is three years older, and the two are stillinseparable. The brave commander of the pirate ship is now afull-fledged fisherman and his father's main dependence. Archie isagain his chief henchman, and the two spend many a morning in Tod'sboat when the blue-fish are running. Old Fogarty does not mind it; herather likes it, and Mother Fogarty is always happier when the two aretogether. 

"If one of 'em gits overboard, " she said one day to her husband, "t'other kin save him. "

"Save him! Well, I guess!" he replied. "Salt water skims off Archiesame's if he was a white bellied gull; can't drown him no more'n youkin a can buoy. "

The boy has never forgotten Scootsy's epithet, although he has neverspoken of it to his mother--no one knows her now by any other name. Shethought the episode had passed out of his mind, but she did not knoweverything that lay in the boy's heart. He and Tod had discussed ittime and again, and had wondered over his own name and that of hisnameless father, as boys wonder, but they had come to no conclusion. Noone in the village could tell them, for no one ever knew. He had askedthe doctor, but had only received a curious answer. 

"What difference does it make, son, when you have such a mother? Youhave brought her only honor, and the world loves her the better becauseof you. Let it rest until she tells you; it will only hurt her heart ifyou ask her now. "

The doctor had already planned out the boy's future; he was to be sentto Philadelphia to study medicine when his schooling was over, and wasthen to come into his office and later on succeed to his practice. 

Captain Holt would have none of it. 

"He don't want to saw off no legs, " the bluff old man had blurted outwhen he heard of it. "He wants to git ready to take a ship 'round CapeHorn. If I had my way I'd send him some'er's where he could learnnavigation, and that's in the fo'c's'le of a merchantman. Give him ayear or two before the mast. I made that mistake with Bart--he loafedround here too long and when he did git a chance he was too old. "

Report had it that the captain was going to leave the lad his money, and had therefore a right to speak; but no one knew. He wascloser-mouthed than ever, though not so gruff and ugly as he used tobe; Archie had softened him, they said, taking the place of that boy ofhis he "druv out to die a good many years ago. "

Jane's mind wavered. Neither profession suited her. She would sacrificeanything she had for the boy provided they left him with her. Philadelphia was miles away, and she would see him but seldom. The seashe shrank from and dreaded. She had crossed it twice, and both timeswith an aching heart. She feared, too, its treachery and cruelty. Thewaves that curled and died on Barnegat beach--messengers from acrossthe sea--brought only tidings fraught with suffering. 

Archie had no preferences--none yet. His future was too far off totrouble him much. Nor did anything else worry him. 

One warm September day Archie turned into Yardley gate, his so'westerstill on his head framing his handsome, rosy face; his loose jacketopen at the throat, the tarpaulins over his arm. He had been outsidethe inlet with Tod--since daybreak, in fact--fishing for bass andweakfish. 

Jane had been waiting for him for hours. She held an open letter in herhand, and her face was happier, Archie thought as he approached her, than he had seen it for months. 

There are times in all lives when suddenly and without warning, thosewho have been growing quietly by our side impress their new developmentupon us. We look at them in full assurance that the timid glance of thechild will be returned, and are astounded to find instead the calm gazeof the man; or we stretch out our hand to help the faltering step andtouch a muscle that could lead a host. Such changes are like thebreaking of the dawn; so gradual has been their coming that the fullsun of maturity is up and away flooding the world with beauty and lightbefore we can recall the degrees by which it rose. 

Jane realized this--and for the first time--as she looked at Archieswinging through the gate, waving his hat as he strode toward her. Shesaw that the sailor had begun to assert itself. He walked with an easyswing, his broad shoulders--almost as broad as the captain's and twiceas hard--thrown back, his head up, his blue eyes and white teethlaughing out of a face brown and ruddy with the sun and wind, histhroat and neck bare except for the silk handkerchief--one ofTod's--wound loosely about it; a man really, strong and tough, withhard sinews and capable thighs, back, and wrists--the kind of sailormanthat could wear tarpaulins or broadcloth at his pleasure and never loseplace in either station. 

In this rude awakening Jane's heart-strings tightened. She becamesuddenly conscious that the Cobden look had faded out of him; Lucy'seyes and hair were his, and so was her rounded chin, with its dimple, but there was nothing else about him that recalled either her ownfather or any other Cobden she remembered. As he came near enough forher to look into his eyes she began to wonder how he would impressLucy, what side of his nature would she love best--his courage andstrength or his tenderness?

The sound of his voice shouting her name recalled her to herself, and athrill of pride illumined her happy face like a burst of sunlight as hetossed his tarpaulins on the grass and put his strong arms about her. 

"Mother, dear! forty black bass, eleven weakfish, and half a barrel ofsmall fry--what do you think of that?"

"Splendid, Archie. Tod must be proud as a peacock. But look at this!"and she held up the letter. "Who do you think it's from? Guess now, "and she locked one arm through his, and the two strolled back to thehouse. 

"Guess now!" she repeated, holding the letter behind her back. The twowere often like lovers together. 

"Let me see, " he coaxed. "What kind of a stamp has it got?"

"Never you mind about the stamp. "

"Uncle John--and it's about my going to Philadelphia. "

Jane laughed. "Uncle John never saw it. "

"Then it's from--Oh, you tell me, mother!"

"No--guess. Think of everybody you ever heard of. Those you have seenand those you--"

"Oh, I know--Aunt Lucy. "

"Yes, and she's coming home. Home, Archie, think of it, after all theseyears!"

"Well, that's bully! She won't know me, will she? I never saw her, didI?"

"Yes, when you were a little fellow. " It was difficult to keep thetremor out of her voice. 

"Will she bring any dukes and high daddies with her?"

"No, " laughed Jane, "only her little daughter Ellen, the sweetestlittle girl you ever saw, she writes. "

"How old is she?"

He had slipped his arm around his mother's waist now and the two were"toeing it" up the path, he stopping every few feet to root a pebblefrom its bed. The coming of the aunt was not a great event in his life. 

"Just seven her last birthday. "

"All right, she's big enough. We'll take her out and teach her to fish. Hello, granny!" and the boy loosened his arm as he darted up the stepstoward Martha. "Got the finest mess of fish coming up here in a littlewhile you ever laid your eyes on, " he shouted, catching the old nurse'scap from her head and clapping it upon his own, roaring with laughter, as he fled in the direction of the kitchen. 

Jane joined in the merriment and, moving a chair from the hall, tookher seat on the porch to await the boy's return. She was too happy tobusy herself about the house or to think of any of her outside duties. Doctor John would not be in until the afternoon, and so she wouldoccupy herself in thinking out plans to make her sister's home-coming ajoyous one. 

As she looked down over the garden as far as the two big gate-postsstanding like grim sentinels beneath the wide branches of the hemlocks, and saw how few changes had taken place in the old home since her girlsister had left it, her heart thrilled with joy. Nothing really wasdifferent; the same mass of tangled rose-vines climbed over theporch--now quite to the top of the big roof, but still the same dearold vines that Lucy had loved in her childhood; the same honeysucklehid the posts; the same box bordered the paths. The house was just asshe left it; her bedroom had really never been touched. What fewchanges had taken place she would not miss. Meg would not run out tomeet her, and Rex was under a stone that the doctor had placed over hisgrave; nor would Ann Gossaway peer out of her eyrie of a window andfollow her with her eyes as she drove by; her tongue was quiet at last, and she and her old mother lay side by side in the graveyard. DoctorJohn had exhausted his skill upon them both, and Martha, who hadforgiven her enemy, had sat by her bedside until the end, but nothinghad availed. Mrs. Cavendish was dead, of course, but she did not thinkLucy would care very much. She and Doctor John had nursed her formonths until the end came, and had then laid her away near theapple-trees she was so fond of. But most of the faithful hearts who hadloved her were still beating, and all were ready with a hearty welcome. 

Archie was the one thing new--new to Lucy. And yet she had no feareither for him or for Lucy. When she saw him she would love him, andwhen she had known him a week she would never be separated from himagain. The long absence could not have wiped out all remembrance of theboy, nor would the new child crowd him from her heart. 

When Doctor John sprang from his gig (the custom of his daily visitshad never been broken) she could hardly wait until he tied hishorse--poor Bess had long since given out--to tell him the joyful news. 

He listened gravely, his face lighting up at her happiness. He was gladfor Jane and said so frankly, but the situation did not please him. Heat heart really dreaded the effect of Lucy's companionship on the womanhe loved. Although it had been years since he had seen her, he hadfollowed her career, especially since her marriage, with the greatestinterest and with the closest attention. He had never forgotten, norhad he forgiven her long silence of two years after her marriage, during which time she had never written Jane a line, nor had he everceased to remember Jane's unhappiness over it. Jane had explained itall to him on the ground that Lucy was offended because she had opposedthe marriage, but the doctor knew differently. Nor had he ceased toremember the other letters which followed, and how true a story theytold of Lucy's daily life and ambitions. He could almost recall thewording of one of them. "My husband is too ill, " it had said, "to gosouth with me, and so I will run down to Rome for a month or so, for Ireally need the change. " And a later one, written since his death, inwhich she wrote of her winter in Paris and at Monte Carlo, and "howgood my mother-in-law is to take care of Ellen. " This last letter toher sister, just received--the one he then held in his hand, and whichgave Jane such joy, and which he was then reading as carefully as if ithad been a prescription--was to his analytical mind like all the restof its predecessors. One sentence sent a slight curl to his lips. "Icannot stay away any longer from my precious sister, " it said, "and amcoming back to the home I adore. I have no one to love me, now that mydear husband is dead, but you and my darling Ellen. "

The news of Lucy's expected return spread rapidly. Old Martha in herjoy was the mouthpiece. She gave the details out at church the Sundaymorning following the arrival of Lucy's letter. She was almost too illto venture out, but she made the effort, stopping the worshippers asthey came down the board walk; telling each one of the good news, thetears streaming down her face. To the children and the youngergeneration the announcement made but little difference; some of themhad never heard that Miss Jane had a sister, and others only that shelived abroad. Their mothers knew, of course, and so did the older men, and all were pleased over the news. Those of them who remembered thehappy, joyous girl with her merry eyes and ringing laugh were ready togive her a hearty welcome; they felt complimented that thedistinguished lady--fifteen years' residence abroad and a rich husbandhad gained her this position--should be willing to exchange the greatParis for the simple life of Warehold. It touched their civic pride. 

Great preparations were accordingly made. Billy Tatham's successor (hisson)--in his best open carriage--was drawn up at the station, andLucy's drive through the village with some of her numerous boxescovered with foreign labels piled on the seat beside the young man--whoinsisted on driving Lucy and the child himself--was more like thearrival of a princess revisiting her estates than anything else. Marthaand Archie and Jane filled the carriage, with little Ellen on Archie'slap, and more than one neighbor ran out of the house and waved to themas they drove through the long village street and turned into the gate. 

Archie threw his arms around Lucy when he saw her, and in his open, impetuous way called her his "dear aunty, " telling her how glad he wasthat she had come to keep his good mother from getting so sad at times, and adding that she and granny had not slept for days before she came, so eager were they to see her. And Lucy kissed him in return, but witha different throb at her heart. She felt a thrill when she saw howhandsome and strong he was, and for an instant there flashed throughher a feeling of pride that he was her own flesh and blood. Then therehad come a sudden revulsion, strangling every emotion but the one ofaversion--an aversion so overpowering that she turned suddenly andcatching Ellen in her arms kissed her with so lavish a display ofaffection that those at the station who witnessed the episode had onlypraise for the mother's devotion. Jane saw the kiss Lucy had givenArchie, and a cry of joy welled up in her heart, but she lost theshadow that followed. My lady of Paris was too tactful for that. 

Her old room was all ready. Jane, with Martha helping, had spent daysin its preparation. White dimity curtains starched stiff as a petticoathad been hung at the windows; a new lace cover spread on the littlemahogany, brass-mounted dressing-table--her great grandmother's, infact--with its tiny swinging mirror and the two drawers (Martharemembered when her bairn was just high enough to look into themirror), and pots of fresh flowers placed on the long table on whichher hooks used to rest. Two easy-chairs had also been brought up fromthe sitting-room below, covered with new chintz and tied with blueribbons, and, more wonderful still, a candle-box had been covered withcretonne and studded with brass tacks by the aid of Martha's stifffingers that her bairn might have a place in which to put her daintyshoes and slippers. 

When the trunks had been carried upstairs and Martha with her own handshad opened my lady's gorgeous blue morocco dressing-case with itsbottles capped with gold and its brushes and fittings emblazoned withcupids swinging in garlands of roses, the poor woman's astonishmentknew no bounds. The many scents and perfumes, the dainty boxes, big andlittle, holding various powders--one a red paste which the old nursethought must be a salve, but about which, it is needless to say, shewas greatly mistaken--as well as a rabbit's foot smirched with rouge(this she determined to wash at once), and a tiny box of court-plastercut in half moons. So many things, in fact, did the dear old nurse pullfrom this wonderful bag that the modest little bureau could not holdhalf of them, and the big table had to be brought up and swept of itsplants and belongings. 

The various cosmetics and their uses were especial objects of comment. 

"Did ye break one of the bottles, darlin'?" she asked, sniffing at apeculiar perfume which seemed to permeate everything. "Some of 'em musthave smashed; it's awful strong everywhere--smell that"--and she heldout a bit of lace which she had taken from the case, a dressing-sacquethat Lucy had used on the steamer. 

Lucy laughed. "And you don't like it? How funny, you dear old thing!That was made specially for me; no one else in Paris has a drop. "

And then the dresses! Particularly the one she was to wear the firstnight--a dress flounced and furbelowed and of a creamy white (she stillwore mourning--delicate purples shading to white--the exact tone for ahusband six months dead). And the filmy dressing-gowns, and, morewonderful than all, the puff of smoke she was to sleep in, heldtogether by a band of violet ribbon; to say nothing of the daintyslippers bound about with swan's-down, and the marvellous hats, endlesssilk stockings of mauve, white, and black, and long and short gloves. In all her life Martha had never seen or heard of such things. The roomwas filled with them and the two big closets crammed to overflowing, and yet a dozen trunks were not yet unpacked, including the two smallboxes holding little Ellen's clothes. 

The night was one long to be remembered. Everyone said the Manor Househad not been so gay for years. And they were all there--all her oldfriends and many of Jane's new ones, who for years had looked on Lucyas one too far above them in station to be spoken of except with batedbreath. 

The intimates of the house came early. Doctor John first, with hisgrave manner and low voice--so perfectly dressed and quiet: Lucythought she had never seen his equal in bearing and demeanor, nor oneso distinguished-looking--not in any circle in Europe; and UncleEphraim, grown fat and gouty, leaning on a cane, but still hearty andwholesome, and overjoyed to see her; and Pastor Dellenbaugh--his hairwas snow-white now--and his complacent and unruffled wife; and theothers, including Captain Holt, who came in late. It was almost arepetition of that other home-coming years before, when they hadgathered to greet her, then a happy, joyous girl just out of school. 

Lucy in their honor wore the dress that had so astonished Martha, and adiamond-studded ornament which she took from her jewel-case andfastened in her hair. The dress followed the wonderful curves of herbeautiful body in all its dimpled plumpness and the jewel set off toperfection the fresh, oval face, laughing blue eyes--wet forget-me-notswere the nearest their color--piquant, upturned nose and saucy mouth. The color of the gown, too, harmonized both with the delicate pink ofher cheeks and with the tones of her rather too full throat showingabove the string of pearls that clasped it. 

Jane wore a simple gray silk gown which followed closely the slenderand almost attenuated lines of her figure. This gown the doctor alwaysloved because, as he told her, it expressed so perfectly the simplicityof her mind and life. Her only jewels were her deep, thoughtful eyes, and these, to-night, were brilliant with joy over her sister's return. 

As Jane moved about welcoming her guests the doctor, whose eyes rarelyleft her face, became conscious that at no time in their lives had thecontrast between the two sisters been greater. 

One, a butterfly of thirty-eight, living only in the glow of thesunlight, radiant in plumage, alighting first on one flower and then onanother, but always on flowers, never on weeds; gathering such honey assuited her taste; never resting where she might by any chance becompelled to use her feet, but always poised in air; a woman, rich, brilliant, and beautiful, and--here was the key-note of herlife--always, year in and year out, warmed by somebody's admiration, whose she didn't much mind nor care, so that it gratified her pride andrelieved her of ennui. The other--and this one he loved with his wholesoul--a woman of forty-six, with a profound belief in her creeds;quixotic sometimes in her standards, but always sincere; devoted to hertraditions, to her friends and to her duty; unselfish, tender-hearted, and self-sacrificing; whose feet, though often tired and bleeding, hadalways trodden the earth. 

As Lucy greeted first one neighbor and then another, sometimes with onehand, sometimes with two, offering her cheek now and then to some oldfriend who had known her as a child, Jane's heart swelled withsomething of the pride she used to have when Lucy was a girl. Herbeautiful sister, she saw, had lost none of the graciousness of her oldmanner, nor of her tact in making her guests feel perfectly at home. Jane noticed, too--and this was new to her--a certain well-bredcondescension, so delicately managed as never to be offensive--more theair of a woman accustomed to many sorts and conditions of men andwomen, and who chose to be agreeable as much to please herself as toplease her guests. 

And yet with all this poise of manner and condescending graciousness, there would now and then dart from Lucy's eyes a quick, searchingglance of inquiry, as she tried to read her guests' thoughts, followedby a relieved look on her own face as she satisfied herself that nowhisper of her past had ever reached them. These glances Jane nevercaught. 

Doctor John was most cordial in his greeting and talked to her a longtime about some portions of Europe, particularly a certain cafe inDresden where he used to dine, and another in Paris frequented by thebeau monde. She answered him quite frankly, telling him of some of herown experiences in both places, quite forgetting that she was givinghim glimpses of her own life while away--glimpses which she had keptcarefully concealed from Jane or Martha. She was conscious, however, after he had left her of a certain uncomfortable feeling quiveringthrough her as his clear, steadfast eyes looked into hers, he listened, and yet she thought she detected his brain working behind his steadfastgaze. It was as if he was searching for some hidden disease. "He knowssomething, " she said to herself, when the doctor moved to let someoneelse take his place. "How much I can't tell. I'll get it all out ofsister. "

Blunt and bluff Captain Holt, white-whiskered and white-haired now, butstrong and hearty, gave her another and a different shock. What hisfirst words would be when they met and how she would avoid discussingthe subject uppermost in their minds if, in his rough way, he insistedon talking about it, was one of the things that had worried her greatlywhen she decided to come home, for there was never any doubt in hermind as to his knowledge. But she misjudged the captain, as had a greatmany others who never looked beneath the rugged bark covering his heartof oak. 

"I'm glad you've come at last, " he said gravely, hardly touching herhand in welcome, "you ought to have been here before. Jane's got a finelad of her own that she's bringin' up; when you know him ye'll likehim. "

She did not look at him when she answered, but a certain feeling ofrelief crept over her. She saw that the captain had buried the past andintended never to revive it. 

The stern look on his face only gave way when little Ellen came to himof her own accord and climbing up into his lap said in her brokenEnglish that she heard he was a great captain and that she wanted himto tell her some stories like her good papa used to tell her. "He wasgray like you, " she said, "and big, " and she measured the size with herplump little arms that showed out of her dainty French dress. 

With Doctor John and Captain Holt out of the way Lucy's mind was atrest. "Nobody else round about Yardley except these two knows, " shekept saying to herself with a bound of relief, "and for these I don'tcare. The doctor is Jane's slave, and the captain is evidently wiseenough not to uncover skeletons locked up in his own closet. "

These things settled in her mind, my lady gave herself up to whateverenjoyment, compatible with her rapidly fading mourning, the simplesurroundings afforded, taking her cue from the conditions thatconfronted her and ordering her conduct accordingly and along theselines: Archie was her adopted nephew, the son of an old friend ofJane's, and one whom she would love dearly, as, in fact, she wouldanybody else whom Jane had brought up; she herself was a gracious widowof large means recovering from a great sorrow; one who had given up thedelights of foreign courts to spend some time among her dear people whohad loved her as a child. Here for a time would she bring up andeducate her daughter. 

"To be once more at home, and in dear old Warehold, too!" she had saidwith upraised Madonna-like eyes and clasped hands to a group of womenwho were hanging on every word that dropped from her pretty lips. "Doyou know what that is to me? There is hardly a day I have not longedfor it. Pray, forgive me if I do not come to see you as often as Iwould, but I really hate to be an hour outside of the four walls of myprecious home. "

CHAPTER XV

A PACKAGE OF LETTERS

Under the influence of the new arrival it was not at all strange thatmany changes were wrought in the domestic life at Cobden Manor. 

My lady was a sensuous creature, loving color and flowers and thedainty appointments of life as much in the surroundings of her home asin the adornment of her person, and it was not many weeks before theold-fashioned sitting-room had been transformed into a French boudoir. In this metamorphosis she had used but few pieces of new furniture--oneor two, perhaps, that she had picked up in the village, as well as somebits of mahogany and brass that she loved--but had depended almostentirely upon the rearrangement of the heirlooms of the family. Withthe boudoir idea in view, she had pulled the old tables out from thewalls, drawn the big sofa up to the fire, spread a rug--one of herown--before the mantel, hung new curtains at the windows and ruffledtheir edges with lace, banked the sills with geraniums and begonias, tilted a print or two beside the clock, scattered a few books andmagazines over the centre-table, on which she had placed a big, generous lamp, under whose umbrella shade she could see to read as shesat in her grandmother's rocking-chair--in fact, had, with that tasteinherent in some women--touched with a knowing hand the dead thingsabout her and made them live and mean something;--her talisman being anunerring sense of what contributed to personal comfort. HeretoforeDoctor John had been compelled to drag a chair halfway across the roomin order to sit and chat with Jane, or had been obliged to share herseat on the sofa, too far from the hearth on cold days to becomfortable. Now he could either stand on the hearth-rug and talk toher, seated in one corner of the pulled-up sofa, her work-basket on asmall table beside her, or he could drop into a big chair within reachof her hand and still feel the glow of the fire. Jane smiled at thechanges and gave Lucy free rein to do as she pleased. Her own naturehad never required these nicer luxuries; she had been too busy, and inthese last years of her life too anxious, to think of them, and so theroom had been left as in the days of her father. 

The effect of the rearrangement was not lost on the neighbors. They atonce noticed the sense of cosiness everywhere apparent, and inconsequence called twice as often, and it was not long before theold-fashioned sitting-room became a stopping-place for everybody whohad half an hour to spare. 

These attractions, with the aid of a generous hospitality, Lucy did herbest to maintain, partly because she loved excitement and partlybecause she intended to win the good-will of her neighbors--those whomight be useful to her. The women succumbed at once. Not only were hermanners most gracious, but her jewels of various kinds, her gowns oflace and frou-frou, her marvellous hats, her assortment of parasols, her little personal belongings and niceties--gold scissors, thimbles, even the violet ribbons that rippled through her transparentunderlaces--so different from those of any other woman they knew--werea constant source of wonder and delight. To them she was a beautifulLady Bountiful who had fluttered down among them from heights above, and whose departure, should it ever take place, would leave a gloombehind that nothing could illumine. 

To the men she was more reserved. Few of them ever got beyond ahandshake and a smile, and none of them ever reached the borders ofintimacy. Popularity in a country village could never, she knew, begained by a pretty woman without great discretion. She explained herforesight to Jane by telling her that there was no man of her world inWarehold but the doctor, and that she wouldn't think of setting her capfor him as she would be gray-haired before he would have the courage topropose. Then she kissed Jane in apology, and breaking out into arippling laugh that Martha heard upstairs, danced out of the room. 

Little Ellen, too, had her innings; not only was she prettily dressed, presenting the most joyous of pictures, as with golden curls flyingabout her shoulders she flitted in and out of the rooms like a sprite, but she was withal so polite in her greetings, dropping to everyone alittle French courtesy when she spoke, and all in her quaint, brokendialect, that everybody fell in love with her at sight. None of theother mothers had such a child, and few of them knew that such childrenexisted. 

Jane watched the workings of Lucy's mind with many misgivings. Sheloved her lightheartedness and the frank, open way with which shegreeted everybody who crossed their threshold. She loved, too, to seeher beautifully gowned and equipped and to hear the flattering commentsof the neighbors on her appearance and many charms; but every now andthen her ear caught an insincere note that sent a shiver through her. She saw that the welcome Lucy gave them was not from her heart, butfrom her lips; due to her training, no doubt, or perhaps to herunhappiness, for Jane still mourned over the unhappy years of Lucy'slife--an unhappiness, had she known it, which had really ended withArchie's safe adoption and Bart's death. Another cause of anxiety wasLucy's restlessness. Every day she must have some new excitement--apicnic with the young girls and young men, private theatricals in thetown hall, or excursions to Barnegat Beach, where they were building anew summer hotel. Now and then she would pack her bag and slip off toNew York or Philadelphia for days at a time to stay with friends shehad met abroad, leaving Ellen with Jane and Martha. To the older sistershe seemed like some wild, untamable bird of brilliant plumage used tolong, soaring flights, perching first on one dizzy height and thenanother, from which she could watch the world below. 

The thing, however, which distressed Jane most was Lucy's attitudetowards Archie. She made every allowance for her first meeting at thestation, and knew that necessarily it must be more or less constrained, but she had not expected the almost cold indifference with which shehad treated the boy ever since. 

As the days went by and Lucy made no effort to attach Archie to her orto interest herself either in his happiness or welfare, Jane becamemore and more disturbed. She had prayed for this home-coming and hadset her heart on the home-building which was sure to follow, and now itseemed farther off than ever. One thing troubled and puzzled her: whileLucy was always kind to Archie indoors, kissing him with the otherswhen she came down to breakfast, she never, if she could help it, allowed him to walk with her in the village, and she never on anyoccasion took him with her when visiting the neighbors. 

"Why not take Archie with you, dear?" Jane had said one morning toLucy, who had just announced her intention of spending a few days inPhiladelphia with Max Feilding's sister Sue, whom she had met abroadwhen Max was studying in Dresden--Max was still a bachelor, and hissister kept house for him. He was abroad at the time, but was expectedby every steamer. 

"Archie isn't invited, you old goosie, and he would be as much out ofplace in Max's house as Uncle Ephraim Tipple would be in Parliament. "

"But they would be glad to see him if you took him. He is just the agenow when a boy gets impressions which last him through--"

"Yes, the gawky and stumble-over-things age! Piano-stools, rugs, anything that comes in his way. And the impressions wouldn't do him abit of good. They might, in fact, do him harm, " and she laughed merrilyand spread her fingers to the blaze. A laugh was often her best shield. She had in her time dealt many a blow and then dodged behind a laugh toprevent her opponent from striking back. 

"But, Lucy, don't you want to do something to help him?" Jane asked ina pleading tone. 

"Yes, whatever I can, but he seems to me to be doing very well as heis. Doctor John is devoted to him and the captain idolizes him. He's adear, sweet boy, of course, and does you credit, but he's not of myworld, Jane, dear, and I'd have to make him all over again before hecould fit into my atmosphere. Besides, he told me this morning that hewas going off for a week with some fisherman on the beach--some personby the name of Fogarty, I think. "

"Yes, a fine fellow; they have been friends from their boyhood. " Shewas not thinking of Fogarty, but of the tone of Lucy's voice whenspeaking of her son. 

"Yes--most estimable gentleman, no doubt, this Mr. Fogarty, but then, dear, we don't invite that sort of people to dinner, do we?" andanother laugh rippled out. 

"Yes, sometimes, " answered Jane in all sincerity. "Not Fogarty, becausehe would be uncomfortable if he came, but many of the others just ashumble. We really have very few of any other kind. I like them all. Many of them love me dearly. "

"Not at all strange; nobody can help loving you, " and she patted Jane'sshoulder with her jewelled fingers. 

"But you like them, too, don't you? You treat them as if you did. "

Lucy lifted her fluted petticoat, rested her slippered foot on thefender, glanced down at the embroidered silk stocking covering herankle, and said in a graver tone:

"I like all kinds of people--in their proper place. This is my home, and it is wise to get along with one's neighbors. Besides, they allhave tongues in their heads like the rest of the human race, and it isjust as well to have them wag for you as against you. "

Jane paused for a moment, her eyes watching the blazing logs, and askedwith almost a sigh:

"You don't mean, dear, that you never intend to help Archie, do you?"

"Never is a long word, Jane. Wait till he grows up and I see what hemakes of himself. He is now nothing but a great animal, well built as ayoung bull, and about as awkward. "

Jane's eyes flashed and her shoulders straightened. The knife had adouble edge to its blade. 

"He is your own flesh and blood, Lucy, " she said with a ring ofindignation in her voice. "You don't treat Ellen so; why should youArchie?"

Lucy took her foot from the fender, dropped her skirts, and looked atJane curiously. From underneath the half-closed lids of her eyes thereflashed a quick glance of hate--a look that always came into Lucy'seyes whenever Jane connected her name with Archie's. 

"Let us understand each other, sister, " she said icily. "I don'tdislike the boy. When he gets into trouble I'll help him in any way Ican, but please remember he's not my boy--he's yours. You took him fromme with that understanding and I have never asked him back. He can'tlove two mothers. You say he has been your comfort all these years. Why, then, do you want to unsettle his mind?"

Jane lifted her head and looked at Lucy with searching eyes--looked asa man looks when someone he must not strike has flung a glove in hisface. 

"Do you really love anything, Lucy?" she asked in a lower voice, hereyes still fastened on her sister's. 

"Yes, Ellen and you. "

"Did you love her father?" she continued in the same direct tone. 

"Y-e-s, a little-- He was the dearest old man in the world and did hisbest to please me; and then he was never very well. But why talk abouthim, dear?"

"And you never gave him anything in return for all his devotion?" Janecontinued in the same cross-examining voice and with the same incisivetone. 

"Yes, my companionship--whenever I could. About what you give DoctorJohn, " and she looked at Jane with a sly inquiry as she laughed gentlyto herself. 

Jane bit her lips and her face flushed scarlet. The cowardly thrust hadnot wounded her own heart. It had only uncovered the love of the manwho lay enshrined in its depths. A sudden sense of the injustice donehim arose in her mind and then her own helplessness in it all. 

"I would give him everything I have, if I could, " she answered simply, all her insistency gone, the tears starting to her eyes. 

Lucy threw her arms about her sister and held her cheek to her own. 

"Dear, I was only in fun; please forgive me. Everything is so solemn toyou. Now kiss me and tell me you love me. "

That night when Captain Holt came in to play with the little "PondLily, " as he called Ellen, Jane told him of her conversation with Lucy, not as a reflection on her sister, but because she thought he ought toknow how she felt toward Archie. The kiss had wiped out the tears, butthe repudiation of Archie still rankled in her breast. 

The captain listened patiently to the end. Then he said with a pausebetween each word:

"She's sailin' without her port and starboard lights, Miss Jane. One o'these nights with the tide settin' she'll run up ag'in somethin' solidin a fog, and then--God help her! If Bart had lived he might have comehome and done the decent thing, and then we could git her into portsome'er's for repairs, but that's over now. She better keep her lightstrimmed. Tell her so for me. "

What this "decent thing" was he never said--perhaps he had but a vagueidea himself. Bart had injured Lucy and should have made reparation, but in what way except by marriage--he, perhaps, never formulated inhis own mind. 

Jane winced under the captain's outburst, but she held her peace. Sheknew how outspoken he was and how unsparing of those who differed fromhim and she laid part of his denunciation to this cause. 

Some weeks after this conversation the captain started for Yardley tosee Jane on a matter of business, and incidentally to have a romp withthe Pond Lily. It was astonishing how devoted the old sea-dog was tothe child, and how she loved him in return. "My big bear, " she used tocall him, tugging away at his gray whiskers. On his way he stopped atthe post-office for his mail. It was mid-winter and the roads werepartly blocked with snow, making walking difficult except for sturdysouls like Captain Nat. 

"Here, Cap'n Holt, yer jest the man I been a-waitin' for, " cried MissTucher, the postmistress, from behind the sliding window. "If you ain'tgoin' up to the Cobdens, ye kin, can't ye? Here's a lot o' letters jestcome that I know they're expectin'. Miss Lucy's" (many of the villagepeople still called her Miss Lucy, not being able to pronounce her deadhusband's name) "come in yesterday and seems as if she couldn't wait. This storm made everything late and the mail got in after she left. There ain't nobody comin' out to-day and here's a pile of 'em--furrin'most of 'em. I'd take 'em myself if the snow warn't so deep. Don'tmind, do ye? I'd hate to have her disapp'inted, for she's jes' 's sweetas they make 'em. "

"Don't mind it a mite, Susan Tucher, " cried the captain. "Goin' there, anyhow. Got some business with Miss Jane. Lord, what a wad o' them!"

"That ain't half what she gits sometimes, " replied the postmistress, "and most of 'em has seals and crests stamped on 'em. Some o' themfurrin lords, I guess, she met over there. "

These letters the captain held in his hand when he pushed open the doorof the sitting-room and stood before the inmates in his roughpea-jacket, his ruddy face crimson with the cold, his half-moonwhiskers all the whiter by contrast. 

"Good-mornin' to the hull o' ye!" he shouted. "Cold as blue blazesoutside, I tell ye, but ye look snug enough in here. Hello, little PondLily! why ain't you out on your sled? Put two more roses in your cheeksif there was room for 'em. There, ma'am, " and he nodded to Lucy andhanded her the letters, "that's 'bout all the mail that come thismornin'. There warn't nothin' else much in the bag. Susan Tucher askedme to bring 'em up to you count of the weather and 'count o' your beingin such an all-fired hurry to read 'em. "

Little Ellen was in his arms before this speech was finished andeverybody else on their feet shaking hands with the old salt, exceptpoor, deaf old Martha, who called out, "Good-mornin', Captain Holt, " ina strong, clear voice, and in rather a positive way, but who kept herseat by the fire and continued her knitting; and complacent Mrs. Dellenbaugh, the pastor's wife, who, by reason of her position, nevergot up for anybody. 

The captain advanced to the fire, Ellen still in his arms, shook handswith Mrs. Dellenbaugh and extended three fingers, rough as lobster'sclaws and as red, to the old nurse. Of late years he never met Marthawithout feeling that he owed her an apology for the way he had treatedher the day she begged him to send Bart away. So he always tried tomake it up to her, although he had never told her why. 

"Hope you're better, Martha? Heard ye was under the weather; was thatso? Ye look spry 'nough now, " he shouted in his best quarter-deck voice. 

"Yes, but it warn't much. Doctor John fixed me up, " Martha repliedcoldly. She had no positive animosity toward the captain--not since hehad shown some interest in Archie--but she could never make a friend ofhim. 

During this greeting Lucy, who had regained her chair, sat with theletters unopened in her lap. None of the eagerness Miss Tucher hadindicated was apparent. She seemed more intent on arranging the foldsof her morning-gown accentuating the graceful outlines of herwell-rounded figure. She had glanced through the package hastily, andhad found the one she wanted and knew that it was there warm under hertouch--the others did not interest her. 

"What a big mail, dear, " remarked Jane, drawing up a chair. "Aren't yougoing to open it?" The captain had found a seat by the window and thechild was telling him everything she had done since she last saw him. 

"Oh, yes, in a minute, " replied Lucy. "There's plenty of time. " Withthis she picked up the bunch of letters, ran her eye through thecollection, and then, with the greatest deliberation, broke one sealafter another, tossing the contents on the table. Some she merelyglanced at, searching for the signatures and ignoring the contents;others she read through to the end. One was from Dresden, from astudent she had known there the year before. This was sealed with awafer and bore the address of the cafe where he took his meals. Anotherwas stamped with a crest and emitted a slight perfume; a third wasenlivened by a monogram in gold and began: "Ma chere amie, " in a boldround hand. The one under her hand she did not open, but slipped intothe pocket of her dress. The others she tore into bits and threw uponthe blazing logs. 

"I guess if them fellers knew how short a time it would take ye toheave their cargo overboard, " blurted out the captain, "they'd thoughta spell 'fore they mailed their manifests. "

Lucy laughed good-naturedly and Jane watched the blaze roar up the widechimney. The captain settled back in his chair and was about tocontinue his "sea yarn, " as he called it, to little Ellen, when hesuddenly loosened the child from his arms, and leaning forward in hisseat toward where Jane sat, broke out with:

"God bless me! I believe I'm wool-gathering. I clean forgot what I comefor. It is you, Miss Jane, I come to see, not this little curly headthat'll git me ashore yet with her cunnin' ways. They're goin' to builda new life-saving station down Barnegat way. That Dutch brig that comeashore last fall in that so'easter and all them men drownded could havebeen saved if we'd had somethin' to help 'em with. We did all we could, but that house of Refuge ain't half rigged and most o' the time ye gotto break the door open to git at what there is if ye're in a hurry, which you allus is. They ought to have a station with everything 'boutas it ought to be and a crew on hand all the time; then, when somethin'comes ashore you're right there on top of it. That one down to Squam isjust what's wanted here. "

"Will it be near the new summer hotel?" asked Lucy carelessly, just asa matter of information, and without raising her eyes from the rings onher beautiful hands. 

"'Bout half a mile from the front porch, ma'am"--he preferred callingher so--"from what I hear. 'Tain't located exactly yet, but some'er'salong there. I was down with the Gov'ment agent yesterday. "

"Who will take charge of it, captain?" inquired Jane, reaching over herbasket in search of her scissors. 

"Well, that's what I come up for. They're talkin' about me, " and thecaptain put his hands behind Ellen's head and cracked his big knucklesclose to her ear, the child laughing with delight as she listened. 

The announcement was received with some surprise. Jane, seeing Martha'sinquiring face, as if she wanted to hear, repeated the captain's wordsto her in a loud voice. Martha laid down her knitting and looked at thecaptain over her spectacles. 

"Why, would you take it, captain?" Jane asked in some astonishment, turning to him again. 

"Don't know but I would. Ain't no better job for a man than savin'lives. I've helped kill a good many; 'bout time now I come 'bout onanother tack. I'm doin' nothin'--haven't been for years. If I could getthe right kind of a crew 'round me--men I could depend on--I think Icould make it go. "

"If you couldn't nobody could, captain, " said Jane in a positive way. "Have you picked out your crew?"

"Yes, three or four of 'em. Isaac Polhemus and Tom Morgan--Tom sailedwith me on my last voyage--and maybe Tod. "

"Archie's Tod?" asked Jane, replacing her scissors and searching for aspool of cotton. 

"Archie's Tod, " repeated the captain, nodding his head, his big handstroking Ellen's flossy curls. "That's what brought me up. I want Tod, and he won't go without Archie. Will ye give him to me?"

"My Archie!" cried Jane, dropping her work and staring straight at thecaptain. 

"Your Archie, Miss Jane, if that's the way you put it, " and he stole alook at Lucy. She was conscious of his glance, but she did not returnit; she merely continued listening as she twirled one of the rings onher finger. 

"Well, but, captain, isn't it very dangerous work? Aren't the men oftendrowned?" protested Jane. 

"Anything's dangerous 'bout salt water that's worth the doin'. I'vestuck to the pumps seventy-two hours at a time, but I'm here to tellthe tale. "

"Have you talked to Archie?"

"No, but Tod has. They've fixed it up betwixt 'em. The boy's dead setto go. "

"Well, but isn't he too young?"

"Young or old, he's tough as a marline-spike--A1, and copper fastenedthroughout. There ain't a better boatman on the beach. Been that wayever since he was a boy. Won't do him a bit of harm to lead that kindof life for a year or two. If he was mine it wouldn't take me a minuteto tell what I'd do. "

Jane leaned back in her chair, her eyes on the crackling logs, andbegan patting the carpet with her foot. Lucy became engrossed in a bookthat lay on the table beside her. She didn't intend to take any part inthe discussion. If Jane wanted Archie to serve as a common sailor thatwas Jane's business. Then again, it was, perhaps, just as well for anumber of reasons to have him under the captain's care. He might becomeso fond of the sea as to want to follow it all his life. 

"What do you think about it, Lucy?" asked Jane. 

"Oh, I don't know anything about it. I don't really. I've lived so longaway from here I don't know what the young men are doing for a living. He's always been fond of the sea, has he not, Captain Holt?"

"Allus, " said the captain doggedly; "it's in his blood. " Her answernettled him. "You ain't got no objections, have you, ma'am?" he asked, looking straight at Lucy. 

Lucy's color came and went. His tone offended her, especially beforeMrs. Dellenbaugh, who, although she spoke but seldom in public had atongue of her own when she chose to use it. She was not accustomed tobeing spoken to in so brusque a way. She understood perfectly well thecaptain's covert meaning, but she did not intend either to let him seeit or to lose her temper. 

"Oh, not the slightest, " she answered with a light laugh. "I have nodoubt that it will be the making of him to be with you. Poor boy, hecertainly needs a father's care. "

The captain winced in turn under the retort and his eyes flashed, buthe made no reply. 

Little Ellen had slipped out of the captain's lap during the colloquy. She had noticed the change in her friend's tone, and, with a child'sintuition, had seen that the harmony was in danger of being broken. Shestood by the captain's knee, not knowing whether to climb back again orto resume her seat by the window. Lucy, noticing the child'sdiscomfort, called to her:

"Come here, Ellen, you will tire the captain. "

The child crossed the room and stood by her mother while Lucy tried torearrange the glossy curls, tangled by too close contact with thecaptain's broad shoulder. In the attempt Ellen lost her balance andfell into her mother's lap. 

"Oh, Ellen!" said her mother coldly; "stand up, dear. You are socareless. See how you have mussed my gown. Now go over to the windowand play with your dolls. "

The captain noted the incident and heard Lucy's reproof, but he made noprotest. Neither did he contradict the mother's statement that thelittle girl had tired him. His mind was occupied with other things--thetone of the mother's voice for one, and the shade of sadness thatpassed over the child's face for another. From that moment he took apositive dislike to her. 

"Well, think it over, Miss Jane, " he said, rising from his seat andreaching for his hat. "Plenty of time 'bout Archie. Life-savin' housewon't be finished for the next two or three months; don't expect to gitinto it till June. Wonder, little Pond Lily, if the weather's goin' tobe any warmer?" He slipped his hand under the child's chin and leaningover her head peered out of the window. "Don't look like it, does it, little one? Looks as if the snow would hold on. Hello! here comes thedoctor. I'll wait a bit--good for sore eyes to see him, and I don't gita chance every day. Ask him 'bout Archie, Miss Jane. He'll tell yewhether the lad's too young. "

There came a stamping of feet on the porch outside as Doctor John shookthe snow from his boots, and the next instant he stepped into the roombringing with him all the freshness and sunshine of the outside world. 

"Good-morning, good people, " he cried, "every one of you! How very snugand cosey you look here! Ah, captain, where have you been keepingyourself? And Mrs. Dellenbaugh! This is indeed a pleasure. I have justpassed the dear doctor, and he is looking as young as he did ten yearsago. And my Lady Lucy! Down so early! Well, Mistress Martha, up again Isee; I told you you'd be all right in a day or two. "

This running fire of greetings was made with a pause before each inmateof the room--a hearty hand-shake for the bluff captain, the pressing ofMrs. Dellenbaugh's limp fingers, a low bow to Lucy, and a pat onMartha's plump shoulder. 

Jane came last, as she always did. She had risen to greet him and wasnow unwinding the white silk handkerchief wrapped about his throat andhelping him off with his fur tippet and gloves. 

"Thank you, Jane. No, let me take it; it's rather wet, " he added as hestarted to lay the heavy overcoat over a chair. "Wait a minute. I'vesome violets for you if they are not crushed in my pocket. They camelast night, " and he handed her a small parcel wrapped in tissue paper. This done, he took his customary place on the rug with his back to theblazing logs and began unbuttoning his trim frock-coat, bringing toview a double-breasted, cream-white waistcoat--he still dressed as aman of thirty, and always in the fashion--as well as a fluffy scarfwhich Jane had made for him with her own fingers. 

"And what have I interrupted?" he asked, looking over the room. "One ofyour sea yarns, captain?"--here he reached over and patted the child'shead, who had crept back to the captain's arms--"or some of my lady'snews from Paris? You tell me, Jane, " he added, with a smile, openinghis thin, white, almost transparent fingers and holding them behind hisback to the fire, a favorite attitude. 

"Ask the captain, John. " She had regained her seat and was reaching outfor her work-basket, the violets now pinned in her bosom--her eyes hadlong since thanked him. 

"No, do YOU tell me, " he insisted, moving aside the table with hersewing materials and placing it nearer her chair. 

"Well, but it's the captain who should speak, " Jane replied, laughing, as she looked up into his face, her eyes filled with his presence. "Hehas startled us all with the most wonderful proposition. The Governmentis going to build a life-saving station at Barnegat beach, and theyhave offered him the position of keeper, and he says he will take it ifI will let Archie go with him as one of his crew. "

Doctor John's face instantly assumed a graver look. These forked roadsconfronting the career of a young life were important and not to belightly dismissed. 

"Well, what did you tell him?" he asked, looking down at Jane in theeffort to read her thoughts. 

"We are waiting for you to decide, John. " The tone was the same shewould have used had the doctor been her own husband and the boy theirchild. 

Doctor John communed with himself for an instant. "Well, let us take avote, " he replied with an air as if each and every one in the room wasinterested in the decision. "We'll begin with Mistress Martha, and thenMrs. Dellenbaugh, and then you, Jane, and last our lady from over thesea. The captain has already sold his vote to his affections, and somust be counted out. "

"Yes, but don't count me in, please, " exclaimed Lucy with a merry laughas she arose from her seat. "I don't know a thing about it. I've justtold the dear captain so. I'm going upstairs this very moment to writesome letters. Bonjour, Monsieur le Docteur; bonjour, Monsieur leCapitaine and Madame Dellenbaugh, " and with a wave of her hand and alittle dip of her head to each of the guests, she courtesied out of theroom. 

When the door was closed behind her she stopped in the hall, threw aglance at her face in the old-fashioned mirror, satisfied herself ofher skill in preserving its beautiful rabbit's-foot bloom andfreshness, gave her blonde hair one or two pats to keep it in place, rearranged the film of white lace about her shapely throat, andgathering up the mass of ruffled skirts that hid her pretty feet, slowly ascended the staircase. 

Once inside her room and while the vote was being taken downstairs thatdecided Archie's fate she locked her door, dropped into a chair by thefire, took the unopened letter from her pocket, and broke the seal. 

"Don't scold, little woman, " it read. "I would have written before, butI've been awfully busy getting my place in order. It's all arrangednow, however, for the summer. The hotel will be opened in June, and Ihave the best rooms in the house, the three on the corner overlookingthe sea. Sue says she will, perhaps, stay part of the summer with me. Try and come up next week for the night. If not I'll bring Sue with meand come to you for the day. 

"Your own Max. "

For some minutes she sat gazing into the fire, the letter in her hand. 

"It's about time, Mr. Max Feilding, " she said at last with a sigh ofrelief as she rose from her seat and tucked the letter into her desk. "You've had string enough, my fine fellow; now it's my turn. If I hadknown you would have stayed behind in Paris all these months and keptme waiting here I'd have seen you safe aboard the steamer. The hotelopens in June, does it? Well, I can just about stand it here untilthen; after that I'd go mad. This place bores me to death. "

CHAPTER XVI

THE BEGINNING OF THE EBB

Spring has come and gone. The lilacs and crocuses, the tulips andbuttercups, have bloomed and faded; the lawn has had its sprinkling ofdandelions, and the duff of their blossoms has drifted past thehemlocks and over the tree-tops. The grass has had its first cutting;the roses have burst their buds and hang in clusters over the arbors;warm winds blow in from the sea laden with perfumes from beach andsalt-marsh; the skies are steely blue and the cloud puffs drift lazily. It is summer-time--the season of joy and gladness, the season ofout-of-doors. 

All the windows at Yardley are open; the porch has donned anawning--its first--colored white and green, shading big rocking-chairsand straw tables resting on Turkish rugs. Lucy had wondered why in allthe years that Jane had lived alone at Yardley she had never oncethought of the possibilities of this porch. Jane had agreed with her, and so, under Lucy's direction, the awnings had been put up and theother comforts inaugurated. Beneath its shade Lucy sits and reads orembroiders or answers her constantly increasing correspondence. 

The porch serves too as a reception-room, the vines being thick and theoccupants completely hidden from view. Here Lucy often spreads a smalltable, especially when Max Feilding drives over in his London drag fromBeach Haven on Barnegat beach. On these occasions, if the weather iswarm, she refreshes him with delicate sandwiches and some of her latefather's rare Scotch whiskey (shelved in the cellar for thirty years)or with the more common brands of cognac served in the old familydecanters. 

Of late Max had become a constant visitor. His own ancestors had madehonorable records in the preceding century, and were friends of theearlier Cobdens during the Revolution. This, together with the factthat he had visited Yardley when Lucy was a girl--on his first returnfrom Paris, in fact--and that the acquaintance had been kept up whilehe was a student abroad, was reason enough for his coming with suchfrequency. 

His drag, moreover, as it whirled into Yardley's gate, gave a certainair of eclat to the Manor House that it had not known since the days ofthe old colonel. Nothing was lacking that money and taste couldfurnish. The grays were high-steppers and smooth as satin, the polishedchains rattled and clanked about the pole; the body was red and thewheels yellow, the lap-robe blue, with a monogram; and the diminutiveboy studded with silver buttons bearing the crest of the Feildingfamily was as smart as the tailor could make him. 

And the owner himself, in his whity-brown driving-coat with big pearlbuttons, yellow gloves, and gray hat, looked every inch the person tohold the ribbons. Altogether it was a most fashionable equipage, ownedand driven by a most fashionable man. 

As for the older residents of Warehold, they had only words of praisefor the turnout. Uncle Ephraim declared that it was a "Jim Dandy, "which not only showed his taste, but which also proved how much broaderthat good-natured cynic had become in later years. Billy Tatham gazedat it with staring eyes as it trundled down the highway and turned intothe gate, and at once determined to paint two of his hacks brightyellow and give each driver a lap-robe with the letter "T" worked inhigh relief. 

The inmates of Yardley were not quite so enthusiastic. Martha was gladthat her bairn was having such a good time, and she would often standon the porch with little Ellen's hand in hers and wave to Max and Lucyas they dashed down the garden road and out through the gate, the tigerbehind; but Jane, with that quick instinct which some women possess, recognized something in Feilding's manner which she could not put intowords, and so held her peace. She had nothing against Max, but she didnot like him. Although he was most considerate of her feelings andalways deferred to her, she felt that any opposition on her part totheir outings would have made no difference to either one of them. Heasked her permission, of course, and she recognized the courtesy, butnothing that he ever did or said overcame her dislike of him. 

Doctor John's personal attitude and bearing toward Feilding was anenigma not only to Jane, but to others who saw it. He invariablygreeted him, whenever they met, with marked, almost impressivecordiality, but it never passed a certain limit of reserve; a certaindignity of manner which Max had recognized the first day he shook handswith him. It recalled to Feilding some of his earlier days, when he wasa student in Paris. There had been a supper in Max's room that ended atdaylight--no worse in its features than dozens of others in theQuartier--to which an intimate friend of the doctor's had been invited, and upon which, as Max heard afterward, the doctor had commented ratherseverely. 

Max realized, therefore, but too well that the distinguishedphysician--known now over half the State--understood him, and hishabits, and his kind as thoroughly as he did his own ease ofinstruments. He realized, too, that there was nothing about his presentappearance or surroundings or daily life that could lead so thoughtfula man of the world as Dr. John Cavendish, of Barnegat, to conclude thathe had changed in any way for the better. 

And yet this young gentleman could never have been accused of burninghis candle at both ends. He had no flagrant vices really--none whoseposters were pasted on the victim's face. Neither cards nor any otherform of play interested him, nor did the wine tempt him when it wasred--or of any other color, for that matter, nor did he haunt thedressing-rooms of chorus girls and favorites of the hour. His innaterefinement and good taste prevented any such uses of his spare time. His weakness--for it could hardly be called a vice--was narrowed downto one infirmity, and one only: this was his inability to be happywithout the exclusive society of some one woman. 

Who the woman might be depended very largely on whom he might be thrownwith. In the first ten years of his majority--his days of poverty whena student--it had been some girl in exile, like himself. During thelast ten years--since his father's death and his inheritance--it hadbeen a loose end picked out of the great floating drift--that socialflotsam and jetsam which eddies in and out of the casinos of Nice andMonte Carlo, flows into Aix and Trouville in summer and back again toRome and Cairo in winter--a discontented wife perhaps; or an unmarriedwoman of thirty-five or forty, with means enough to live where shepleased; or it might be some self-exiled Russian countess orEnglish-woman of quality who had a month off, and who meant to make themost of it. All most respectable people, of course, without a breath ofscandal attaching to their names--Max was too careful for that--and yeteach and every one on the lookout for precisely the type of man thatMax represented: one never happy or even contented when outside theradius of a waving fan or away from the flutter of a silken skirt. 

It was in one of these resorts of the idle, a couple of years before, while Lucy's husband and little Ellen were home in Geneva, that Max hadmet her, and where he had renewed the acquaintance of theirchildhood--an acquaintance which soon ripened into the closestfriendship. 

Hence his London drag and appointments; hence the yacht and afour-in-hand--then a great novelty--all of which he had promised hershould she decide to join him at home. Hence, too, his luxuriouslyfitted-up bachelor quarters in Philadelphia, and his own comfortableapartments in his late father's house, where his sister Sue lived; andhence, too, his cosey rooms in the best corner of the Beach Havenhotel, with a view overlooking Barnegat Light and the sea. 

None of these things indicated in the smallest degree that this noblegentleman contemplated finally settling down in a mansion commensuratewith his large means, where he and the pretty widow could enjoy theirmarried life together; nothing was further from his mind--nothing couldbe--he loved his freedom too much. What he wanted, and what he intendedto have, was her undivided companionship--at least for the summer; acompanionship without any of the uncomfortable complications whichwould have arisen had he selected an unmarried woman or the wife ofsome friend to share his leisure and wealth. 

The woman he picked out for the coming season suited him exactly. Shewas blonde, with eyes, mouth, teeth, and figure to his liking (he hadbecome critical in forty odd years--twenty passed as an expert);dressed in perfect taste, and wore her clothes to perfection; had aContinental training that made her mistress of every situation, receiving with equal ease and graciousness anybody, from a postman to aprince, sending them away charmed and delighted; possessed money enoughof her own not to be too much of a drag upon him; and--best of all (andthis was most important to the heir of Walnut Hill)--had the best bloodof the State circling in her veins. Whether this intimacy might driftinto something closer, compelling him to take a reef in his sails, never troubled him. It was not the first time that he had steered hiscraft between the Scylla of matrimony and the Charybdis of scandal, andhe had not the slightest doubt of his being able to do it again. 

As for Lucy, she had many plans in view. One was to get all the funpossible out of the situation; another was to provide for her future. How this was to be accomplished she had not yet determined. Her planswere laid, but some of them she knew from past experience might goastray. On one point she had made up her mind--not to be in a hurry. Infurtherance of these schemes she had for some days--some months, infact--been making preparations for an important move. She knew that itsbare announcement would come as a surprise to Jane and Martha and, perhaps, as a shock, but that did not shake her purpose. Shefurthermore expected more or less opposition when they fully graspedher meaning. This she intended to overcome. Neither Jane nor Martha, she said to herself, could be angry with her for long, and a few kissesand an additional flow of good-humor would soon set them to laughingagain. 

To guard against the possibility of a too prolonged interview withJane, ending, perhaps, in a disagreeable scene--one beyond hercontrol--she had selected a sunny summer morning for the stage settingof her little comedy and an hour when Feilding was expected to call forher in his drag. She and Max were to make a joint inspection that dayof his new apartment at Beach Haven, into which he had just moved, aswell as the stable containing the three extra vehicles and equineimpedimenta, which were to add to their combined comfort and enjoyment. 

Lucy had been walking in the garden looking at the rose-beds, her armabout her sister's slender waist, her ears open to the sound of everypassing vehicle--Max was expected at any moment--when she began herlines. 

"You won't mind, Jane, dear, will you, if I get together a few thingsand move over to Beach Haven for a while?" she remarked simply, just asshe might have done had she asked permission to go upstairs to take anap. "I think we should all encourage a new enterprise like the hotel, especially old families like ours. And then the sea air always does meso much good. Nothing like Trouville air, my dear husband used to tellme, when I came back in the autumn. You don't mind, do you?"

"For how long, Lucy?" asked Jane, with a tone of disappointment in hervoice, as she placed her foot on the top step of the porch. 

"Oh, I can't tell. Depends very much on how I like it. " As she spokeshe drew up an easy-chair for Jane and settled herself in another. Thenshe added carelessly: "Oh, perhaps a month--perhaps two. "

"Two months!" exclaimed Jane in astonishment, dropping into her seat. "Why, what do you want to leave Yardley for? O Lucy, don't--pleasedon't go!"

"But you can come over, and I can come here, " rejoined Lucy in acoaxing tone. 

"Yes; but I don't want to come over. I want you at home. And it's solovely here. I have never seen the garden look so beautiful; and youhave your own room, and this little porch is so cosey. The hotel is anew building, and the doctor says a very damp one, with everythingfreshly plastered. He won't let any of his patients go there for someweeks, he tells me. Why should you want to go? I really couldn't thinkof it, dear. I'd miss you dreadfully. "

"You dear old sister, " answered Lucy, laying her parasol on the smalltable beside her, "you are so old-fashioned. Habit, if nothing else, would make me go. I have hardly passed a summer in Paris or Genevasince I left you; and you know how delightful my visits to Biarritzused to be years ago. Since my marriage I have never stayed in any oneplace so long as this. I must have the sea air. "

"But the salt water is right here, Lucy, within a short walk of ourgate, and the air is the same. " Jane's face wore a troubled look, andthere was an anxious, almost frightened tone in her voice. 

"No, it is not exactly the same, " Lucy answered positively, as if shehad made a life-long study of climate; "and if it were, the life isvery different. I love Warehold, of course; but you must admit that itis half-asleep all the time. The hotel will be some change; there willbe new people and something to see from the piazzas. And I need it, dear. I get tired of one thing all the time--I always have. "

"But you will be just as lonely there. " Jane in her astonishment waslike a blind man feeling about for a protecting wall. 

"No; Max and his sister will be at Beach Haven, and lots of others Iknow. No, I won't be lonely, " and an amused expression twinkled in hereyes. 

Jane sat quite still. Some of Captain Holt's blunt, outspokencriticisms floated through her brain. 

"Have you any reason for wanting to leave here?" she asked, raising hereyes and looking straight at Lucy. 

"No, certainly not. How foolish, dear, to ask me! I'm never so happy aswhen I am with you. "

"Well, why then should you want to give up your home and all thecomforts you need--your flowers, garden, and everything you love, andthis porch, which you have just made so charming, to go to a damp, half-completed hotel, without a shrub about it--only a stretch ofdesolate sand with the tide going in and out?" There was a tone ofsuspicion in Jane's voice that Lucy had never heard from her sister'slips--never, in all her life. 

"Oh, because I love the tides, if nothing else, " she answered with asentimental note in her voice. "Every six hours they bring me a newmessage. I could spend whole mornings watching the tides come and go. During my long exile you don't know how I dreamed every night of thedear tides of Barnegat. If you had been away from all you love as manyyears as I have, you would understand how I could revel in the sound ofthe old breakers. "

For some moments Jane did not answer. She knew from the tones of Lucy'svoice and from the way she spoke that she did not mean it. She hadheard her talk that way to some of the villagers when she wanted toimpress them, but she had never spoken in the same way to her. 

"You have some other reason, Lucy. Is it Max?" she asked in a strainedtone. 

Lucy colored. She had not given her sister credit for so keen aninsight into the situation. Jane's mind was evidently working in a newdirection. She determined to face the suspicion squarely; the truthunder some conditions is better than a lie. 

"Yes, " she replied, with an assumed humility and with a tone as if shehad been detected in a fault and wanted to make a clean breast of it. "Yes--now that you have guessed it--it IS Max. "

"Don't you think it would be better to see him here instead of at thehotel?" exclaimed Jane, her eyes still boring into Lucy's. 

"Perhaps"--the answer came in a helpless way--"but that won't do muchgood. I want to keep my promise to him if I can. "

"What was your promise?" Jane's eyes lost their searching look for aninstant, but the tone of suspicion still vibrated. 

Lucy hesitated and began playing with the trimming on her dress. 

"Well, to tell you the truth, dear, a few days ago in a burst ofgenerosity I got myself into something of a scrape. Max wants hissister Sue to spend the summer with him, and I very foolishly promisedto chaperon her. She is delighted over the prospect, for she must havesomebody, and I haven't the heart to disappoint her. Max has been sokind to me that I hate now to tell him I can't go. That's all, dear. Idon't like to speak of obligations of this sort, and so at first I onlytold you half the truth. "

"You should always keep your promise, dear, " Jane answered thoughtfullyand with a certain relieved tone. (Sue was nearly thirty, but that didnot occur to Jane. ) "But this time I wish you had not promised. I amsorry, too, for little Ellen. She will miss her little garden andeverything she loves here; and then again, Archie will miss her, and sowill Captain Holt and Martha. You know as well as I do that a hotel isno place for a child. "

"I am glad to hear you say so. That's why I shall not take her withme. " As she spoke she shot an inquiring glance from the corner of hereyes at the anxious face of her sister. These last lines just beforethe curtain fell were the ones she had dreaded most. 

Jane half rose from her seat. Her deep eyes were wide open, gazing inastonishment at Lucy. For an instant she felt as if her heart hadstopped beating. 

"And you--you--are not going to take Ellen with you!" she gasped. 

"No, of course not. " She saw her sister's agitation, but she did notintend to notice it. Besides, her expectant ear had caught the sound ofMax's drag as it whirled through the gate. "I always left her with hergrandmother when she was much younger than she is now. She is veryhappy here and I wouldn't be so cruel as to take her away from all herpleasures. Then she loves old people. See how fond she is of theCaptain and Martha! No, you are right. I wouldn't think of taking heraway. "

Jane was standing now, her eyes blazing, her lips quivering. 

"You mean, Lucy, that you would leave your child here and spend twomonths away from her?"

The wheels were crunching the gravel within a rod of the porch. Max hadalready lifted his hat. 

"But, sister, you don't understand--" The drag stopped and Max, withuncovered head, sprang out and extended his hand to Jane. 

Before he could offer his salutations Lucy's joyous tones rang out. 

"Just in the nick of time, Max, " she cried. "I've just been telling mydear sister that I'm going to move over to Beach Haven to-morrow, bagand baggage, and she is delighted at the news. Isn't it just like her?"

CHAPTER XVII

BREAKERS AHEAD

The summer-home of Max Feilding, Esq. , of Walnut Hill, and of thebeautiful and accomplished widow of the dead Frenchman was located on alevelled sand-dune in full view of the sea. Indeed, from beneath itslow-hooded porticos and piazzas nothing else could be seen except, perhaps, the wide sky--gray, mottled, or intensely blue, as the weatherpermitted--the stretch of white sand shaded from dry to wet and edgedwith tufts of yellow grass; the circling gulls and the tall finger ofBarnegat Light pointing skyward. Nothing, really, but some scatteringbuildings in silhouette against the glare of the blinding light--onethe old House of Refuge, a mile away to the north, and nearer by, thenew Life Saving Station (now complete) in charge of Captain Nat Holtand his crew of trusty surfmen. 

This view Lucy always enjoyed. She would sit for hours under herawnings and watch the lazy boats crawling in and out of the inlet, orthe motionless steamers--motionless at that distance--slowly unwindingtheir threads of smoke. The Station particularly interested her. Somehow she felt a certain satisfaction in knowing that Archie was atwork and that he had at last found his level among his own people--notthat she wished him any harm; she only wanted him out of her way. 

The hostelry itself was one of those low-roofed, shingle-sided andshingle-covered buildings common in the earlier days along the Jerseycoast, and now supplanted by more modern and more costly structures. Ithad grown from a farm-house and out-buildings to its present state withthe help of an architect and a jig-saw; the former utilizing whatremained of the house and its barns, and the latter transforming plainpine into open work patterns with which to decorate its gable ends andfacade. When the flags were raised, the hanging baskets suspended ineach loop of the porches, and the merciless, omnipresent andever-insistent sand was swept from its wide piazzas and sun-warpedsteps it gave out an air of gayety so plausible and enticing that manyotherwise sane and intelligent people at once closed their comfortablehomes and entered their names in its register. 

The amusements of these habitues--if they could be called habitues, this being their first summer--were as varied as their tastes. Therewas a band which played mornings and afternoons in an unpainted pinepagoda planted on a plot of slowly dying grass and decorated with morehanging baskets and Chinese lanterns; there was bathing at eleven andfour; and there was croquet on the square of cement fenced about bypoles and clothes-lines at all hours. Besides all this there weredriving parties to the villages nearby; dancing parties at night withthe band in the large room playing away for dear life, with all theguests except the very young and very old tucked away in twos in thedark corners of the piazzas out of reach of the lights and theinquisitive--in short, all the diversions known to such retreats, sonecessary for warding off ennui and thus inducing the inmates to staythe full length of their commitments. 

In its selection Max was guided by two considerations: it was nearYardley--this would materially aid in Lucy's being able to joinhim--and it was not fashionable and, therefore, not likely to beoverrun with either his own or Lucy's friends. The amusements did notinterest him; nor did they interest Lucy. Both had seen too much andenjoyed too much on the other side of the water, at Nice, at MonteCarlo, and Biarritz, to give the amusements a thought. What they wantedwas to be let alone; this would furnish all the excitement either ofthem needed. This exclusiveness was greatly helped by the red andyellow drag, with all its contiguous and connecting impedimenta, aturnout which never ceased to occupy everybody's attention whenever thesmall tiger stood by the heads of the satin-coated grays awaiting thegood pleasure of his master and his lady. Its possession not onlymarked a social eminence too lofty for any ordinary habitue to climb tounless helped up by the proffered hand of the owner, but it preventedanyone of these would-be climbers from inviting either its owner or hiscompanion to join in other outings no matter how enjoyable. Suchamusements as they could offer were too simple and old-fashioned fortwo distinguished persons who held the world in their slings and whowere whirling it around their heads with all their might. The resultwas that their time was their own. 

They filled it at their pleasure. 

When the tide was out and the sand hard, they drove on the beach, stopping at the new station, chatting with Captain Holt or Archie; orthey strolled north, always avoiding the House of Refuge--that localityhad too many unpleasant associations for Lucy, or they sat on thedunes, moving back out of the wet as the tide reached them, tossingpebbles in the hollows, or gathering tiny shells, which Lucy laid outin rows of letters as she had done when a child. In the afternoon theydrove by way of Yardley to see how Ellen was getting on, or idled aboutWarehold, making little purchases at the shops and chatting with thevillage people, all of whom would come out to greet them. After dinnerthey would generally betake themselves to Max's portico, opening out ofhis rooms, or to Lucy's--they were at opposite ends of the longcorridor--where the two had their coffee while Max smoked. 

The opinions freely expressed regarding their social and moral status, and individual and combined relations, differed greatly in the severallocalities in which they were wont to appear. In Warehold village theywere looked upon as two most charming and delightful people, rich, handsome, and of proper age and lineage, who were exactly adapted toeach other and who would prove it before the year was out, with PastorDellenbaugh officiating, assisted by some dignitary from Philadelphia. 

At the hostelry many of the habitues had come to a far differentconclusion. Marriage was not in either of their heads, they maintained;their intimacy was a purely platonic one, born of a friendship datingback to childhood--they were cousins really--Max being the dearest andmost unselfish creature in the world, he having given up all hispleasures elsewhere to devote himself to a most sweet and gracious ladywhose grief was still severe and who would really be quite alone in theworld were it not for her little daughter, now temporarily absent. 

This summary of facts, none of which could be questioned, wassupplemented and enriched by another conclusive instalment from Mrs. Walton Coates, of Chestnut Plains, who had met Lucy at Aix the yearbefore, and who therefore possessed certain rights not vouchsafed tothe other habitues of Beach Haven--an acquaintance which Lucy, forvarious reasons, took pains to encourage--Mrs. C. 's social positionbeing beyond question, and her house and other appointments more thanvaluable whenever Lucy should visit Philadelphia: besides, Mrs. Coates's own and Lucy's apartments joined, and the connecting door ofthe two sitting-rooms was often left open, a fact which established astill closer intimacy. This instalment, given in a positive and ratherlofty way, made plain the fact that in her enforced exile thedistinguished lady not only deserved the thanks of every habitue of thehotel, but of the whole country around, for selecting the newestablishment in which to pass the summer, instead of one of the morefashionable resorts elsewhere. 

This outburst of the society leader, uttered in the hearing of acrowded piazza, had occurred after a conversation she had had with Lucyconcerning little Ellen. 

"Tell me about your little daughter, " Mrs. Coates had said. "You didnot leave her abroad, did you?"

"Oh, no, my dear Mrs. Coates! I am really here on my darling'saccount, " Lucy answered with a sigh. "My old home is only a shortdistance from here. But the air does not agree with me there, and so Icame here to get a breath of the real sea. Ellen is with her aunt, mydear sister Jane. I wanted to bring her, but really I hadn't the heartto take her from them; they are so devoted to her. Max loves herdearly. He drives me over there almost every day. I really do not knowhow I could have borne all the sorrows I have had this year withoutdear Max. He is like a brother to me, and SO thoughtful. You know wehave known each other since we were children. They tell such dreadfulstories, too, about him, but I have never seen that side of him, he's aperfect saint to me. "

From that time on Mrs. Coates was her loyal mouthpiece and devotedfriend. Being separated from one's child was one of the things shecould not brook; Lucy was an angel to stand it as she did. As forMax--no other woman had ever so influenced him for good, nor did shebelieve any other woman could. 

At the end of the second week a small fly no larger than a pin's headbegan to develop in the sunshine of their amber. It became visible tothe naked eye when Max suddenly resolved to leave his drag, his tiger, his high-stepping grays, and his fair companion, and slip over toPhiladelphia--for a day or two, he explained. His lawyer needed him, hesaid, and then again he wanted to see his sister Sue, who had run downto Walnut Hill for the day. (Sue, it might as well be stated, had notyet put in an appearance at Beach Haven, nor had she given any noticeof her near arrival; a fact which had not disturbed Lucy in the leastuntil she attempted to explain to Jane. )

"I've got to pull up, little woman, and get out for a few days, " Maxhad begun. "Morton's all snarled up, he writes me, over a mortgage, andI must straighten it out. I'll leave Bones [the tiger] and everythingjust as it is. Don't mind, do you?"

"Mind! Of course I do!" retorted Lucy. "When did you get thismarvellous idea into that wonderful brain of yours, Max? I intended togo to Warehold myself to-morrow. " She spoke with her usual good-humor, but with a slight trace of surprise and disappointment in her tone. 

"When I opened my mail this morning; but my going won't make anydifference about Warehold. Bones and the groom will take care of you. "

Lucy leaned back in her chair and looked over the rail of the porch. She had noticed lately a certain restraint in Max's manner which wasnew to her. Whether he was beginning to get bored, or whether it wasonly one of his moods, she could not decide--even with her acuteknowledge of similar symptoms. That some change, however, had come overhim she had not the slightest doubt. She never had any trouble inlassoing her admirers. That came with a glance of her eye or a lift ofher pretty shoulders: nor for that matter in keeping possession of themas long as her mood lasted. 

"Whom do you want to see in Philadelphia, Max?" she asked, smilingroguishly at him. She held him always by presenting her happiest andmost joyous side, whether she felt it or not. 

"Sue and Morton--and you, you dear girl, if you'll come along. "

"No; I'm not coming along. I'm too comfortable where I am. Is thiswoman somebody you haven't told me of, Max?" she persisted, looking athim from under half-closed lids. 

"Your somebodies are always thin air, little girl; you know everythingI have ever done in my whole life, " Max answered gravely. She had forthe last two weeks. 

Lucy threw up her hands and laughed so loud and cheerily that anhabitue taking his morning constitutional on the boardwalk below turnedhis head in their direction. The two were at breakfast under theawnings of Lucy's portico, Bones standing out of range. 

"You don't believe it?"

"Not one word of it, you fraud; nor do you. You've forgotten one-halfof all you've done and the other half you wouldn't dare tell any woman. Come, give me her name. Anybody Sue knows?"

"Nobody that anybody knows, Honest John. " Then he added as anafter-thought, "Are you sorry?" As he spoke he rose from his seat andstood behind her chair looking down over her figure. She had her backto him. He thought he had never seen her look so lovely. She waswearing a light-blue morning-gown, her arms bare to the elbows, and awide Leghorn hat--the morning costume of all others he liked her bestin. 

"No--don't think I am, " she answered lightly. "Fact is I was gettingpretty tired of you. How long will you be gone?"

"Oh, I think till the end of the week--not longer. " He reached over thechair and was about to play with the tiny curls that lay under the coilof her hair, when he checked himself and straightened up. One of thosesudden restraints which had so puzzled Lucy had seized him. She couldnot see his face, but she knew from the tones of his voice that theenthusiasm of the moment had cooled. 

Lucy shifted her chair, lifted her head, and looked up into his eyes. She was always entrancing from this point of view: the upturnedeyelashes, round of the cheeks, and the line of the throat and swellingshoulders were like no other woman's he knew. 

"I don't want you to go, Max, " she said in the same coaxing tone ofvoice that Ellen might have used in begging for sugar-plums. "Just letthe mortgage and old Morton and everybody else go. Stay here with me. "

Max straightened up and threw out his chest and a determined look cameinto his eyes. If he had had any doubts as to his departure Lucy'spleading voice had now removed them. 

"No, can't do it, " he answered in mock positiveness. "Can't 'pon mysoul. Business is business. Got to see Morton right away; ought to haveseen him before. " Then he added in a more serious tone, "Don't getworried if I stay a day or two longer. "

"Well, then, go, you great bear, you, " and she rose to her feet andshook out her skirts. "I wouldn't let you stay, no matter what yousaid. " She was not angry--she was only feeling about trying to put herfinger on the particular button that controlled Max's movements. "Worried? Not a bit of it. Stay as long as you please. "

There WAS a button, could she have found it. It was marked "Caution, "and when pressed communicated to the heir of Walnut Hill theintelligence that he was getting too fond of the pretty widow and thathis only safety lay in temporary flight. It was a favorite trick ofhis. In the charting of his course he had often found two other rocksbeside Scylla and Charybdis in his way; one was boredom and the otherwas love. When a woman began to bore him, or he found himself likingher beyond the limit of his philosophy, he invariably found relief inchange of scene. Sometimes it was a sick aunt or a persistent lawyer oran engagement nearly forgotten and which must be kept at all hazards. He never, however, left his inamorata in either tears or anger. 

"Now, don't be cross, dear, " he cried, patting her shoulder with hisfingers. "You know I don't want to leave you. I shall be perfectlywretched while I'm gone, but there's no help for it. Morton's such afussy old fellow--always wanting to do a lot of things that can, perhaps, wait just as well as not. Hauled me down from Walnut Hill halfa dozen times once, and after all the fellow wouldn't sell. But thistime it's important and I must go. Bones, " and he lifted his finger tothe boy, "tell John I want the light wagon. I'll take the 11. 12 toPhiladelphia. "

The tiger advanced ten steps and stood at attention, his finger at hiseyebrow. Lucy turned her face toward the boy. "No, Bones, you'll donothing of the kind. You tell John to harness the grays to the drag. I'll go to the station with Mr. Feilding. "

Max shrugged his shoulders. He liked Lucy for a good many things--onewas her independence, another was her determination to have her ownway. Then, again, she was never so pretty as when she was a trifleangry; her color came and went so deliciously and her eyes snapped socharmingly. Lucy saw the shrug and caught the satisfied look in hisface. She didn't want to offend him and yet she didn't intend that heshould go without a parting word from her--tender or otherwise, ascircumstances might require. She knew she had not found the button, andin her doubt determined for the present to abandon the search. 

"No, Bones, I've changed my mind, " she called to the boy, who was nowhalf way down the piazza. "I don't think I will go. I'll stop here, Max, and do just what you want me to do, " she added in a softenedvoice. "Come along, " and she slipped her hand in his and the two walkedtoward the door of his apartments. 

When the light wagon and satin-skinned sorrel, with John on the seatand Bones in full view, stopped at the sanded porch, Mrs. Coates andLucy formed part of the admiring group gathered about the turn-out. Allof Mr. Feilding's equipages brought a crowd of onlookers, no matter howoften they appeared--he had five with him at Beach Haven, including thefour-in-hand which he seldom used--but the grays and the light wagon, by common consent, were considered the most "stylish" of them all, notexcepting the drag. 

After Max had gathered the reins in his hands, had balanced the whip, had settled himself comfortably and with a wave of his hand to Lucy haddriven off, Mrs. Coates slipped her arm through my lady's and the twoslowly sauntered to their rooms. 

"Charming man, is he not?" Mrs. Coates ventured. "Such a pity he is notmarried! You know I often wonder whom such men will marry. Some prettyschool-girl, perhaps, or prim woman of forty. "

Lucy laughed. 

"No, " she answered, "you are wrong. The bread-and-butter miss wouldnever suit Max, and he's past the eye-glass and side-curl age. The nextphase, if he ever reaches it, will be somebody who will make himdo--not as he pleases, but as SHE pleases. A man like Max never caresfor a woman any length of time who humors his whims. "

"Well, he certainly was most attentive to that pretty Miss Billeton. You remember her father was lost overboard four years ago from hisyacht. Mr. Coates told me he met her only a day or so ago; she had comedown to look after the new ball-room they are adding to the old house. You know her, don't you?"

"No--never heard of her. How old is she?" rejoined Lucy in a carelesstone. 

"I should say twenty, maybe twenty-two--you can't always tell aboutthese girls; very pretty and very rich. I am quite sure I saw Mr. Feilding driving with her just before he moved his horses down here, and she looked prettier than ever. But then he has a new flame everymonth, I hear. "

"Where were they driving?" There was a slight tone of curiosity inLucy's voice. None of Max's love-affairs ever affected her, of course, except as they made for his happiness; all undue interest, therefore, was out of place, especially before Mrs. Coates. 

"I don't remember. Along the River Road, perhaps--he generally drivesthere when he has a pretty woman with him. "

Lucy bit her lip. Some other friend, then, had been promised the dragwith the red body and yellow wheels! This was why he couldn't come toYardley when she wrote for him. She had found the button. It rang upanother woman. 

The door between the connecting sitting-rooms was not opened that day, nor that night, for that matter. Lucy pleaded a headache and wished tobe alone. She really wanted to look the field over and see where herline of battle was weak. Not that she really cared--unless the girlshould upset her plans; not as Jane would have cared had Doctor Johnbeen guilty of such infidelity. The eclipse was what hurt her. She hadheld the centre of the stage with the lime-light full upon her all herlife, and she intended to retain it against Miss Billeton or MissAnybody else. She decided to let Max know at once, and in plain terms, giving him to understand that she didn't intend to be made a fool of, reminding him at the same time that there were plenty of others whocared for her, or who would care for her if she should but raise herlittle finger. She WOULD raise it, too, even if she packed her trunksand started for Paris--and took him with her. 

These thoughts rushed through her mind as she sat by the window andlooked out over the sea. The tide was making flood, and thefishing-boats anchored in the inlet were pointing seaward. She couldsee, too, the bathers below and the children digging in the sand. Nowand then a boat would head for the inlet, drop its sail, and swinground motionless with the others. Then a speck would break away fromthe anchored craft and with the movement of a water-spider land thefishermen ashore. 

None of these things interested her. She could not have told whetherthe sun shone or whether the sky was fair or dull. Neither was shelonely, nor did she miss Max. She was simplyangry--disgusted--disappointed at the situation; at herself, at thewoman who had come between them, at the threatened failure of herplans. One moment she was building up a house of cards in which sheheld all the trumps, and the next instant she had tumbled it to theground. One thing she was determined upon--not to take second place. She would have all of him or none of him. 

At the end of the third day Max returned. He had not seen Morton, norany of his clerks, nor anybody connected with his office. Neither hadhe sent him any message or written him any letter. Morton might havebeen dead and buried a century so far as Max or his affairs wereconcerned. Nor had he laid his eyes on the beautiful Miss Billeton; norvisited her house; nor written her any letters; nor inquired for her. What he did do was to run out to Walnut Hill, have a word with hismanager, and slip back to town again and bury himself in his club. Mostof the time he read the magazines, some pages two or three times over. Once he thought he would look up one or two of his women friends attheir homes--those who might still be in town--and then gave it up asnot being worth the trouble. At the end of the third day he started forBarnegat. The air was bad in the city, he said to himself, andeverybody he met was uninteresting. He would go back, hitch up thegrays, and he and Lucy have a spin down the beach. Sea air always didagree with him, and he was a fool to leave it. 

Lucy met him at the station in answer to his telegram sent over fromWarehold. She was dressed in her very best: a double-breasted jacketand straw turban, a gossamer veil wound about it. Her cheeks were liketwo red peonies and her eyes bright as diamonds. She was perched up inthe driver's seat of the drag, and handled the reins and whip with theskill of a turfman. This time Bones, the tiger, did not spring into hisperch as they whirled from the station in the direction of the beach. His company was not wanted. 

They talked of Max's trip, of the mortgage, and of Morton; of how hotit was in town and how cool it was on her portico; of Mrs. Coates andof pater-familias Coates, who held a mortgage on Beach Haven; of thedance the night before--Max leading in the conversation and sheanswering either in mono-syllables or not at all, until Max hazardedthe statement that he had been bored to death waiting for Morton, whonever put in an appearance, and that the only human being, male orfemale, he had seen in town outside the members of the club, was Sue. 

They had arrived off the Life-Saving Station now, and Archie had calledthe captain to the door, and both stood looking at them, the boy wavinghis hand and the captain following them with his eyes. Had either ofthem caught the captain's remark they, perhaps, would have drawn reinand asked for an explanation:

"Gay lookin' hose-carriage, ain't it? Looks as if they was runnin' to afire!"

But they didn't hear it; would not, probably have heard it, had thecaptain shouted it in their ears. Lucy was intent on opening up asubject which had lain dormant in her mind since the morning of Max'sdeparture, and the gentleman himself was trying to cipher out what new"kink, " as he expressed it to himself, had "got it into her head. "

When they had passed the old House of Refuge Lucy drew rein and stoppedthe drag where the widening circle of the incoming tide could bathe thehorses' feet. She was still uncertain as to how she would lead up tothe subject-matter without betraying her own jealousy or, moreimportant still, without losing her temper. This she rarely displayed, no matter how goading the provocation. Nobody had any use for anill-tempered woman, not in her atmosphere; and no fly that she had everknown had been caught by vinegar when seeking honey. There might bevinegar-pots to be found in her larder, but they were kept behindclosed doors and sampled only when she was alone. As she sat lookingout to sea, Max's brain still at work on the problem of her unusualmood, a schooner shifted her mainsail in the light breeze and set hercourse for the inlet. 

"That's the regular weekly packet, " Max ventured. "She's making forFarguson's ship-yard. She runs between Amboy and Barnegat--CaptainAmbrose Farguson sails her. " At times like these any topic was goodenough to begin on. 

"How do you know?" Lucy asked, looking at the incoming schooner fromunder her half-closed lids. The voice came like the thin piping of aflute preceding the orchestral crash, merely sounded so as to leteverybody know it was present. 

"One of my carriages was shipped by her. I paid Captain Farguson thefreight just before I went away. "

"What's her name?"--slight tremolo--only a note or two. 

"The Polly Walters, " droned Max, talking at random, mind neither on thesloop nor her captain. 

"Named after his wife?" The flute-like notes came more crisply. 

"Yes, so he told me. " Max had now ceased to give any attention to hisanswers. He had about made up his mind that something serious was thematter and that he would ask her and find out. 

"Ought to be called the Max Feilding, from the way she tacks about. She's changed her course three times since I've been watching her. "

Max shot a glance athwart his shoulder and caught a glimpse of thepretty lips thinned and straightened and the half-closed eyes andwrinkled forehead. He was evidently the disturbing cause, but in whatway he could not for the life of him see. That she was angry to thetips of her fingers was beyond question; the first time he had seen herthus in all their acquaintance. 

"Yes-that would fit her exactly, " he answered with a smile and with acertain soothing tone in his voice. "Every tack her captain makesbrings him the nearer to the woman he loves. "

"Rather poetic, Max, but slightly farcical. Every tack you make landsyou in a different port--with a woman waiting in every one of them. "The first notes of the overture had now been struck. 

"No one was waiting in Philadelphia for me except Sue, and I only mether by accident, " he said good-naturedly, and in a tone that showed hewould not quarrel, no matter what the provocation; "she came in to seeher doctor. Didn't stay an hour. "

"Did you take her driving?" This came in a thin, piccolo tone-barelyenough room for it to escape through her lips. All the big drums andheavy brass were now being moved up. 

"No; had nothing to take her out in. Why do you ask? What has happened, little--"

"Take anybody else?" she interrupted. 

"No. "

He spoke quite frankly and simply. At any other time she would havebelieved him. She had always done so in matters of this kind, partlybecause she didn't much care and partly because she made it a pointnever to doubt the word of a man, either by suspicion or inference, whowas attentive to her. This time she did care, and she intended to tellhim so. All she dreaded was that the big horns and the tom-toms wouldget away from her leadership and the hoped-for, correctly playedsymphony end in an uproar. 

"Max, " she said, turning her head and lifting her finger at him withthe movement of a conductor's baton, "how can you lie to me like that?You never went near your lawyer; you went to see Miss Billeton, andyou've spent every minute with her since you left me. Don't tell me youdidn't. I know everything you've done, and--" Bass drums, bass viols, bassoons--everything--was loose now. 

She had given up her child to be with him! Everything, in fact--all herpeople at Yardley; her dear old nurse. She had lied to Jane aboutchaperoning Sue--all to come down and keep him from being lonely. Whatshe wanted was a certain confidence in return. It made not theslightest difference to her how many women he loved, or how many womenloved him; she didn't love him, and she never would; but unless she wastreated differently from a child and like the woman that she was, shewas going straight back to Yardley, and then back to Paris, etc. , etc. 

She knew, as she rushed on in a flood of abuse such as only a woman canlet loose when she is thoroughly jealous and entirely angry, that shewas destroying the work of months of plotting, and that he would belost to her forever, but she was powerless to check the torrent of herinvective. Only when her breath gave out did she stop. 

Max had sat still through it all, his eyes expressing firstastonishment and then a certain snap of admiration, as he saw the colorrising and falling in her cheeks. It was not the only time in hisexperience that he had had to face similar outbursts. It was the firsttime, however, that he had not felt like striking back. Other women'soutbreaks had bored him and generally had ended his interest inthem--this one was more charming than ever. He liked, too, her Americanpluck and savage independence. Jealous she certainly was, but there wasno whine about it; nor was there any flop at the close--floppy women hedetested--had always done so. Lucy struck straight out from hershoulder and feared nothing. 

As she raged on, the grays beating the water with their well-polishedhoofs, he continued to sit perfectly still, never moving a muscle ofhis face nor changing his patient, tolerant expression. The best plan, he knew, was to let all the steam out of the boiler and then graduallyrake the fires. 

"My dear little woman, "' he began, "to tell you the truth, I never laideyes on Morton; didn't want to, in fact. All that was an excuse to getaway. I thought you wanted a rest, and I went away to let you have it. Miss Billeton I haven't seen for three months, and couldn't if I would, for she is engaged to her cousin and is now in Paris buying her weddingclothes. I don't know who has been humbugging you, but they've done itvery badly. There is not one word of truth in what you've said frombeginning to end. "

There is a certain ring in a truthful statement that overcomes alldoubts. Lucy felt this before Max had finished. She felt, too, with asudden thrill, that she still held him. Then there came theinstantaneous desire to wipe out all traces of the outburst and keephis good-will. 

"And you swear it?" she asked, her belief already asserting itself inher tones, her voice falling to its old seductive pitch. 

"On my honor as a man, " he answered simply. 

For a time she remained silent, her mind working behind her mask ofeyes and lips, the setting sun slanting across the beach and lightingup her face and hair, the grays splashing the suds with their impatientfeet. Max kept his gaze upon her. He saw that the outbreak was over andthat she was a little ashamed of her tirade. He saw, too, man of theworld as he was, that she was casting about in her mind for some way inwhich she could regain for herself her old position without too muchhumiliation. 

"Don't say another word, little woman, " he said in his kindest tone. "You didn't mean a word of it; you haven't been well lately, and Ioughtn't to have left you. Tighten up your reins; we'll drive on if youdon't mind. "

That night after the moon had set and the lights had been turned outalong the boardwalk and the upper and lower porticos and all BeachHaven had turned in for the night, and Lucy had gone to her apartments, and Mr. And Mrs. Coates and the rest of them, single and double, wereasleep, Max, who had been pacing up and down his dressing-room, stoppedsuddenly before his mirror, and lifting the shade from the lamp, made acritical examination of his face. 

"Forty, and I look it!" he said, pinching his chin with his thumb andforefinger, and turning his cheek so that the light would fall on thefew gray hairs about his temples. "That beggar Miggs said so yesterdayat the club. By gad, how pretty she was, and how her eyes snapped! Ididn't think it was in her!"

CHAPTER XVIII

THE SWEDE'S STORY

Captain Holt had selected his crew--picked surfmen, every one ofthem--and the chief of the bureau had endorsed the list without commentor inquiry. The captain's own appointment as keeper of the newLife-Saving Station was due as much to his knowledge of men as to hisskill as a seaman, and so when his list was sent in--men he said hecould "vouch for"--it took but a moment for the chief to write"Approved" across its face. 

Isaac Polhemus came first: Sixty years of age, silent, gray, thick-set;face scarred and seamed by many weathers, but fresh as a baby's; twochina-blue eyes--peep-holes through which you looked into his openheart; shoulders hard and tough as cordwood hands a bunch of knots;legs like snubbing-posts, body quick-moving; brain quick-thinking;alert as a dog when on duty, calm as a sleepy cat beside a stove whenhis time was his own. Sixty only in years, this man; forty in strengthand in skill, twenty in suppleness, and a one-year-old toddling infantin all that made for guile. "Uncle Ike" some of the younger men oncecalled him, wondering behind their hands whether he was not too old andbelieving all the time that he was. "Uncle Ike" they still called him, but it was a title of affection and pride; affection for the manunderneath the blue woollen shirt, and pride because they were deemedworthy to pull an oar beside him. 

The change took place the winter before when he was serving atManasquan and when he pulled four men single-handed from out of a surfthat would have staggered the bravest. There was no life-boat withinreach and no hand to help. It was at night--a snowstorm raging and thesea a corral of hungry beasts fighting the length of the beach. Theshipwrecked crew had left their schooner pounding on the outer bar, andfinding their cries drowned by the roar of the waters, had taken totheir boat. She came bow on, the sea-drenched sailors clinging to hersides. Uncle Isaac Polhemus caught sight of her just as a savagepursuing roller dived under her stern, lifted the frail shell on itsbroad back, and whirled it bottom side up and stern foremost on to thebeach. Dashing into the suds, he jerked two of the crew to their feetbefore they knew what had struck them; then sprang back for the othersclinging to the seats and slowly drowning in the smother. Twice heplunged headlong after them, bracing himself against the backsuck, thenwith the help of his steel-like grip all four were dragged clear of thesouse. Ever after it was "Uncle Isaac" or "that old hang-on, " butalways with a lifting of the chin in pride. 

Samuel Green came next: Forty-five, long, Lincoln-bodied, and bony;coal-black hair, coal-black eyes, and charcoal-black mustache; necklike a loop in standing rigging; arms long as cant-hooks, with thesteel grips for fingers; sluggish in movement and slow in action untilthe supreme moment of danger tautened his nerves to breaking point;then came an instantaneous spring, quick as the recoil of a partedhawser. All his life a fisherman except the five years he spent in theArctic and the year he served at Squan; later he had helped in thevolunteer crew alongshore. Loving the service, he had sent word over toCaptain Holt that he'd like "to be put on, " to which the captain hadsent back word by the same messenger "Tell him he IS put on. " And heWAS, as soon as the papers were returned from Washington. Captain Nathad no record to look up or inquiries to make as to the character orfitness of Sam Green. He was the man who the winter before had slippeda rope about his body, plunged into the surf and swam out to the brigGorgus and brought back three out of the five men lashed to therigging, all too benumbed to make fast the shot-line fired across herdeck. 

Charles Morgan's name followed in regular order, and then Parks--menwho had sailed with Captain Holt, and whose word and pluck he coulddepend upon; and Mulligan from Barnegat, who could pull a boat with thebest of them; and last, and least in years, those two slim, tightlyknit, lithe young tiger-cats, Tod and Archie. 

Captain Nat had overhauled each man and had inspected him as closely ashe would have done the timber for a new mast or the manila to make itsrigging. Here was a service that required cool heads, honest hearts, and the highest technical skill, and the men under him must be sound tothe core. He intended to do his duty, and so should every man subjectto his orders. The Government had trusted him and he held himselfresponsible. This would probably be his last duty, and it would be welldone. He was childless, sixty-five years old, and had been idle foryears. Now he would show his neighbors something of his skill and hispower to command. He did not need the pay; he needed the occupation andthe being in touch with the things about him. For the last fifteen ormore years he had nursed a sorrow and lived the life almost of arecluse. It was time he threw it off. 

During the first week of service, with his crew about him, he explainedto them in minute detail their several duties. Each day in the weekwould have its special work: Monday would be beach drill, practisingwith the firing gun and line and the safety car. Tuesday was boatdrill; running the boat on its wagon to the edge of the sea, unloadingit, and pushing it into the surf, each man in his place, oars poised, the others springing in and taking their seats beside their mates. OnWednesdays flag drills; practising with the international code ofsignals, so as to communicate with stranded vessels. Thursdays, beachapparatus again. Friday, resuscitation of drowning men. Saturday, scrub-day; every man except himself and the cook (each man was cook inturn for a week) on his knees with bucket and brush, and every floor, chair, table, and window scoured clean. Sunday, a day of rest, exceptfor the beach patrol, which at night never ceased, and which by dayonly ceased when the sky was clear of snow and fog. 

This night patrol would be divided into watches of four hours each ateight, twelve, and four. Two of the crew were to make the tramp of thebeach, separating opposite the Station, one going south two and a halfmiles to meet the surfman from the next Station, and the other goingnorth to the inlet; exchanging their brass checks each with the other, as a record of their faithfulness. 

In addition to these brass checks each patrol would carry three Costonsignal cartridges in a water-proof box, and a holder into which theywere fitted, the handle having an igniter working on a spring toexplode the cartridge, which burned a red light. Thesewill-o'-the-wisps, flashed suddenly from out a desolate coast, havesent a thrill of hope through the heart of many a man clinging tofrozen rigging or lashed to some piece of wreckage that the hungrysurf, lying in wait, would pounce upon and chew to shreds. 

The men listened gravely to the captain's words and took up theirduties. Most of them knew them before, and no minute explanations werenecessary. Skilled men understand the value of discipline and prefer itto any milder form of government. Archie was the only member who raisedhis eyes in astonishment when the captain, looking his way, mentionedthe scrubbing and washing, each man to take his turn, but he made noreply except to nudge Tod and say under his breath:

"Wouldn't you like to see Aunt Lucy's face when she comes some Saturdaymorning? She'll be pleased, won't she?" As to the cooking, that did notbother him; he and Tod had cooked many a meal on Fogarty's stove, andmother Fogarty had always said Archie could beat her any day makingbiscuit and doughnuts and frying ham. 

Before the second week was out the Station had fallen into its regularroutine. The casual visitor during the sunny hours of the softSeptember days when practice drill was over might see only a lonelyhouse built on the sand; and upon entering, a few men leaning back intheir chairs against the wall of the living-room reading the papers orsmoking their pipes, and perhaps a few others leisurely overhauling theapparatus, making minor repairs, or polishing up some detail theweather had dulled. At night, too, with the radiance of the moon makinga pathway of silver across the gentle swell of the sleepy surf, hewould doubtless wonder at their continued idle life as he watched thetwo surfmen separate and begin their walk up and down the beach radiantin the moonlight. But he would change his mind should he chance upon anorth-easterly gale, the sea a froth in which no boat could live, theslant of a sou'wester the only protection against the cruel lash of thewind. If this glimpse was not convincing, let him stand in the door oftheir house in the stillness of a winter's night, and catch the shoutand rush of the crew tumbling from their bunks at the cry of "Wreckashore!" from the lips of some breathless patrol who had stumbled oversand-dunes or plunged through snowdrifts up to his waist to givewarning. It will take less than a minute to swing wide the doors, grapple the life-boat and apparatus and whirl them over the dunes tothe beach; and but a moment more to send a solid shot flying throughthe air on its mission of mercy. And there is no time lost. Ten menhave been landed in forty-five minutes through or over a surf thatcould be heard for miles; rescuers and rescued half dead. But no manlet go his grip nor did any heart quail. Their duty was in front ofthem; that was what the Government paid for, and that was what theywould earn--every penny of it. 

The Station house in order, the captain was ready for visitors--thosehe wanted. Those he did not want--the riffraff of the ship-yard and theloungers about the taverns--he told politely to stay away; and as theland was Government property and his will supreme, he was obeyed. 

Little Ellen had been the first guest, and by special invitation. 

"All ready, Miss Jane, for you and the doctor and the Pond Lily; bringher down any time. That's what kind o' makes it lonely lyin' shut upwith the men. We ain't got no flowers bloomin' 'round, and the sandgits purty white and blank-lookin' sometimes. Bring her down, you andthe doctor; she's better'n a pot full o' daisies. "

The doctor, thus commanded, brought her over in his gig, Jane, besidehim, holding the child in her lap. And Archie helped them out, liftinghis good mother in his arms clear of the wheel, skirts and all--thecrew standing about looking on. Some of them knew Jane and came in fora hearty handshake, and all of them knew the doctor. There was hardly aman among them whose cabin he had not visited--not once, but dozens oftimes. 

With her fair cheeks, golden curls, and spotless frock, the child, among those big men, some in their long hip boots and rough reefingjackets, looked like some fairy that had come in with the morning mistand who might be off on the next breeze. 

Archie had her hugged close to his breast and had started in to showher the cot where he slept, the kitchen where he was to cook, and thepeg in the hall where he hung his sou'wester and tarpaulins--everysurfman had his peg, order being imperative with Captain Nat--when thatold sea-dog caught the child out of the young fellow's arms and placedher feet on the sand. 

"No, Cobden, "--that was another peculiarity of the captain's, --everyman went by his last name, and he had begun with Archie to show the menhe meant it. "No, that little posy is mine for to-day. Come along, yourosebud; I'm goin' to show you the biggest boat you ever saw, and a gunon wheels; and I've got a lot o' shells the men has been pickin' up forye. Oh, but you're goin' to have a beautiful time, lassie!"

The child looked up in the captain's face, and her wee hand tightenedaround his rough stubs of fingers. Archie then turned to Jane and withTod's help the three made a tour of the house, the doctor following, inspecting the captain's own room with its desk and papers, the kitchenwith all its appointments, the outhouse for wood and coal, thestaircase leading to the sleeping-rooms above, and at the very top thesmall ladder leading to the cupola on the roof, where the lookout keptwatch on clear days for incoming steamers. On their return Mulliganspread a white oil-cloth on the pine table and put out a china platefilled with some cake that he had baked the night before, and whichGreen supplemented by a pitcher of water from the cistern. 

Each one did something to please her. Archie handed her the biggestpiece of cake on the dish, and Uncle Isaac left the room in a hurry andstumbling upstairs went through his locker and hauled out the head of awooden doll which he had picked up on the beach in one of his daypatrols and which he had been keeping for one of hisgrand-children--all blighted with the sun and scarred with salt water, but still showing a full set of features, much to Ellen's delight; andSam Green told her of his own little girl, just her age, who lived upin the village and whom he saw every two weeks, and whose hair was justthe color of hers. Meanwhile the doctor chatted with the men, and Jane, with her arm locked in Archie's, so proud and so tender over him, inspected each appointment and comfort of the house withever-increasing wonder. 

And so, with the visit over, the gig was loaded up, and with Ellenwaving her hand to the men and kissing her finger-tips in true Frenchstyle to the captain and Archie, and the crew responding in a heartycheer, the party drove, past the old House of Refuge, and so on back toWarehold and Yardley. 

One August afternoon, some days after this visit, Tod stood in the doorof the Station looking out to sea. The glass had been falling all dayand a dog-day haze had settled down over the horizon. This, as theafternoon advanced, had become so thick that the captain had orderedout the patrols, and Archie and Green were already tramping thebeach--Green to the inlet and Archie to meet the surfmen of the stationbelow. Park, who was cook this week, had gone to the village forsupplies, and so the captain and Tod were alone in the house, theothers, with the exception of Morgan, who was at his home in thevillage with a sprained ankle, being at work some distance away on acrosshead over which the life-line was always fired in gun practice. 

Suddenly Tod, who was leaning against the jamb of the door speculatingover what kind of weather the night would bring, and wondering whetherthe worst of it would fall in his watch, jerked his neck out of hiswoollen shirt and strained his eyes in the direction of the beach untilthey rested upon the figure of a man slowly making his way over thedunes. As he passed the old House of Refuge, some hundreds of yardsbelow, he stopped for a moment as if undecided on his course, lookedahead again at the larger house of the Station, and then, as ifreassured, came stumbling on, his gait showing his want of experiencein avoiding the holes and tufts of grass cresting the dunes. Hismovements were so awkward and his walk so unusual in that neighborhoodthat Tod stepped out on the low porch of the Station to get a betterview of him. 

From the man's dress, and from his manner of looking about him, as iffeeling his way, Tod concluded that he was a stranger and had trampedthe beach for the first time. At the sight of the surfman the man leftthe dune, struck the boat path, and walked straight toward the porch. 

"Kind o' foggy, ain't it?"

"Yes, " replied Tod, scrutinizing the man's face and figure, particularly his clothes, which were queerly cut and with a foreign airabout them. He saw, too, that he was strong and well built, and notover thirty years of age. 

"You work here?" continued the stranger, mounting the steps and comingcloser, his eyes taking in Tod, the porch, and the view of thesitting-room through the open window. 

"I do, " answered Tod in the same tone, his eyes still on the man's face. 

"Good job, is it?" he asked, unbuttoning his coat. 

"I get enough to eat, " answered Tod curtly, "and enough to do. " He hadresumed his position against the jamb of the door and stood perfectlyimpassive, without offering any courtesy of any kind. Strangers whoasked questions were never very welcome. Then, again, the inquiry abouthis private life nettled him. 

The man, without noticing the slight rebuff, looked about for a seat, settled down on the top step of the porch, pulled his cap from hishead, and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of one hand. Then he said slowly, as if to himself:

"I took the wrong road and got consid'able het up. "

Tod watched him while he mopped his head with a red cottonhandkerchief, but made no reply. Curiosity is not the leadingcharacteristic of men who follow the sea. 

"Is the head man around? His name's Holt, ain't it?" continued thestranger, replacing his cap and stuffing his handkerchief into theside-pocket of his coat. 

As the words fell from his lips Tod's quick eye caught a sudden gleamlike that of a search-light flashed from beneath the heavy eyebrows ofthe speaker. 

"That's his name, " answered Tod. "Want to see him? He's inside. " Thesurfman had not yet changed his position nor moved a muscle of hisbody. Tiger cats are often like this. 

Captain Holt's burly form stepped from the door. He had overheard theconversation, and not recognizing the voice had come to find out whatthe man wanted. 

"You lookin' for me? I'm Captain Holt. What kin I do for ye?" asked thecaptain in his quick, imperious way. 

"That's what he said, sir, " rejoined Tod, bringing himself to an erectposition in deference to his chief. 

The stranger rose from his seat and took his cap from his head. 

"I'm out o' work, sir, and want a job, and I thought you might take meon. "

Tod was now convinced that the stranger was a foreigner. No man ofTod's class ever took his hat off to his superior officer. They hadother ways of showing their respect for his authority--instantobedience, before and behind his back, for instance. 

The captain's eyes absorbed the man from his thick shoes to hisperspiring hair. 

"Norwegian, ain't ye?"

"No, sir; Swede. "

"Not much difference. When did ye leave Sweden? You talk purty good. "

"When I was a boy. "

"What kin ye do?"

"I'm a good derrick man and been four years with a coaler. "

"You want steady work, I suppose. "

The stranger nodded. 

"Well, I ain't got it. Gov'ment app'ints our men. This is a Life-SavingStation. "

The stranger stood twisting his cap. The first statement seemed to makebut little impression on him; the second aroused a keener interest. 

"Yes, I know. Just new built, ain't it? and you just put in charge?Captain Nathaniel Holt's your name--am I right?"

"Yes, you're just right. " And the captain, dismissing the man and theincident from his mind, turned on his heel, walked the length of thenarrow porch and stood scanning the sky and the blurred horizon line. The twilight was now deepening and a red glow shimmered through thesettling fog. 

"Fogarty!" cried the captain, beckoning over his shoulder with his head. 

Tod stepped up and stood at attention; as quick in reply as if twosteel springs were fastened to his heels. 

"Looks rather soapy, Fogarty. May come on thick. Better take a turn tothe inlet and see if that yawl is in order. We might have to cross itto-night. We can't count on this weather. When you meet Green send himback here. That shot-line wants overhaulin'. " Here the captainhesitated and looked intently at the stranger. "And here, you Swede, "he called in a louder tone of command, "you go 'long and lend a hand, and when you come back I'll have some supper for ye. "

One of Tod's springs must have slid under the Swede's shoes. Either theprospect of a meal or of having a companion to whom he could lend ahand--nothing so desolate as a man out of work--a stranger at that--hadput new life into his hitherto lethargic body. 

"This way, " said Tod, striding out toward the surf. 

The Swede hurried to his side and the two crossed the boat runway, ploughed through the soft drift of the dune, and striking the hard, wetsand of the beach, headed for the inlet. Tod having his high, waterproof boots on, tramped along the edge of the incoming surf, thehalf-circles of suds swashing past his feet and spreading themselves upthe slope. The sand was wet here and harder on that account, and thewalking better. The Swede took the inside course nearer the shore. SoonTod began to realize that the interest the captain had shown in theunknown man and the brief order admitting him for a time to membershipin the crew placed the stranger on a different footing. He was, so tospeak, a comrade and, therefore, entitled to a little more courtesy. This clear in his mind, he allowed his tongue more freedom; not that hehad any additional interest in the man--he only meant to be polite. 

"What you been workin' at?" he asked, kicking an empty tin can that thetide had rolled within his reach. Work is the universal topic; theweather is too serious a subject to chatter about lightly. 

"Last year or two?" asked the Swede, quickening his pace to keep up. Tod's steel springs always kept their original temper while thecaptain's orders were being executed and never lost their buoyancyuntil these orders were entirely carried out. 

"Yes, " replied Tod. 

"Been a-minin'; runnin' the ore derricks and the shaft h'isters. Whatyou been doin'?" And the man glanced at Tod from under his cap. 

"Fishin'. See them poles out there? You kin just git sight o' them inthe smoke. Them's my father's. He's out there now, I guess, if he ain'tcome in. "

"You live 'round here?" The man's legs were shorter than Tod's, and hewas taking two steps to Tod's one. 

"Yes, you passed the House o' Refuge, didn't ye, comin' up? I waswatchin' ye. Well, you saw that cabin with the fence 'round it?"

"Yes; the woman told me where I'd find the cap'n. You know her, Is'pose?" asked the Swede. 

"Yes, she's my mother, and that's my home. I was born there. " Tod'swords were addressed to the perspective of the beach and to the way thehaze blurred the horizon; surfmen rarely see anything else when walkingon the beach, whether on or off duty. 

"You know everybody 'round here, don't you?" remarked the Swede in acasual tone. The same quick, inquiring glance shot out of the man'seyes. 

"Yes, guess so, " answered Tod with another kick. Here the remains of anold straw hat shared the fate of the can. 

"You ever heard tell of a woman named Lucy Cobden, lives 'round heresomewheres?"

Tod came to a halt as suddenly as if he had run into a derelict. 

"I don't know no WOMAN, " he answered slowly, accentuating the lastword. "I know a LADY named Miss Jane Cobden. Why?" and he scrutinizedthe man's face. 

"One I mean's got a child--big now--must be fifteen or twenty yearsold--girl, ain't it?"

"No, it's a boy. He's one of the crew here; his name's Archie Cobden. Me and him's been brothers since we was babies. What do you know abouthim?" Tod had resumed his walk, but at a slower pace. 

"Nothin'; that's why I ask. " The man had also become interested in theflotsam of the beach, and had stopped to pick up a dam-shell which heshied into the surf. Then he added slowly, and as if not to make apoint of the inquiry, "Is she alive?"

"Yes. Here this week. Lives up in Warehold in that big house with thebrick gate-posts. "

The man walked on for some time in silence and then asked:

"You're sure the child is livin' and that the mother's name is Jane?"

"Sure? Don't I tell ye Cobden's in the crew and Miss Jane was here thisweek! He's up the beach on patrol or you'd 'a' seen him when you fuststruck the Station. "

The stranger quickened his steps. The information seemed to have putnew life into him again. 

"Did you ever hear of a man named Bart Holt, " he asked, "who used to be'round here?" Neither man was looking at the other as they talked. Theconversation was merely to pass the time of day. 

"Yes; he's the captain's son. Been dead for years. Died some'er's outin Brazil, so I've heard my father say. Had fever or something. "

The Swede walked on in silence for some minutes. Then he stopped, facedTod, took hold of the lapel of his coat, and said slowly, as he peeredinto his eyes:

"He ain't dead, no more'n you and I be. I worked for him for two years. He run the mines on a percentage. I got here last week, and he sent medown to find out how the land lay. If the woman was dead I was to saynothing and come back. If she was alive I was to tell the captain, hisfather, where a letter could reach him. They had some bad blood 'twixt'em, but he didn't tell me what it was about. He may come home here tolive, or he may go back to the mines; it's just how the old man takesit. That's what I've got to say to him. How do you think he'll take it?"

For a moment Tod made no reply. He was trying to make up his mind whatpart of the story was true and what part was skilfully put together toprovide, perhaps, additional suppers. The improbability of the wholeaffair struck him with unusual force. Raising hopes of a long-lost sonin the breast of a father was an old dodge and often meant the raisingof money. 

"Well, I can't say, " Tod answered carelessly; he had his own opinionnow of the stranger. "You'll have to see the captain about that. If theman's alive it's rather funny he ain't showed up all these years. "

"Well, keep mum 'bout it, will ye, till I talk to him? Here comes oneo' your men. "

Green's figure now loomed up out of the mist. 

"Where away, Tod?" the approaching surfman cried when he joined the two. 

"Captain wants me to look after the yawl, " answered Tod. 

"It's all right, " cried Green; "I just left it. Went down a-purpose. Who's yer friend?"

"A man the cap'n sent along to lend a hand. This is Sam Green, " and heturned to the Swede and nodded to his brother surfman. 

The two shook hands. The stranger had not volunteered his name and Todhad not asked for it. Names go for little among men who obey orders;they serve merely as labels and are useful in a payroll, but they donot add to the value of the owner or help his standing in any way. "Shorty" or "Fatty" or "Big Mike" is all sufficient. What the man canDO and how he does it, is more important. 

"No use goin' to the inlet, " continued Green. "I'll report to thecaptain. Come along back. I tell ye it's gettin' thick, " and he lookedout across the breakers, only the froth line showing in the dimtwilight. 

The three turned and retraced their steps. 

Tod quickened his pace and stepped into the house ahead of the others. Not only did he intend to tell the captain of what he had heard, but heintended to tell him at once. 

Captain Holt was in his private room, sitting at his desk, busy overhis monthly report. A swinging kerosene lamp hanging from the ceilingthrew a light full on his ruddy face framed in a fringe of graywhiskers. Tod stepped in and closed the door behind him. 

"I didn't go to the inlet, sir. Green had thought of the yawl and hadlooked after it; he'll report to you about it. I just heard a strangeyarn from that fellow you sent with me and I want to tell ye what itis. "

The captain laid down his pen, pushed his glasses from his eyes, andlooked squarely into Tod's face. 

"He's been askin' 'bout Miss Jane Cobden and Archie, and says your sonBart is alive and sent him down here to find out how the land lay. It'sa cock-and-bull story, but I give it to you just as I got it. "

Once in the South Seas the captain awoke to look into the muzzle of adouble-barrelled shot-gun held in the hand of the leader of a mutiny. The next instant the man was on the floor, the captain's fingerstwisted in his throat. 

Tod's eyes were now the barrels of that gun. No cat-like springfollowed; only a cold, stony stare, as if he were awaking from aconcussion that had knocked the breath out of him. 

"He says Bart's ALIVE!" he gasped. "Who? That feller I sent with ye?"

"Yes. "

The captain's face grew livid and then flamed up, every vein standingclear, his eyes blazing. 

"He's a liar! A dirty liar! Bring him in!" Each word hissed from hislips like an explosive. 

Tod opened the door of the sitting-room and the Swede stepped in. Thecaptain whirled his chair suddenly and faced him. Anger, doubt, and theflicker of a faint hope were crossing his face with the movement ofheat lightning. 

"You know my son, you say?"

"I do. " The answer was direct and the tone positive. 

"What's his name?"

"Barton Holt. He signs it different, but that's his name. "

"How old is he?" The pitch of the captain's voice had altered. Heintended to riddle the man's statement with a cross-fire of examination. 

"'Bout forty, maybe forty-five. He never told

"What kind of eyes?"

"Brown, like yours. "

"What kind of hair?"

"Curly. It's gray now; he had fever, and it turned. "

"Where--when?" Hope and fear were now struggling for the mastery. 

"Two years ago--when I first knew him; we were in hospital together. "

"What's he been doin'?" The tone was softer. Hope seemed to be strongernow. 

"Mining out in Brazil. "

The captain took his eyes from the face of the man and asked insomething of his natural tone of voice:

"Where is he now?"

The Swede put his hand in his inside pocket and took out a smalltime-book tied around with a piece of faded tape. This he slowlyunwound, Tod's and the captain's eyes following every turn of hisfingers. Opening the book, he glanced over the leaves, found the one hewas looking for, tore it carefully from the book, and handed it to thecaptain. 

"That's his writing. If you want to see him send him a line to thataddress. It'll reach him all right. If you don't want to see him he'llgo back with me to Rio. I don't want yer supper and I don't want yerjob. I done what I promised and that's all there is to it. Good-night, "and he opened the door and disappeared in the darkness. 

Captain Holt sat with his head on his chest looking at the floor infront of him. The light of the banging lamp made dark shadows under hiseyebrows and under his chin whiskers. There was a firm set to hisclean-shaven lips, but the eyes burned with a gentle light; a certainhope, positive now, seemed to be looming up in them. 

Tod watched him for an instant, and said:

"What do ye think of it, cap'n?"

"I ain't made up my mind. "

"Is he lyin'?"

"I don't know. Seems too good to be true. He's got some things right;some things he ain't. Keep your mouth shut till I tell ye to openit--to Cobden, mind ye, and everybody else. Better help Green overhaulthat line. That'll do, Fogarty. "

Tod dipped his head--his sign of courteous assent--and backed out ofthe room. The captain continued motionless, his eyes fixed on space. Once he turned, picked up the paper, scrutinized the handwriting wordfor word, and tossed it back on the desk. Then he rose from his seatand began pacing the floor, stopping to gaze at a chart on the wall, atthe top of the stove, at the pendulum of the clock, surveying themleisurely. Once he looked out of the window at the flare of light fromhis swinging lamp, stencilled on the white sand and the gray line ofthe dunes beyond. At each of these resting-places his face assumed adifferent expression; hope, fear, and anger again swept across it ashis judgment struggled with his heart. In one of his turns up and downthe small room he laid his hand on a brick lying on thewindow-sill--one that had been sent by the builders of the Station as asample. This he turned over carefully, examining the edges and color asif he had seen it for the first time and had to pass judgment upon itsdefects or merits. Laying it back in its place, he threw himself intohis chair again, exclaiming aloud, as if talking to someone:

"It ain't true. He'd wrote before if he were alive. He was wild andkeerless, but he never was dirt-mean, and he wouldn't a-treated me soall these years. The Swede's a liar, I tell ye!"

Wheeling the chair around to face the desk, he picked up a pen, dippedit into the ink, laid it back on the desk, picked it up again, opened adrawer on his right, took from it a sheet of official paper, and wrotea letter of five lines. This he enclosed in the envelope, directed tothe name on the slip of paper. Then he opened the door. 

"Fogarty. "

"Yes, cap'n. "

"Take this to the village and drop it in the post yourself. Theweather's clearin', and you won't be wanted for a while, " and he strodeout and joined his men. 

CHAPTER XIX

THE BREAKING OF THE DAWN

September weather on Barnegat beach! Fine gowns and fine hats on thewide piazzas of Beach Haven! Too cool for bathing, but not too cool tosit on the sand and throw pebbles and loll under kindly umbrellas; airfresh and bracing, with a touch of June in it; skies full ofmares'-tails--slips of a painter's brush dragged flat across the filmof blue; sea gone to rest; not a ripple, no long break of the surf, only a gentle lift and fall like the breathing of a sleeping child. 

Uncle Isaac shook his head when he swept his eye round at all thisloveliness; then he turned on his heel and took a look at the aneroidfastened to the wall of the sitting-room of the Life-Saving Station. The arrow showed a steady shrinkage. The barometer had fallen sixpoints. 

"What do ye think, Captain Holt?" asked the old surfman. 

"I ain't thinkin', Polhemus; can't tell nothin' 'bout the weather thismonth till the moon changes; may go on this way for a week or two, orit may let loose and come out to the sou'-east I've seen these dog-dayslast till October. "

Again Uncle Isaac shook his head, and this time kept his peace; nowthat his superior officer had spoken he had no further opinion toexpress. 

Sam Green dropped his feet to the floor, swung himself over to thebarometer, gazed at it for a moment, passed out of the door, swept hiseye around, and resumed his seat--tilted back against the wall. Whathis opinion might be was not for publication--not in the captain'shearing. 

Captain Holt now consulted the glass, picked up his cap bearing theinsignia of his rank, and went out through the kitchen to the land sideof the house. The sky and sea--feathery clouds and still, oilyflatness--did not interest him this September morning. It was therolling dune that caught his eye, and the straggly path that threadedits way along the marshes and around and beyond the clump of scrubpines and bushes until it was lost in the haze that hid the village. This land inspection had been going on for a month, and always when Todwas returning from the post-office with the morning mail. The men hadnoticed it, but no one had given vent to his thoughts. 

Tod, of course, knew the cause of the captain's impatience, but no oneof the others did, not even Archie; time enough for that when theSwede's story was proved true. If the fellow had lied that was an endto it; if he had told the truth Bart would answer, and the mystery becleared up. This same silence had been maintained toward Jane and thedoctor; better not raise hopes he could not verify--certainly not inJane's breast. 

Not that he had much hope himself; he dared not hope. Hope meant a propto his old age; hope meant joy to Jane, who would welcome the prodigal;hope meant relief to the doctor, who could then claim his own; hopemeant redemption for Lucy, a clean name for Archie, and honor tohimself and his only son. 

No wonder, then, that he watched for an answer to his letter withfeverish impatience. His own missive had been blunt and to the point, asking the direct question: "Are you alive or dead, and if alive, whydid you fool me with that lie about your dying of fever in a hospitaland keep me waiting all these years?" Anything more would have beensuperfluous in the captain's judgment--certainly until he received somemore definite information as to whether the man was his son. 

Half a dozen times this lovely September morning the captain hadstrolled leisurely out of the back door and had mounted the low hillockfor a better view. Suddenly a light flashed in his face, followed by alook in his eyes that they had not known for weeks--not since the Swedeleft. The light came when his glance fell upon Tod's lithe figureswinging along the road; the look kindled when he saw Tod stop and wavehis hand triumphantly over his head. 

The letter had arrived!

With a movement as quick as that of a horse touched by a whip, hestarted across the sand to meet the surfman. 

"Guess we got it all right this time, captain, " cried Tod. "It's gotthe Nassau postmark, anyhow. There warn't nothin' else in the box butthe newspapers, " and he handed the package to his chief. 

The two walked to the house and entered the captain's office. Tod hungback, but the captain laid his hand on his shoulder. 

"Come in with me, Fogarty. Shut the door. I'll send these papers in tothe men soon's I open this. "

Tod obeyed mechanically. There was a tone in the captain's voice thatwas new to him. It sounded as if he were reluctant to be left alonewith the letter. 

"Now hand me them spectacles. "

Tod reached over and laid the glasses in his chief's hand. The captainsettled himself deliberately in his revolving chair, adjusted hisspectacles, and slit the envelope with his thumb-nail. Out came a sheetof foolscap closely written on both sides. This he read to the end, turning the page as carefully as if it had been a set of officialinstructions, his face growing paler and paler, his mouth tight shut. Tod stood beside him watching the lights and shadows playing across hisface. The letter was as follows:

"Nassau, No. 4 Calle Valenzuela, "Aug. 29, 18--. 

"Father: Your letter was not what I expected, although it is, perhaps, all I deserve. I am not going into that part of it, now I know thatLucy and my child are alive. What has been done in the past I can'tundo, and maybe I wouldn't if I could, for if I am worth anythingto-day it comes from what I have suffered; that's over now, and I won'trake it up, but I think you would have written me some word of kindnessif you had known what I have gone through since I left you. I don'tblame you for what you did--I don't blame anybody; all I want now is toget back home among the people who knew me when I was a boy, and tryand make up for the misery I have caused you and the Cobdens. I wouldhave done this before, but it has only been for the last two years thatI have had any money. I have got an interest in the mine now and amconsiderably ahead, and I can do what I have always determined to do ifI ever had the chance and means--come home to Lucy and the child; itmust be big now--and take them back with me to Bolivia, where I have agood home and where, in a few years, I shall be able to give themeverything they need. That's due to her and to the child, and it's dueto you; and if she'll come I'll do my best to make her happy while shelives. I heard about five years ago from a man who worked for a shorttime in Farguson's ship-yard how she was suffering, and what names thepeople called the child, and my one thought ever since has been to dothe decent thing by both. I couldn't then, for I was living in a hutback in the mountains a thousand miles from the coast, or tramping fromplace to place; so I kept still. He told me, too, how you felt towardme, and I didn't want to come and have bad blood between us, and so Istayed on. When Olssen Strom, my foreman, sailed for Perth Amboy, wherethey are making some machinery for the company, I thought I'd tryagain, so I sent him to find out. One thing in your letter is wrong. Inever went to the hospital with yellow fever; some of the men had itaboard ship, and I took one of them to the ward the night I ran away. The doctor at the hospital wanted my name, and I gave it, and this mayhave been how they thought it was me, but I did not intend to deceiveyou or anybody else, nor cover up any tracks. Yes, father, I'm cominghome. If you'll hold out your hand to me I'll take it gladly. I've hada hard time since I left you; you'd forgive me if you knew how hard ithas been. I haven't had anybody out here to care whether I lived ordied, and I would like to see how it feels. But if you don't I can'thelp it. My hope is that Lucy and the boy will feel differently. Thereis a steamer sailing from here next Wednesday; she goes direct toAmboy, and you may expect me on her. Your son, "Barton. "

"It's him, Tod, " cried the captain, shaking the letter over his head;"it's him!" The tears stood in his eyes now, his voice trembled; hisiron nerve was giving way. "Alive, and comin' home! Be here next week!Keep the door shut, boy, till I pull myself together. Oh, my God, Tod, think of it! I haven't had a day's peace since I druv him out nigh onto twenty year ago. He hurt me here"--and he pointed to hisbreast--"where I couldn't forgive him. But it's all over now. He's cometo himself like a man, and he's square and honest, and he's goin' tostay home till everything is straightened out. O God! it can't be true!it CAN'T be true!"

He was sobbing now, his face hidden by his wrist and the cuff of hiscoat, the big tears striking his pea-jacket and bounding off. It hadbeen many years since these springs had yielded a drop--not whenanybody could see. They must have scalded his rugged cheeks as moltenmetal scalds a sand-pit. 

Tod stood amazed. The outburst was a revelation. He had known thecaptain ever since he could remember, but always as an austere, exacting man. 

"I'm glad, captain, " Tod said simply; "the men'll be glad, too. Shall Itell 'em?"

The captain raised his head. 

"Wait a minute, son. " His heart was very tender, all discipline wasforgotten now; and then he had known Tod from his boyhood. "I'll gomyself and tell 'em, " and he drew his hand across his eyes as if to drythem. "Yes, tell 'em. Come, I'll go 'long with ye and tell 'em myself. I ain't 'shamed of the way I feel, and the men won't be 'shamedneither. "

The sitting-room was full when he entered. Dinner had been announced byMorgan, who was cook that week, by shouting the glad tidings from hisplace beside the stove, and the men were sitting about in their chairs. Two fishermen who had come for their papers occupied seats against thewall. 

The captain walked to the corner of the table, stood behind his ownchair and rested the knuckles of one hand on the white oilcloth. Thelook on his face attracted every eye. Pausing for a moment, he turnedto Polhemus and spoke to him for the others:

"Isaac, I got a letter just now. Fogarty brought it over. You knew myboy Bart, didn't ye, the one that's been dead nigh on to twenty years?"

The old surfman nodded, his eyes still fastened on the captain. Thiscalling him "Isaac" was evidence that something personal and unusualwas coming. The men, too, leaned forward in attention; the story ofBart's disappearance and death had been discussed up and down the coastfor years. 

"Well, he's alive, " rejoined the captain with a triumphant tone in hisvoice, "and he'll be here in a week--comin' to Amboy on a steamer. There ain't no mistake about it; here's his letter. "

The announcement was received in dead silence. To be surprised was notcharacteristic of these men, especially over a matter of this kind. Death was a part of their daily experience, and a resurrection neitherextraordinary nor uncommon. They were glad for the captain, if thecaptain was glad--and he, evidently was. But what did Bart's turning upat this late day mean? Had his money given out, or was he figuring toget something out of his father--something he couldn't get as long ashe remained dead?

The captain continued, his voice stronger and with a more positive ringin it:

"He's part owner in a mine now, and he's comin' home to see me and tostraighten out some things he's interested in. " It was the first timein nearly twenty years that he had ever been able to speak of his sonwith pride. 

A ripple of pleasure went through the room. If the prodigal wasbringing some money with him and was not to be a drag on the captain, that put a new aspect on the situation. In that case the father was tobe congratulated. 

"Well, that's a comfort to you, captain, " cried Uncle Isaac in a cheerytone. "A good son is a good thing. I never had one, dead or alive, butI'd 'a' loved him if I had had. I'm glad for you, Captain Nat, and Iknow the men are. " (Polhemus's age and long friendship gave him thisprivilege. Then, of course, the occasion was not an official one. )

"Been at the mines, did ye say, captain?" remarked Green. Not that itwas of any interest to him; merely to show his appreciation of thecaptain's confidence. This could best be done by prolonging theconversation. 

"Yes, up in the mountains of Brazil some'er's, I guess, though he don'tsay, " answered the captain in a tone that showed that the subject wasstill open for discussion. 

Mulligan now caught the friendly ball and tossed it back 'with:

"I knowed a feller once who was in Brazil--so he said. Purty hot downthere, ain't it, captain?"

"Yes; on the coast. I ain't never been back in the interior. "

Tod kept silent. It was not his time to speak, nor would it be properfor him, nor necessary. His chief knew his opinion and sympathies andno word of his could add to their sincerity. 

Archie was the only man in the room, except Uncle Isaac, who regardedthe announcement as personal to the captain. Boys without fathers andfathers without boys had been topics which had occupied his mind eversince he could remember. That this old man had found one of his ownwhom he loved and whom he wanted to get his arms around, was aninspiring thought to Archie. 

"There's no one happier than I am, captain, " he burst outenthusiastically. "I've often heard of your son, and of his going awayand of your giving him up for dead. I'm mighty glad for you, " and hegrasped his chief's hand and shook it heartily. 

As the lad's fingers closed around the rough hand of the captain afurtive look flashed from out Morgan's eyes. It was directed toParks--they were both Barnegat men--and was answered by that surfmanwith a slow-falling wink. Tod saw it, and his face flushed. Certainstories connected with Archie rose in his mind; some out of hischildhood, others since he had joined the crew. 

The captain's eyes filled as he shook the boy's hand, but he made noreply to Archie's outburst. Pausing for a moment, as if willing tolisten to any further comments, and finding that no one else had anyword for him, he turned on his heel and reentered his office. 

Once inside, he strode to the window and looked out on the dunes, hisbig hands hooked behind his back, his eyes fixed on vacancy. 

"It won't be long, now, Archie, not long, my lad, " he said in a lowvoice, speaking aloud to himself. "I kin say you're my grandson outloud when Bart comes, and nothin' kin or will stop me! And now I kintell Miss Jane. "

Thrusting the letter into his inside pocket, he picked up his cap, andstrode across the dune in the direction of the new hospital. 

Jane was in one of the wards when the captain sent word to her to cometo the visiting-room. She had been helping the doctor in an importantoperation. The building was but half way between the Station andWarehold, which made it easier for the captain to keep his eye on thesea should there be any change in the weather. 

Jane listened to the captain's outburst covering the announcement thatBart was alive without a comment. Her face paled and her breathing cameshort, but she showed no signs of either joy or sorrow. She had facedtoo many surprises in her life to be startled at anything. Then again, Bart alive or dead could make no difference now in either her own orLucy's future. 

The captain continued, his face brightening, his voice full of hope:

"And your troubles are all over now, Miss Jane; your name will becleared up, and so will Archie's, and the doctor'll git his own, andLucy kin look everybody in the face. See what Bart says, " and he handedher the open letter. 

Jane read it word by word to the end and handed it back to the captain. Once in the reading she had tightened her grasp on her chair as if tosteady herself, but she did not flinch; she even read some sentencestwice, so that she might be sure of their meaning. 

In his eagerness the captain had not caught the expression of agonythat crossed her face as her mind, grasping the purport of the letter, began to measure the misery that would follow if Bart's plan wascarried out. 

"I knew how ye'd feel, " he went on, "and I've been huggin' myself eversince it come when I thought how happy ye'd be when I told ye; but Iain't so sure 'bout Lucy. What do you think? Will she do what Bartwants?"

"No, " said Jane in a quiet, restrained voice; "she will not do it. "

"Why?" said the captain in a surprised tone. He was not accustomed tobe thwarted in anything he had fixed his mind upon, and he saw fromJane's expression that her own was in opposition. 

"Because I won't permit it. "

The captain leaned forward and looked at Jane in astonishment. 

"You won't permit it!"

"No, I won't permit it. "

"Why?" The word came from the captain as if it had been shot from a gun. 

"Because it would not be right. " Her eyes were still fixed on thecaptain's. 

"Well, ain't it right that he should make some amends for what he'sdone?" he retorted with increasing anger. "When he said he wouldn'tmarry her I druv him out; now he says he's sorry and wants to dosquarely by her and my hand's out to him. She ain't got nothin' in herlife that's doin' her any good. And that boy's got to be baptized rightand take his father's name, Archie Holt, out loud, so everybody kinhear. "

Jane made no answer except to shake her head. Her eyes were still onthe captain's, but her mind was neither on him nor on what fell fromhis lips. She was again confronting that spectre which for years hadlain buried and which the man before her was exorcising back to life. 

The captain sprang from his seat and stood before her; the words nowpoured from his lips in a torrent. 

"And you'll git out from this death blanket you been sleepin' under, bearin' her sin; breakin' the doctor's heart and your own; and Archiekin hold his head up then and say he's got a father. You ain't heardhow the boys talk 'bout him behind his back. Tod Fogarty's stuck tohim, but who else is there 'round here? We all make mistakes; that'swhat half the folks that's livin' do. Everything's been a lie--nothin'but lies--for near twenty years. You've lived a lie motherin' this boyand breakin' your heart over the whitest man that ever stepped in shoeleather. Doctor John's lived a lie, tellin' folks he wanted to devotehimself to his hospital when he'd rather live in the sound o' yourvoice and die a pauper than run a college anywhere else. Lucy has liveda lie, and is livin' it yet--and LIKES IT, TOO, that's the worst of it. And I been muzzled all these years; mad one minute and wantin' to twisthis neck, and the next with my eyes runnin' tears that the only boy Igot was lyin' out among strangers. The only one that's honest is thelittle Pond Lily. She ain't got nothin' to hide and you see it in herface. Her father was square and her mother's with her and nothin' can'ttouch her and don't. Let's have this out. I'm tired of it--"

The captain was out of breath now, his emotions still controlling him, his astonishment at the unexpected opposition from the woman of allothers on whose assistance he most relied unabated. 

Jane rose from her chair and stood facing him, a great light in hereyes:

"No! No! NO! A thousand times, no! You don't know Lucy; I do. What youwant done now should have been done when Archie was born. It was myfault. I couldn't see her suffer. I loved her too much. I thought tosave her, I didn't care how. It would have been better for her if shehad faced her sin then and taken the consequences; better for all ofus. I didn't think so then, and it has taken me years to find it out. Ibegan to be conscious of it first in her marriage, then when she kepton living her lie with her husband, and last when she deserted Ellenand went off to Beach Haven alone--that broke my heart, and my mistakerose up before me, and I KNEW!"

The captain stared at her in astonishment. He could hardly credit hisears. 

"Yes, better, if she'd faced it. She would have lived here then undermy care, and she might have loved her child as I have done. Now she hasno tie, no care, no responsibility, no thought of anything but thepleasures of the moment. I have tried to save her, and I have onlyhelped to ruin her. "

"Make her settle down, then, and face the music!" blurted out thecaptain, resuming his seat. "Bart warn't all bad; he was only young andfoolish. He'll take care of her. It ain't never too late to begin toturn honest. Bart wants to begin; make her begin, too. He's got moneynow to do it; and she kin live in South America same's she kin here. She's got no home anywhere. She don't like it here, and never did; youkin see that from the way she swings 'round from place to place. MAKEher face it, I tell ye. You been too easy with her all your life; pullher down now and keep her nose p'inted close to the compass. "

"You do not know of what you talk, " Jane answered, her eyes blazing. "She hates the past; hates everything connected with it; hates the veryname of Barton Holt. Never once has she mentioned it since her return. She never loved Archie; she cared no more for him than a bird that hasdropped its young out of its nest. Besides, your plan is impossible. Marriage does not condone a sin. The power to rise and rectify thewrong lies in the woman. Lucy has not got it in her, and she never willhave it. Part of it is her fault; a large part of it is mine. She haslived this lie all these years, and I have only myself to blame. I havetaught her to live it. I began it when I carried her away from here; Ishould have kept her at home and had her face the consequences of hersin then. I ought to have laid Archie in her arms and kept him there. Iwas a coward and could not, and in my fear I destroyed the only thingthat could have saved her--the mother-love. Now she will run hercourse. She's her own mistress; no one can compel her to do anything. "

The captain raised his clenched hand:

"Bart will, when he comes. "

"How?"

"By claimin' the boy and shamin' her before the world, if she don't. She liked him well enough when he was a disgrace to himself and to me, without a dollar to his name. What ails him now, when he comes back andowns up like a man and wants to do the square thing, and has got moneyenough to see it through? She's nothin' but a THING, if she knew it, till this disgrace's wiped off'n her. By God, Miss Jane, I tell youthis has got to be put through just as Bart wants it, and quick!"

Jane stepped closer and laid her hand on the captain's arm. The look inher eyes, the low, incisive, fearless ring in her voice, overawed him. Her courage astounded him. This side of her character was a revelation. Under their influence he became silent and humbled--as a boisterousadvocate is humbled by the measured tones of a just judge. 

"It is not my friend, Captain Nat, who is talking now. It is the fatherwho is speaking. Think for a moment. Who has borne the weight of this, you or I? You had a wayward son whom the people here think you droveout of your home for gambling on Sunday. No other taint attaches to himor to you. Dozens of other sons and fathers have done the same. Hereturns a reformed man and lives out his life in the home he left. 

"I had a wayward sister who forgot her mother, me, her womanhood, andherself, and yet at whose door no suspicion of fault has been laid. Istepped in and took the brunt and still do. I did this for my father'sname and for my promise to him and for my love of her. To her child Ihave given my life. To him I am his mother and will always be--always, because I will stand by my fault. That is a redemption in itself, andthat is the only thing that saves me from remorse. You and I, outsideof his father and mother, are the only ones living that know of hisparentage. The world has long since forgotten the little theysuspected. Let it rest; no good could come--only suffering and misery. To stir it now would only open old wounds and, worst of all, it wouldmake a new one. "

"In you?"

"No, worse than that. My heart is already scarred all over; no freshwound would hurt. "

"In the doctor?"

"Yes and no. He has never asked the truth and I have never told him. "

"Who, then?"

"In little Ellen. Let us keep that one flower untouched. "

The captain rested his head in his hand, and for some minutes made noanswer. Ellen was the apple of his eye. 

"But if Bart insists?"

"He won't insist when he sees Lucy. She is no more the woman that heloved and wronged than I am. He would not know her if he met heroutside this house. "

"What shall I do?"

"Nothing. Let matters take their course. If he is the man you think heis he will never break the silence. "

"And you will suffer on--and the doctor?"

Jane bowed her head and the tears sprang to her eyes. 

"Yes, always; there is nothing else to do. "

CHAPTER XX

THE UNDERTOW

Within the month a second letter was handed to the captain by Tod, nowregularly installed as postman. It was in answer to one of CaptainHolt's which he had directed to the expected steamer and which had metthe exile on his arrival. It was dated "Amboy, " began "My dear father, "and was signed "Your affectionate son, Barton. "

This conveyed the welcome intelligence--welcome to the father--that thewriter would be detained a few days in Amboy inspecting the newmachinery, after which he would take passage for Barnegat by the PollyWalters, Farguson's weekly packet. Then these lines followed: "It willbe the happiest day of my life when I can come into the inlet at hightide and see my home in the distance. "

Again the captain sought Jane. 

She was still at the hospital, nursing some shipwrecked men--three withinternal injuries--who had been brought in from Forked River Station, the crew having rescued them the week before. Two of the regularattendants were worn out with the constant nursing, and so Janecontinued her vigils. 

She had kept at her work--turning neither to the right nor to the left, doing her duty with the bravery and patience of a soldier on thefiring-line, knowing that any moment some stray bullet might end herusefulness. She would not dodge, nor would she cower; the danger was nogreater than others she had faced, and no precaution, she knew, couldsave her. Her lips were still sealed, and would be to the end; sometongue other than her own must betray her sister and her trust. In themeantime she would wait and bear bravely whatever was sent to her. 

Jane was alone when the captain entered, the doctor having left theroom to begin his morning inspection. She was in her gray-cottonnursing-dress, her head bound about with a white kerchief. The pathosof her face and the limp, tired movement of her figure would have beeninstantly apparent to a man less absorbed in his own affairs than thecaptain. 

"He'll be here to-morrow or next day!" he cried, as he advanced towhere she sat at her desk in the doctor's office, the same light in hiseyes and the same buoyant tone in his voice, his ruddy face aglow withhis walk from the station. 

"You have another letter then?" she said in a resigned tone, as if shehad expected it and was prepared to meet its consequences. In hersuffering she had even forgotten her customary welcome of him--forwhatever his attitude and however gruff he might be, she never forgotthe warm heart beneath. 

"Yes, from Amboy, " panted the captain, out of breath with his quickwalk, dragging a chair beside Jane's desk as he spoke. "He got minewhen the steamer come in. He's goin' to take the packet so he kin bringhis things--got a lot o' them, he says. And he loves the old home, too--he says so--you kin read it for yourself. " As he spoke heunbuttoned his jacket, and taking Bart's letter from its inside pocket, laid his finger on the paragraph and held it before her face. 

"Have you talked about it to anybody?" Jane asked calmly; she hardlyglanced at the letter. 

"Only to the men; but it's all over Barnegat. A thing like that'snothin' but a cask o' oil overboard and the bung out--runseverywhere--no use tryin' to stop it. " He was in the chair now, hisarms on the edge of the desk. 

"But you've said nothing to anybody about Archie and Lucy, and whatBart intends to do when he comes, have you?" Jane inquired in somealarm. 

"Not a word, and won't till ye see him. She's more your sister than sheis his wife, and you got most to say 'bout Archie, and should. You beeneverything to him. When you've got through I'll take a hand, but notbefore. " The captain always spoke the truth, and meant it; his wordsettled at once any anxieties she might have had on that score. 

"What have you decided to do?" She was not looking at him as she spoke;she was toying with a penholder that lay before her on the desk, apparently intent on its construction. 

"I'm goin' to meet him at Farguson's ship-yard when the Polly comesin, " rejoined the captain in a positive tone, as if his mind had longsince been made up regarding details, and he was reciting them for herguidance--"and take him straight to my house, and then come for you. You kin have it out together. Only one thing, Miss Jane"--here hisvoice changed and something of his old quarter-deck manner showeditself in his face and gestures--"if he's laid his course and wants tokeep hold of the tiller I ain't goin' to block his way and he shallmake his harbor, don't make no difference who or what gits in thechannel. Ain't neither of us earned any extry pay for the way we've runthis thing. You've got Lucy ashore flounderin' 'round in the fog, and Ihad no business to send him off without grub or compass. If he wants tosteer now he'll STEER. I don't want you to make no mistake 'bout this, and you'll excuse me if I put it plain. "

Jane put her hand to her head and looked out of the window toward thesea. All her life seemed to be narrowing to one small converging pathwhich grew smaller and smaller as she looked down its perspective. 

"I understand, captain, " she sighed. All the fight was out of her; shewas like one limping across a battlefield, shield and spear gone, theroads unknown. 

The door opened and the doctor entered. His quick, sensitive eyeinstantly caught the look of despair on Jane's face and the air ofdetermination on the captain's. What had happened he did not know, butsomething to hurt Jane; of that he was positive. He stepped quicklypast the captain without accosting him, rested his hand on Jane'sshoulder, and said in a tender, pleading tone:

"You are tired and worn out; get your cloak and hat and I'll drive youhome. " Then he turned to the captain: "Miss Jane's been up for threenights. I hope you haven't been worrying her with anything you couldhave spared her from--at least until she got rested, " and he frowned atthe captain. 

"No, I ain't and wouldn't. I been a-tellin' her of Bart's comin' home. That ain't nothin' to worry over--that's something to be glad of. Youheard about it, of course?"

"Yes, Morgan told me. Twenty years will make a great difference inBart. It must have been a great surprise to you, captain. "

Both Jane and the captain tried to read the doctor's face, and bothfailed. Doctor John might have been commenting on the weather or someequally unimportant topic, so light and casual was his tone. 

He turned to Jane again. 

"Come, dear--please, " he begged. It was only when he was anxious abouther physical condition or over some mental trouble that engrossed herthat he spoke thus. The words lay always on the tip of his tongue, buthe never let them fall unless someone was present to overhear. 

"You are wrong, John, " she answered, bridling her shoulders as if toreassure him. "I am not tired--I have a little headache, that's all. "With the words she pressed both hands to her temples and smoothed backher hair--a favorite gesture when her brain fluttered against her skulllike a caged pigeon. "I will go home, but not now--this afternoon, perhaps. Come for me then, please, " she added, looking up into his facewith a grateful expression. 

The captain picked up his cap and rose from his seat. One of his dreamswas the marriage of these two. Episodes like this only showed him theclearer what lay in their hearts. The doctor's anxiety and Jane'sstruggle to bear her burdens outside of his touch and help onlyconfirmed the old sea-dog in his determination. When Bart had his way, he said to himself, all this would cease. 

"I'll be goin' along, " he said, looking from one to the other andputting on his cap. "See you later, Miss Jane. Morgan's back ag'in towork, thanks to you, doctor. That was a pretty bad sprain he had--he'sall right now, though; went on practice yesterday. I'm glad ofit--equinox is comin' on and we can't spare a man, or half a one, thesedays. May be blowin' a livin' gale 'fore the week's out. Good-by, MissJane; good-by, doctor. " And he shut the door behind him. 

With the closing of the door the sound of wheels was heard--a crisp, crunching sound--and then the stamping of horses' feet. Max Feilding'sdrag, drawn by the two grays and attended by the diminutive Bones, haddriven up and now stood beside the stone steps of the front door of thehospital. The coats of the horses shone like satin and every hub andplate glistened in the sunshine. On the seat, the reins in one prettygloved hand, a gold-mounted whip in the other, sat Lucy. She wasdressed in her smartest driving toilette--a short yellow-gray jacketfastened with big pearl buttons and a hat bound about with the breastof a tropical bird. Her eyes were dancing, her cheeks like ripe peacheswith all the bloom belonging to them in evidence, and something more, and her mouth all curves and dimples. 

When the doctor reached her side--he had heard the sound of the wheels, and looking through the window had caught sight of the drag--she hadrisen from her perch and was about to spring clear of the equipagewithout waiting for the helping hand of either Bones or himself. Shewas still a girl in her suppleness. 

"No, wait until I can give you my hand, " he said, hurrying toward her. 

"No--I don't want your hand, Sir Esculapius. Get out of the way, please--I'm going to jump! There--wasn't that lovely?" And she landedbeside him. "Where's sister? I've been all the way to Yardley, andMartha tells me she has been here almost all the week. Oh, what adreadful, gloomy-looking place! How many people have you got hereanyhow, cooped up in this awful-- Why, it's like an almshouse, " sheadded, looking about her. "Where did you say sister was?"

"I'll go and call her, " interpolated the doctor when he could get achance to speak. 

"No, you won't do anything of the kind; I'll go myself. You've had herall the week, and now it's my turn. "

Jane had by this time closed the lid of her desk, had moved out intothe hall, and now stood on the top step of the entrance awaiting Lucy'sascent. In her gray gown, simple head-dress, and resigned face, thewhole framed in the doorway with its connecting background of dullstone, she looked like one of Correggio's Madonnas illumining some oldcloister wall. 

"Oh, you dear, DEAR sister!" Lucy cried, running up the short steps tomeet her. "I'm so glad I've found you; I was afraid you were tying upsomebody's broken head or rocking a red-flannelled baby. " With this sheput her arms around Jane's neck and kissed her rapturously. 

"Where can we talk? Oh, I've got such a lot of things to tell you! Youneedn't come, you dear, good doctor. Please take yourself off, sir--this way, and out the gate, and don't you dare come back until I'mgone. "

My Lady of Paris was very happy this morning; bubbling over withmerriment--a condition that set the doctor to thinking. Indeed, he hadbeen thinking most intently about my lady ever since he had heard ofBart's resurrection. He had also been thinking of Jane and Archie. These last thoughts tightened his throat; they had also kept him awakethe past few nights. 

The doctor bowed with one of his Sir Roger bows, lifted his hat firstto Jane in all dignity and reverence, and then to Lucy with aflourish--keeping up outwardly the gayety of the occasion and secondingher play of humor--walked to the shed where his horse was tied anddrove off. He knew these moods of Lucy's; knew they were generallyassumed and that they always concealed some purpose--one which neithera frown nor a cutting word nor an outbreak of temper would accomplish;but that fact rarely disturbed him. Then, again, he was never anythingbut courteous to her--always remembering Jane's sacrifice and her pridein her. 

"And now, you dear, let us go somewhere where we can be quiet, " Lucycried, slipping her arm around Jane's slender waist and moving towardthe hall. 

With the entering of the bare room lined with bottles and cases ofinstruments her enthusiasm began to cool. Up to this time she had doneall the talking. Was Jane tired out nursing? she asked herself; or didshe still feel hurt over her refusal to take Ellen with her for thesummer? She had remembered for days afterward the expression on herface when she told of her plans for the summer and of her leaving Ellenat Yardley; but she knew this had all passed out of her sister's mind. This was confirmed by Jane's continued devotion to Ellen and her manykindnesses to the child. It was true that whenever she referred to herseparation from Ellen, which she never failed to do as a sort of probeto be assured of the condition of Jane's mind, there was no directreply--merely a changing of the topic, but this had only proved Jane'sdevotion in avoiding a subject which might give her beautiful sisterpain. What, then, was disturbing her to-day? she asked herself with aslight chill at her heart. Then she raised her head and assumed acertain defiant air. Better not notice anything Jane said or did; ifshe was tired she would get rested and if she was provoked with her shewould get pleased again. It was through her affections and herconscience that she could hold and mould her sister Jane--never throughopposition or fault-finding. Besides, the sun was too bright and theair too delicious, and she herself too blissfully happy to worry overanything. In time all these adverse moods would pass out of Jane'sheart as they had done a thousand times before. 

"Oh, you dear, precious thing!" Lucy began again, all these mattershaving been reviewed, settled, and dismissed from her mind in the timeit took her to cross the room. "I'm so sorry for you when I think ofyou shut up here with these dreadful people; but I know you wouldn't behappy anywhere else, " she laughed in a meaning way. (The bringing in ofthe doctor even by implication was always a good move. ) "And Marthalooks so desolate. Dear, you really ought to be more with her; but formy darling Ellen I don't know what Martha would do. I miss the childso, and yet I couldn't bear to take her from the dear old woman. "

Jane made no answer. Lucy had found a chair now and had laid hergloves, parasol, and handkerchief on another beside her. Jane hadresumed her seat; her slender neck and sloping shoulders and sparelymodelled head with its simply dressed hair--she had removed thekerchief--in silhouette against the white light of the window. 

"What is it all about, Lucy?" she asked in a grave tone after a slightpause in Lucy's talk. 

"I have a great secret to tell you--one you mustn't breathe until Igive you leave. "

She was leaning back in her chair now, her eyes trying to read Jane'sthoughts. Her bare hands were resting in her lap, the jewels flashingfrom her fingers; about her dainty mouth there hovered, like abutterfly, a triumphant smile; whether this would alight and spread itswings into radiant laughter, or disappear, frightened by a gatheringfrown, depended on what would drop from her sister's lips. 

Jane looked up. The strong light from the window threw her head intoshadow; only the slight fluff of her hair glistened in the light. Thismade an aureole which framed the Madonna's face. 

"Well, Lucy, what is it?" she asked again simply. 

"Max is going to be married. "

"When?" rejoined Jane in the same quiet tone. Her mind was not on Maxor on anything connected with him. It was on the shadow slowly settlingupon all she loved. 

"In December, " replied Lucy, a note of triumph in her voice, her smilebroadening. 

"Who to?"

"Me. "

With the single word a light ripple escaped from her lips. 

Jane straightened herself in her chair. A sudden faintness passed overher--as if she had received a blow in the chest, stopping her breath. 

"You mean--you mean--that you have promised to marry Max Feilding!" shegasped. 

"That's exactly what I do mean. "

The butterfly smile about Lucy's mouth had vanished. That straighteningof the lips and slow contraction of the brow which Jane knew so wellwas taking its place. Then she added nervously, unclasping her handsand picking up her gloves:

"Aren't you pleased?"

"I don't know, " answered Jane, gazing about the room with a dazed look, as if seeking for a succor she could not find. "I must think. And soyou have promised to marry Max!" she repeated, as if to herself. "Andin December. " For a brief moment she paused, her eyes again downcast;then she raised her voice quickly and in a more positive tone asked, "And what do you mean to do with Ellen?"

"That's what I want to talk to you about, you dear thing. " Lucy hadcome prepared to ignore any unfavorable criticisms Jane might make andto give her only sisterly affection in return. "I want to give her toyou for a few months more, " she added blandly, "and then we will takeher abroad with us and send her to school either in Paris or Geneva, where her grandmother can be near her. In a year or two she will cometo us in Paris. "

Jane made no answer. 

Lucy moved uncomfortably in her chair. She had never, in all her life, seen her sister in any such mood. She was not so much astonished overher lack of enthusiasm regarding the engagement; that she hadexpected--at least for the first few days, until she could win her overto her own view. It was the deadly poise--the icy reserve thatdisturbed her. This was new. 

"Lucy!" Again Jane stopped and looked out of the window. "You rememberthe letter I wrote you some years ago, in which I begged you to tellEllen's father about Archie and Barton Holt?"

Lucy's eyes flashed. 

"Yes, and you remember my answer, don't you?" she answered sharply. "What a fool I would have been, dear, to have followed your advice!"

Jane went straight on without heeding the interruption or noticingLucy's changed tone. 

"Do you intend to tell Max?"

"I tell Max! My dear, good sister, are you crazy! What should I tellMax for? All that is dead and buried long ago! Why do you want to digup all these graves? Tell Max--that aristocrat! He's a dear, sweetfellow, but you don't know him. He'd sooner cut his hand off than marryme if he knew!"

"I'm afraid you will have to--and this very day, " rejoined Jane in acalm, measured tone. 

Lucy moved uneasily in her chair; her anxiety had given way to acertain ill-defined terror. Jane's voice frightened her. 

"Why?" she asked in a trembling voice. 

"Because Captain Holt or someone else will, if you don't. "

"What right has he or anybody else to meddle with my affairs?" Lucyretorted in an indignant tone. 

"Because he cannot help it. I intended to keep the news from you for atime, but from what you have just told me you had best hear it now. Barton Holt is alive. He has been in Brazil all these years, in themines. He has written to his father that he is coming home. "

All the color faded from Lucy's cheeks. 

"Bart! Alive! Coming home! When?"

"He will be here day after to-morrow; he is at Amboy, and will come bythe weekly packet. What I can do I will. I have worked all my life tosave you, and I may yet, but it seems now as if I had reached the endof my rope. "

"Who said so? Where did you hear it? It CAN'T be true!"

Jane shook her head. "I wish it was not true--but it is--every word ofit. I have read his letter. "

Lucy sank back in her chair, her cheeks livid, a cold perspirationmoistening her forehead. Little lines that Jane had never noticed beganto gather about the corners of her mouth; her eyes were wide open, witha strained, staring expression. What she saw was Max's eyes lookinginto her own, that same cold, cynical expression on his face she hadsometimes seen when speaking of other women he had known. 

"What's he coming for?" Her voice was thick and barely audible. 

"To claim his son. "

"He--says--he'll--claim--Archie--as--his--son!" she gasped. "I'd liketo see any man living dare to--"

"But he can TRY, Lucy--no one can prevent that, and in the trying theworld will know. "

Lucy sprang from her seat and stood over her sister:

"I'll deny it!" she cried in a shrill voice; "and face him down. Hecan't prove it! No one about here can!"

"He may have proofs that you couldn't deny, and that I would not if Icould. Captain Holt knows everything, remember, " Jane replied in hersame calm voice. 

"But nobody else does but you and Martha!" The thought gave her renewedhope--the only ray she saw. 

"True; but the captain is enough. His heart is set on Archie's namebeing cleared, and nothing that I can do or say will turn him from hispurpose. Do you know what he means to do?"

"No, " she replied faintly, more terror than curiosity in her voice. 

"He means that you shall marry Barton, and that Archie shall bebaptized as Archibald Holt. Barton will then take you both back toSouth America. A totally impossible plan, but--"

"I marry Barton Holt! Why, I wouldn't marry him if he got down on hisknees. Why, I don't even remember what he looks like! Did you ever hearof such impudence! What is he to me?" The outburst carried with it acertain relief. 

"What he is to you is not the question. It is what YOU are to Archie!Your sin has been your refusal to acknowledge him. Now you are broughtface to face with the consequences. The world will forgive a woman allthe rest, but never for deserting her child, and that, my dear sister, IS PRECISELY WHAT YOU DID TO ARCHIE. "

Jane's gaze was riveted on Lucy. She had never dared to put this factclearly before--not even to herself. Now that she was confronted withthe calamity she had dreaded all these years, truth was the only thingthat would win. Everything now must be laid bare. 

Lucy lifted her terrified face, burst into tears, and reached out herhands to Jane. 

"Oh, sister, --sister!" she moaned. "What shall I do? Oh, if I had nevercome home! Can't you think of some way? You have always been sogood--Oh, please! please!"

Jane drew Lucy toward her. 

"I will do all I can, dear. If I fail there is only one resource left. That is the truth, and all of it. Max can save you, and he will if heloves you. Tell, him everything!"

CHAPTER XXI

THE MAN IN THE SLOUCH HAT

The wooden arrow on the top of the cupola of the Life-Saving Stationhad had a busy night of it. With the going down of the sun the wind hadcontinued to blow east-southeast--its old course for weeks--and thelittle sentinel, lulled into inaction, had fallen into a doze, itsfeather end fixed on the glow of the twilight. 

At midnight a rollicking breeze that piped from out the north caughtthe sensitive vane napping, and before the dawn broke had quite tiredit out, shifting from point to point, now west, now east, nownor'east-by-east, and now back to north again. By the time Morgan hadboiled his coffee and had cut his bacon into slivers ready for thefrying-pan the restless wind, as if ashamed of its caprices, had againveered to the north-east, and then, as if determined ever after to leada better life, had pulled itself together and had at last settled downto a steady blow from that quarter. 

The needle of the aneroid fastened to the wall of the sitting-room, andin reach of everybody's eye, had also made a night of it. In fact, ithad not had a moment's peace since Captain Holt reset its register theday before. All its efforts for continued good weather had failed. Slowly but surely the baffled and disheartened needle had sagged from"Fair" to "Change, " dropped back to "Storm, " and before noon the nextday had about given up the fight and was in full flight for "Cyclonesand Tempests. "

Uncle Isaac Polhemus, sitting at the table with one eye on his game ofdominoes (Green was his partner) and the other on the patch of skyframed by the window, read the look of despair on the honest face ofthe aneroid, and rising from his chair, a "double three" in his hand, stepped to where the weather prophet hung. 

"Sompin's comin' Sam, " he said solemnly. "The old gal's got a badsetback. Ain't none of us goin' to git a wink o' sleep to-night, or Imiss my guess. Wonder how the wind is. " Here he moved to the door andpeered out. "Nor'-east and puffy, just as I thought. We're goin' to hevsome weather, Sam--ye hear?--some WEATHER!" With this he regained hischair and joined the double three to the long tail of his successes. Good weather or bad weather--peace or war--was all the same to UncleIsaac. What he wanted was the earliest news from the front. 

Captain Holt took a look at the sky, the aneroid and the wind--not thearrow; old sea-dogs know which way the wind blows without depending onany such contrivance--the way the clouds drift, the trend of thewhite-caps, the set of a distant sail, and on black, almost breathlessnights, by the feel of a wet finger held quickly in the air, thecoolest side determining the wind point. 

On this morning the clouds attracted the captain's attention. They hunglow and drifted in long, straggling lines. Close to the horizon theywere ashy pale; being nearest the edge of the brimming sea, they had, no doubt, seen something the higher and rosier-tinted clouds hadmissed; something of the ruin that was going on farther down the roundof the sphere. These clouds the captain studied closely, especially aprismatic sun-dog that glowed like a bit of rainbow snipped off bywind-scissors, and one or two dirt spots sailing along by themselves. 

During the captain's inspection Archie hove in sight, wiping his handswith a wad of cotton waste. He and Parks had been swabbing out thefiring gun and putting the polished work of the cart apparatus in order. 

"It's going to blow, captain, isn't it?" he called out. Blows were whatArchie was waiting for. So far the sea had been like a mill-pond, except on one or two occasions, when, to the boy's great regret, nothing came ashore. 

"Looks like it. Glass's been goin' down and the wind has settled to thenor'east. Some nasty dough-balls out there I don't like. See 'em goin'over that three-master?"

Archie looked, nodded his head, and a certain thrill went through him. The harder it blew the better it would suit Archie. 

"Will the Polly be here to-night?" he added. "Your son's coming, isn'the?"

"Yes; but you won't see him to-night, nor to-morrow, not till this isover. You won't catch old Ambrose out in this weather" (Captain AmbroseFarguson sailed the Polly). "He'll stick his nose in the basinsome'er's and hang on for a spell. I thought he'd try to make theinlet, and I 'spected Bart here to-night till I saw the glass when Igot up. Ye can't fool Ambrose--he knows. Be two or three days now 'foreBart comes, " he added, a look of disappointment shadowing his face. 

Archie kept on to the house, and the captain, after another sweeparound, turned on his heel and reentered the sitting-room. 

"Green!"

"Yes, captain. " The surfman was on his feet in an instant, his earswide open. 

"I wish you and Fogarty would look over those new Costons and see ifthey're all right. And, Polhemus, perhaps you'd better overhaul themcork jackets; some o' them straps seemed kind o' awkward on practiceyesterday--they ought to slip on easier; guess they're considerabledried out and a little mite stiff. "

Green nodded his head in respectful assent and left the room. Polhemus, at the mention of his name, had dropped his chair legs to the floor; hehad finished his game of dominoes and had been tilted back against thewall, awaiting the dinner-hour. 

"It's goin' to blow a livin' gale o' wind, Polhemus, " the captaincontinued; "that's what it's goin' to do. Ye kin see it yerself. Thereshe comes now!"

As he spoke the windows on the sea side of the house rattled as ifshaken by the hand of a man and as quickly stopped. 

"Them puffs are jest the tootin' of her horn--" this with a jerk of hishead toward the windows. "I tell ye, it looks ugly!"

Polhemus gained his feet and the two men stepped to the sash and peeredout. To them the sky was always an open book--each cloud a letter, eachmass a paragraph, the whole a warning. 

"But I'm kind o' glad, Isaac. " Again the captain forgot the surfman inthe friend. "As long as it's got to blow it might as well blow now andbe over. I'd kind o' set my heart on Bart's comin', but I guess I'vewaited so long I kin wait a day or two more. I wrote him to come bytrain, but he wrote back he had a lot o' plunder and he'd better put it'board the Polly; and, besides, he said he kind o' wanted to sail intothe inlet like he used to when he was a boy. Then again, I couldn'tmeet him; not with this weather comin' on. No--take it all in all, I'mglad he ain't comin'. "

"Well, I guess yer right, captain, " answered uncle Isaac in an eventone, as he left the room to overhaul the cork jackets. The occasionwas not one of absorbing interest to Isaac. 

By the time the table was cleared and the kitchen once more in ordernot only were the windows on the sea side of the house roughly shakenby the rising gale, but the sand caught from the dunes was beingwhirled against their panes. The tide, too, egged on by the storm, hadcrept up the slope of the dunes, the spray drenching the grass-tufts. 

At five o'clock the wind blew forty miles an hour at sundown it hadincreased to fifty; at eight o'clock it bowled along at sixty. Morgan, who had been to the village for supplies, reported that the tide wasover the dock at Barnegat and that the roof of the big bathing-house atBeach Haven had been ripped off and landed on the piazza. He had hadall he could do to keep his feet and his basket while crossing themarsh on his way back to the station. Then he added:

"There's a lot o' people there yit. That feller from Philadelphy who'smashed on Cobden's aunt was swellin' around in a potato-bug suit o'clothes as big as life. " This last was given from behind his hand afterhe had glanced around the room and found that Archie was absent. 

At eight o'clock, when Parks and Archie left the Station to begin theirpatrol, Parks was obliged to hold on to the rail of the porch to steadyhimself, and Archie, being less sure of his feet, was blown against thewater-barrel before he could get his legs well under him. At the edgeof the surf the two separated for their four hours' patrol, Archiebreasting the gale on his way north, and Parks hurrying on, helped bythe wind, to the south. 

At ten o'clock Parks returned. He had made his first round, and hadexchanged his brass check with the patrol at the next station. As hemounted the sand-dune he quickened his steps, hurried to the Station, opened the sitting-room door, found it empty, the men being in bedupstairs awaiting their turns, and then strode on to the captain'sroom, his sou'wester and tarpaulin drenched with spray and sand, hiship-boots leaving watery tracks along the clean floor. 

"Wreck ashore at No. 14, sir!" Parks called out in a voice hoarse withfighting the wind. 

The captain sprang from his cot--he was awake, his light still burning. 

"Anybody drownded?"

"No, sir; got 'em all. Seven of 'em, so the patrol said. Come ashore'bout supper-time. "

"What is she?"

"A two-master from Virginia loaded with cord-wood. Surf's in bad shape, sir; couldn't nothin' live in it afore; it's wuss now. Everything's abobble; turrible to see them sticks thrashin' 'round and slammin'things. "

"Didn't want no assistance, did they?"

"No, sir; they got the fust line 'round the foremast and come off inless'n a hour; warn't none of 'em hurted. "

"Is it any better outside?"

"No, sir; wuss. I ain't seen nothin' like it 'long the coast for years. Good-night, " and Parks took another hole in the belt holding histarpaulins together, opened the back door, walked to the edge of thehouse, steadied himself against the clapboards, and boldly facing thestorm, continued his patrol. 

The captain stretched himself again on his bed; he had tried to sleep, but his brain was too active. As he lay listening to the roar of thesurf and the shrill wail of the wind, his thoughts would revert to Bartand what his return meant; particularly to its effect on the fortunesof the doctor, of Jane and of Lucy. 

Jane's attitude continued to astound him. He had expected that Lucymight not realize the advantages of his plan at first--not until shehad seen Bart and listened to what he had to say; but that Jane, afterthe confession of her own weakness should still oppose him, was what hecould not under stand, he would keep his promise, however, to the veryletter. She should have free range to dissuade Bart from his purpose. After that Bart should have his way. No other course was possible, andno other course either honest or just. 

Then he went over in his mind all that had happened to him since theday he had driven Bart out into the night, and from that same House ofRefuge, too, which, strange to say, lay within sight of the Station. Herecalled his own and Bart's sufferings; his loneliness; the bitternessof the terrible secret which had kept his mouth closed all these years, depriving him of even the intimate companionship of his own grandson. With this came an increased love for the boy; he again felt the warmpressure of his hand and caught the look in his eyes the morning Archiecongratulated him so heartily on Bart's expected return, he had alwaysloved him; he would love him now a thousand times more when he couldput his hand on the boy's shoulder and tell him everything. 

With the changing of the patrol, Tod and Polhemus taking the places ofArchie and Parks, he fell into a doze, waking with a sudden start somehours later, springing from his bed, and as quickly turning up the lamp. 

Still in his stocking feet and trousers--on nights like this the menlie down in half their clothes--he walked to the window and peered out. It was nearing daylight; the sky still black. The storm was at itsheight; the roar of the surf incessant and the howl of the winddeafening. Stepping into the sitting-room he glanced at theaneroid--the needle had not advanced a point; then turning into thehall, he mounted the steps to the lookout in the cupola, walked softlypast the door of the men's room so as not to waken the sleepers, particularly Parks and Archie, whose cots were nearest the door--bothhad had four hours of the gale and would have hours more if itcontinued--and reaching the landing, pressed his face against the coolpane and peered out. 

Below him stretched a dull waste of sand hardly distinguishable in thegloom until his eyes became accustomed to it, and beyond this the whiteline of the surf, whiter than either sky or sand. This writhed andtwisted like a cobra in pain. To the north burned Barnegat Light, onlythe star of its lamp visible. To the south stretched alternate bands ofsand, sky, and surf, their dividing lines lost in the night. Along thisbeach, now stopping to get their breath, now slanting the brim of theirsou'westers to escape the slash of the sand and spray, strode Tod andPolhemus, their eyes on and beyond the tumbling surf, their ears opento every unusual sound, their Costons buttoned tight under their coatsto keep them from the wet. 

Suddenly, while his eyes were searching the horizon line, now hardlydiscernible in the gloom, a black mass rose from behind a cresting offoam, see-sawed for an instant, clutched wildly at the sky, and droppedout of sight behind a black wall of water. The next instant thereflashed on the beach below him, and to the left of the station, the redflare of a Coston signal. 

With the quickness of a cat Captain Holt sprang to the stairs shouting:

"A wreck, men, a wreck!" The next instant he had thrown aside the doorof the men's room. "Out every one of ye! Who's on the beach?" And helooked over the cots to find the empty ones. 

The men were on their feet before he had ceased speaking, Archie beforethe captain's hand had left the knob of the door. 

"Who's on the beach, I say?" he shouted again. 

"Fogarty and Uncle Ike, " someone answered. 

"Polhemus! Good! All hands on the cart, men; boat can't live in thatsurf. She lies to the north of us!" And he swung himself out of thedoor and down the stairs. 

"God help 'em, if they've got to come through that surf!" Parks said, slinging on his coat. "The tide's just beginnin' to make flood, and allthat cord-wood'll come a-waltzin' back. Never see nothin' like it!"

The front door now burst in and another shout went ringing through thehouse:

"Schooner in the breakers!"

It was Tod. He had rejoined Polhemus the moment before he flared hislight and had made a dash to rouse the men. 

"I seen her, Fogarty, from the lookout, " cried the captain, in answer, grabbing his sou'wester; he was already in his hip-boots and tarpaulin. "What is she?"

"Schooner, I guess, sir. "

"Two or three masts?" asked the captain hurriedly, tightening the strapof his sou'wester and slipping the leather thong under his graywhiskers. 

"Can't make out, sir; she come bow on. Uncle Ike see her fust. " And hesprang out after the men. 

A double door thrown wide; a tangle of wild cats springing straight ata broad-tired cart; a grappling of track-lines and handle-bars; a whirldown the wooden incline, Tod following with the quickly lightedlanterns; a dash along the runway, the sand cutting their cheeks likegrit from a whirling stone; over the dune, the men bracing the cart oneither side, and down the beach the crew swept in a rush to wherePolhemus stood waving his last Coston. 

Here the cart stopped. 

"Don't unload nothin', " shouted Polhemus. "She ain't fast; looks to meas if she was draggin' her anchors. "

Captain Holt canted the brim of his sou'wester, held his bent elbowagainst his face to protect it from the cut of the wind, and looked inthe direction of the surfman's fingers. The vessel lay about a quarterof a mile from the shore and nearer the House of Refuge than when thecaptain had first seen her from the lookout. She was afloat anddrifting broadside on to the coast. Her masts were still standing andshe seemed able to take care of herself. Polhemus was right. Nothingcould be done till she grounded. In the meantime the crew must keepabreast of her. Her fate, however, was but a question of time, for notonly had the wind veered to the southward--a-dead-on-shore wind--butthe set of the flood must eventually strand her. 

At the track-lines again, every man in his place, Uncle Isaac with hisshoulder under the spokes of the wheels, the struggling crew keepingthe cart close to the edge of the dune, springing out of the way of theboiling surf or sinking up to their waists into crevices of sluicewaysgullied out by the hungry sea. Once Archie lost his footing and wouldhave been sucked under by a comber had not Captain Holt grapped him bythe collar and landed him on his feet again. Now and then a roller morevicious than the others would hurl a log of wood straight at the cartwith the velocity of a torpedo, and swoop back again, the log missingits mark by a length. 

When the dawn broke the schooner could be made out more clearly. Bothmasts were still standing, their larger sails blown away. The bowspritwas broken short off close to her chains. About this dragged theremnants of a jib sail over which the sea soused and whitened. She wasdrifting slowly and was now but a few hundred yards from the beach, holding, doubtless, by her anchors. Over her deck the sea made a cleanbreach. 

Suddenly, and while the men still tugged at the track-ropes, keepingabreast of her so as to be ready with the mortar and shot-line, theill-fated vessel swung bow on toward the beach, rose on a huge mountainof water, and threw herself headlong. When the smother cleared herforemast was overboard and her deck-house smashed. Around her hull thewaves gnashed and fought like white wolves, leaping high, flingingthemselves upon her. In the recoil Captain Holt's quick eye got aglimpse of the crew; two were lashed to the rigging and one held thetiller--a short, thickset man, wearing what appeared to be a slouch hattied over his ears by a white handkerchief. 

With the grounding of the vessel a cheer went up from around the cart. 

"Now for the mortar!"

"Up with it on the dune, men!" shouted the captain, his voice ringingabove the roar of the tempest. 

The cart was forced up the slope--two men at the wheels, the othersstraining ahead--the gun lifted out and set, Polhemus ramming thecharge home, Captain Holt sighting the piece; there came a belchingsound, a flash of dull light, and a solid shot carrying a line rose inthe air, made a curve like a flying rocket, and fell athwart the wreckbetween her forestay and jib. A cheer went up from the men about thegun. When this line was hauled in and the hawser attached to it madefast high up on the mainmast and above the raging sea, and the car runoff to the wreck, the crew could be landed clear of the surf and theslam of the cord-wood. 

At the fall of the line the man in the slouch hat was seen to edgehimself forward in an attempt to catch it. The two men in the riggingkept their hold. The men around the cart sprang for the hawser andtally-blocks to rig the buoy, when a dull cry rose from the wreck. Totheir horror they saw the mainmast waver, flutter for a moment, and sagover the schooner's side. The last hope of using the life-car was gone!Without the elevation of the mast and with nothing but the smashed hullto make fast to, the shipwrecked men would be pounded into pulp in theattempt to drag them through the boil of wreckage. 

"Haul in, men!" cried the captain. "No use of another shot; we can'tdrag 'em through that surf!"

"I'll take my chances, " said Green, stepping forward. "Let me, cap'n. Ican handle 'em if they haul in the slack and make fast. "

"No, you can't, " said the captain calmly. "You couldn't get twenty feetfrom shore. We got to wait till the tide cleans this wood out. It'sworkin' right now. They kin stand it for a while. Certain death tobring 'em through that smother--that stuff'd knock the brains out of'em fast as they dropped into it. Signal to 'em to hang on, Parks. "

An hour went by--an hour of agony to the men clinging to the groundedschooner, and of impatience to the shore crew, who were powerless. Theonly danger was of exhaustion to the shipwrecked men and the breakingup of the schooner. If this occurred there was nothing left but aplunge of rescuing men through the surf, the life of every man in hishand. 

The beach began filling up. The news of a shipwreck had spread with therapidity of a thunder-shower. One crowd, denser in spots where thestronger men were breasting the wind, which was now happily on thewane, were moving from the village along the beach, others werestumbling on through the marshes. From the back country, along the roadleading from the hospital, rattled a gig, the horse doing his utmost. In this were Doctor John and Jane. She had, contrary to his advice, remained at the hospital. The doctor had been awakened by the shouts ofa fisherman, and had driven with all speed to the hospital to get hisremedies and instruments. Jane had insisted upon accompanying him, although she had been up half the night with one of the sailors rescuedthe week before by the crew of No. 14. The early morning air--it wasnow seven o'clock--would do her good, she pleaded, and she might be ofuse if any one of the poor fellows needed a woman's care. 

Farther down toward Beach Haven the sand was dotted with wagons andbuggies; some filled with summer boarders anxious to see the crew atwork. One used as the depot omnibus contained Max Feilding, Lucy, andhalf a dozen others. She had passed a sleepless night, and hearing thecries of those hurrying by had thrown a heavy cloak around her andopening wide the piazza door had caught sight of the doomed vesselfighting for its life. Welcoming the incident as a relief from her ownmaddening thoughts, she had joined Max, hoping that the excitementmight divert her mind from the horror that overshadowed her. Then, too, she did not want to be separated a single moment from him. Since thefatal hour when Jane had told her of Bart's expected return Max's facehad haunted her. As long as he continued to look into her eyes, believing and trusting in her there was hope. He had noticed herhaggard look, but she had pleaded one of her headaches, and had kept upher smiles, returning his caresses. Some way would be opened; some wayMUST be opened!

While waiting for the change of wind and tide predicted by Captain Holtto clear away the deadly drift of the cord-wood so dangerous to theimperilled men, the wreckage from the grounded schooner began to comeashore--crates of vegetables, barrels of groceries, and boxes filledwith canned goods. Some of these were smashed into splinters by end-oncollisions with cord-wood; others had dodged the floatage and werelanded high on the beach. 

During the enforced idleness Tod occupied himself in rolling away fromthe back-suck of the surf the drift that came ashore. Being nearest astranded crate he dragged it clear and stood bending over it, readingthe inscription. With a start he beckoned to Parks, the nearest man tohim, tore the card from the wooden slat, and held it before thesurfman's face. 

"What's this? Read! That's the Polly Walters out there, I tell ye, andthe captain's son's aboard! I've been suspicionin' it all the mornin'. That's him with the slouch hat. I knowed he warn't no sailor from theway he acted. Don't say nothin' till we're sure. "

Parks lunged forward, dodged a stick of cord-wood that drove straightat him like a battering-ram and, watching his chance, dragged afloating keg from the smother, rolled it clear of the surf, canted iton end, and took a similar card from its head. Then he shouted with allhis might:

"It's the Polly, men! It's the Polly--the Polly Walters! O God, ain'tthat too bad! Captain Ambrose's drowned, or we'd a-seen him! Thatfeller in the slouch hat is Bart Holt! Gimme that line!" He wasstripping off his waterproofs now ready for a plunge into the sea. 

With the awful words ringing in his ears Captain Holt made a springfrom the dune and came running toward Parks, who was now knotting theshot-line about his waist. 

"What do you say she is?" he shouted, as he flung himself to the edgeof the roaring surf and strained his eyes toward the wreck. 

"The Polly--the Polly Walters!"

"My God! How do ye know? She ain't left Amboy, I tell ye!"

"She has! That's her--see them kerds! They come off that stuff behindye. Tod got one and I got t'other!" he held the bits of cardboard underthe rim of the captain's sou'wester. 

Captain Holt snatched the cards from Parks's hand, read them at aglance, and a dazed, horror-stricken expression crossed his face. Thenhis eye fell upon Parks knotting the shot-line about his waist. 

"Take that off! Parks, stay where ye are; don't ye move, I tell ye. "

As the words dropped from the captain's lips a horrified shout went upfrom the bystanders. The wreck, with a crunching sound, was beinglifted from the sand. She rose steadily, staggered for an instant anddropped out of sight. She had broken amidships. With the recoil tworagged bunches showed above the white wash of the water. On onefragment--a splintered mast--crouched the man with the slouch hat; tothe other clung the two sailors. The next instant a great roller, gathering strength as it came, threw itself full length on bothfragments and swept on. Only wreckage was left and one head. 

With a cry to the men to stand by and catch the slack, the captainripped a line from the drum of the cart, dragged off his high boots, knotted the bight around his waist, and started on a run for the surf. 

Before his stockinged feet could reach the edge of the foam, Archieseized him around the waist and held him with a grip of steel. 

"You sha'n't do it, captain!" he cried, his eyes blazing. "Hold him, men--I'll get him!" With the bound of a cat he landed in the middle ofthe floatage, dived under the logs, rose on the boiling surf, workedhimself clear of the inshore wreckage, and struck out in the directionof the man clinging to the shattered mast, and who was now nearing thebeach, whirled on by the inrushing seas. 

Strong men held their breath, tears brimming their eyes. Captain Holtstood irresolute, dazed for the moment by Archie's danger. The beachwomen--Mrs. Fogarty among them--were wringing their hands. They knewthe risk better than the others. 

Jane, at Archie's plunge, had run down to the edge of the surf andstood with tight-clenched fingers, her gaze fixed on the lad's head ashe breasted the breakers--her face white as death, the tears streamingdown her cheeks. Fear for the boy she loved, pride in his pluck andcourage, agony over the result of the rescue, all swept through her asshe strained her eyes seaward. 

Lucy, Max, and Mrs. Coates were huddled together under the lee of thedune. Lucy's eyes were staring straight ahead of her; her teethchattering with fear and cold. She had heard the shouts of Parks andthe captain, and knew now whose life was at stake. There was no hopeleft; Archie would win and pull him out alive, and her end would come. 

The crowd watched the lad until his hand touched the mast, saw him pullhimself hand over hand along its slippery surface and reach out hisarms. Then a cheer went up from a hundred throats, and as instantlydied away in a moan of terror. Behind, towering over them like a hugewall, came a wave of black water, solemn, merciless, uncrested, as ifbent on deadly revenge. Under its impact the shattered end of the mastrose clear of the water, tossed about as if in agony, veered suddenlywith the movement of a derrick-boom, and with its living freight dashedheadlong into the swirl of cord-wood. 

As it ploughed through the outer drift and reached the inner line ofwreckage, Tod, whose eyes had never left Archie since his leap into thesurf, made a running jump from the sand, landed on a tangle of drift, and sprang straight at the section of the mast to which Archie clung. The next instant the surf rolled clear, submerging the three men. 

Another ringing order now rose above the roar of the waters, and achain of rescuing surfmen--the last resort--with Captain Nat at thehead dashed into the turmoil. 

It was a hand-to-hand fight now with death. At the first onslaught ofthe battery of wreckage Polhemus was knocked breathless by a blow inthe stomach and rescued by the bystanders just as a log was curlingover him. Green was hit by a surging crate, and Mulligan only savedfrom the crush of the cord-wood by the quickness of a fisherman. Morgan, watching his chance, sprang clear of a tangle of barrels andcord-wood, dashed into the narrow gap of open water, and grappling Todas he whirled past, twisted his fingers in Archie's waistband. Thethree were then pounced upon by a relay of fishermen led by Tod'sfather and dragged from under the crunch and surge of the smother. BothTod and Morgan were unhurt and scrambled to their feet as soon as theygained the hard sand, but Archie lay insensible where the men haddropped him, his body limp, his feet crumpled under him. 

All this time the man in the slouch hat was being swirled in the hellof wreckage, the captain meanwhile holding to the human chain with onehand and fighting with the other until he reached the half-drowned manwhose grip had now slipped from the crate to which he clung. As the twowere shot in toward the beach, Green, who had recovered his breath, dodged the recoil, sprang straight for them, threw the captain a line, which he caught, dashed back and dragged the two high up on the beach, the captain's arm still tightly locked about the rescued man. 

A dozen hands were held out to relieve the captain of his burden, buthe only waved them away. 

"I'll take care of him!" he gasped in a voice almost gone frombuffeting the waves, as the body slipped from his arms to the wet sand. "Git out of the way, all of you!"

Once on his feet, he stood for an instant to catch his breath, wrungthe grime from his ears with his stiff fingers, and then shaking thewater from his shoulders as a dog would after a plunge, he passed hisgreat arms once more under the bedraggled body of the unconscious manand started up the dune toward the House of Refuge, the water drippingfrom both their wet bodies. Only once did he pause, and then to shout:

"Green, --Mulligan! Go back, some o' ye, and git Archie. He's hurt bad. Quick, now! And one o' ye bust in them doors. And-- Polhemus, pull somecoats off that crowd and a shawl or two from them women if they canspare 'em, and find Doctor John, some o' ye! D'ye hear! DOCTOR JOHN!"

A dozen coats were stripped from as many backs, a shawl of Mrs. Fogarty's handed to Polhemus, the doors burst in and Uncle Isaaclunging in tumbled the garments on the floor. On these the captain laidthe body of the rescued man, the slouch hat still clinging to his head. 

While this was being done another procession was approaching the house. Tod and Parks were carrying Archie's unconscious form, the waterdripping from his clothing. Tod had his hands under the boy's armpitsand Parks carried his feet. Behind the three walked Jane, halfsupported by the doctor. 

"Dead!" she moaned. "Oh, no--no--no, John; it cannot be! Not my Archie!my brave Archie!"

The captain heard the tramp of the men's feet on the board floor of therunway outside and rose to his feet. He had been kneeling beside theform of the rescued man. His face was knotted with the agony he hadpassed through, his voice still thick and hoarse from battling with thesea. 

"What's that she says?" he cried, straining his ears to catch Jane'swords. "What's that! Archie dead! No! 'Tain't so, is it, doctor?"

Doctor John, his arm still supporting Jane, shook his head gravely andpointed to his own forehead. 

"It's all over, captain, " he said in a broken voice. "Skull fractured. "

"Hit with them logs! Archie! Oh, my God! And this man ain't much betteroff--he ain't hardly breathin'. See for yerself, doctor. Here, Tod, layArchie on these coats. Move back that boat, men, to give 'em room, andpush them stools out of the way. Oh, Miss Jane, maybe it ain't true, maybe he'll come round! I've seen 'em this way more'n a dozen times. Here, doctor let's get these wet clo'es off 'em. " He dropped betweenthe two limp, soggy bodies and began tearing open the shirt from theman's chest. Jane, who had thrown herself in a passion of grief on thewater-soaked floor beside Archie, commenced wiping the dead boy's facewith her handkerchief, smoothing the short wet curls from his foreheadas she wept. 

The man's shirt and collar loosened, Captain Holt pulled the slouch hatfrom his head, wrenched the wet shoes loose, wrapped the cold feet inthe dry shawl, and began tucking the pile of coats closer about theman's shoulders that he might rest the easier. For a moment he lookedintently at the pallid face smeared with ooze and grime, and limp bodythat the doctor was working over, and then stepped to where Tod nowcrouched beside his friend, the one he had loved all his life. Theyoung surfman's strong body was shaking with the sobs he could nolonger restrain. 

"It's rough, Tod, " said the captain, in a choking voice, which grewclearer as he talked on. "Almighty rough on ye and on all of us. Youdid what you could--ye risked yer life for him, and there ain't nobodykin do more. I wouldn't send ye out again, but there's work to do. Themtwo men of Cap'n Ambrose's is drowned, and they'll come ashoresome'er's near the inlet, and you and Parks better hunt 'em up. Theylive up to Barnegat, ye know, and their folks'll be wantin' 'em. " Itwas strange how calm he was. His sense of duty was now controlling him. 

Tod had raised himself to his feet when the captain had begun to speakand stood with his wet sou'wester in his hand. 

"Been like a brother to me, " was all he said, as he brushed the tearsfrom his eyes and went to join Parks. 

The captain watched Tod's retreating figure for a moment, and bendingagain over Archie's corpse, stood gazing at the dead face, his handsfolded across his girth--as one does when watching a body being slowlylowered into a grave. 

"I loved ye, boy, " Jane heard him say between her sobs. "I loved ye!You knowed it, boy. I hoped to tell ye so out loud so everybody couldhear. Now they'll never know. "

Straightening himself up, he walked firmly to the open door about whichthe people pressed, held back by the line of surfmen headed byPolhemus, and calmly surveyed the crowd. Close to the opening, tryingto press her way in to Jane, his eyes fell on Lucy. Behind her stoodMax Feilding. 

"Friends, " said the captain, in a low, restrained voice, every trace ofhis grief and excitement gone, "I've got to ask ye to git considerableway back and keep still. We got Doctor John here and Miss Jane, andthere ain't nothin' ye kin do. When there is I'll call ye. Polhemus, you and Green see this order is obeyed. "

Again he hesitated, then raising his eyes over the group nearest thedoor, he beckoned to Lucy, pushed her in ahead of him, caught theswinging doors in his hands, and shut them tight. This done, he againdropped on his knees beside the doctor and the now breathing man. 

CHAPTER XXII

THE CLAW OF THE SEA-PUSS

With the closing of the doors the murmur of the crowd, the dull glareof the gray sky, and the thrash of the wind were shut out. The onlylight in the House of Refuge now came from the two small windows, oneabove the form of the suffering man and the other behind the dead bodyof Archie. Jane's head was close to the boy's chest, her sobs comingfrom between her hands, held before her face. The shock of Archie'sdeath had robbed her of all her strength. Lucy knelt beside her, hershoulder resting against a pile of cordage. Every now and then shewould steal a furtive glance around the room--at the boat, at therafters overhead, at the stove with its pile of kindling--and a slightshudder would pass through her. She had forgotten nothing of the past, nor of the room in which she crouched. Every scar and stain stood outas clear and naked as those on some long-buried wreck dug from shiftingsands by a change of tide. 

A few feet away the doctor was stripping the wet clothes from therescued man and piling the dry coats over him to warm him back to life. His emergency bag, handed in by Polhemus through the crack of theclosed doors, had been opened, a bottle selected, and some spoonfuls ofbrandy forced down the sufferer's throat. He saw that the sea-water hadnot harmed him; it was the cordwood and wreckage that had crushed thebreath out of him. In confirmation he pointed to a thin streak of bloodoozing from one ear. The captain nodded, and continued chafing theman's hands--working with the skill of a surfman over the water-soakedbody. Once he remarked in a half-whisper--so low that Jane could nothear him:

"I ain't sure yet, doctor. I thought it was Bart when I grabbed himfust; but he looks kind o' different from what I expected to see him. If it's him he'll know me when he comes to. I ain't changed so muchmaybe. I'll rub his feet now, " and he kept on with his work ofresuscitation. 

Lucy's straining ears had caught the captain's words of doubt, but theygave her no hope. She had recognized at the first glance the man of allothers in the world she feared most. His small ears, the way the hairgrew on the temples, the bend of the neck and slope from the chin tothe throat. No--she had no misgivings. These features had been part ofher life--had been constantly before her since the hour Jane had toldher of Bart's expected return. Her time had come; nothing could saveher. He would regain consciousness, just as the captain had said, andwould open those awful hollow eyes and would look at her, and then thatdreadful mouth, with its thin, ashen lips, would speak to her, and shecould deny nothing. Trusting to her luck--something which had neverfailed her--she had continued in her determination to keep everythingfrom Max. Now it would all come as a shock to him, and when he askedher if it was true she could only bow her head. 

She dared not look at Archie--she could not. All her injustice to himand to Jane; her abandonment of him when a baby; her neglect of himsince, her selfish life of pleasure; her triumph over Max--all cameinto review, one picture after another, like the unrolling of a chart. Even while her hand was on Jane's shoulder, and while comforting wordsfell from her lips, her mind and eyes were fixed on the face of the manwhom the doctor was slowly bringing back to life. 

Not that her sympathy was withheld from Archie and Jane. It was herterror that dominated her--a terror that froze her blood and cloggedher veins and dulled every sensibility and emotion. She was like onelowered into a grave beside a corpse upon which every moment the earthwould fall, entombing the living with the dead. 

The man groaned and turned his head, as if in pain. A convulsivemovement of the lips and face followed, and then the eyes partly opened. 

Lucy clutched at the coil of rope, staggered to her feet, and bracedherself for the shock. He would rise now, and begin staring about, andthen he would recognize her. The captain knew what was coming; he waseven now planning in his mind the details of the horrible plot of whichJane had told her!

Captain Holt stooped closer and peered under the half-closed lids. 

"Brown eyes, " she heard him mutter to himself, "just 's the Swede toldme. " She knew their color; they had looked into her own too often. 

Doctor John felt about with his hand and drew a small package ofletters from inside the man's shirt. They were tied with a string andsoaked with salt water. This he handed to the captain. 

The captain pulled them apart and examined them carefully. 

"It's him, " he said with a start, "it's Bart! It's all plain now. Here's my letter, " and he held it up. "See the printing at thetop--'Life-Saving Service'? And here's some more--they're all stucktogether. Wait! here's one--fine writing. " Then his voice dropped sothat only the doctor could hear: "Ain't that signed 'Lucy'?Yes--'Lucy'--and it's an old one. "

The doctor waved the letters away and again laid his hand on thesufferer's chest, keeping it close to his heart. The captain bentnearer. Jane, who, crazed with grief, had been caressing Archie's coldcheeks, lifted her head as if aware of the approach of some crisis, andturned to where the doctor knelt beside the rescued man. Lucy leanedforward with straining eyes and ears. 

The stillness of death fell upon the small room. Outside could be heardthe pound and thrash of the surf and the moan of the gale; no humanvoice--men and women were talking in whispers. One soul had gone to Godand another life hung by a thread. 

The doctor raised his finger. 

The man's face twitched convulsively, the lids opened wider, there camea short, inward gasp, and the jaw dropped. 

"He's dead, " said the doctor, and rose to his feet. Then he took hishandkerchief from his pocket and laid it over the dead man's face. 

As the words fell from his lips Lucy caught at the wall, and with analmost hysterical cry of joy threw herself into Jane's arms. 

The captain leaned back against the life-boat and for some moments hiseyes were fixed on the body of his dead son. 

"I ain't never loved nothin' all my life, doctor, " he said, his voicechoking, "that it didn't go that way. "

Doctor John made no reply except with his eyes. Silence is ofttimesmore sympathetic than the spoken word. He was putting his remedies backinto his bag so that he might rejoin Jane. The captain continued:

"All I've got is gone now--the wife, Archie, and now Bart. I counted onthese two. Bad day's work, doctor--bad day's work. " Then in a firmtone, "I'll open the doors now and call in the men; we got to git thesetwo bodies up to the Station, and then we'll get 'em home somehow. "

Instantly all Lucy's terror returned. An unaccountable, unreasoningpanic took possession of her. All her past again rose before her. Shefeared the captain now more than she had Bart. Crazed over the loss ofhis son he would blurt out everything. Max would hear and know--knowabout Archie and Bart and all her life!

Springing to her feet, maddened with an undefinable terror, she caughtthe captain's hand as he reached out for the fastenings of the door. 

"Don't--don't tell them who he is! Promise me you won't tell themanything! Say it's a stranger! You are not sure it's he--I heard yousay so!"

"Not say it's my own son! Why?" He was entirely unconscious of what wasin her mind. 

Jane had risen to her feet at the note of agony in Lucy's voice and hadstepped to her side as if to protect her. The doctor stood listening inamazement to Lucy's outbreak. He knew her reasons, and was appalled ather rashness. 

"No! Don't--DON'T!" Lucy was looking up into the captain's face now, all her terror in her eyes. 

"Why, I can't see what good that'll do!" For the moment he thought thatthe excitement had turned her head. "Isaac Polhemus'll know him, " hecontinued, "soon's he sets his eyes on him. And even if I was meanenough to do it, which I ain't, these letters would tell. They've gotto go to the Superintendent 'long with everything else found on bodies. Your name's on some o' 'em and mine's on some others. We'll git 'emag'in, but not till Gov'ment see 'em. "

These were the letters which had haunted her!

"Give them to me! They're mine!" she cried, seizing the captain'sfingers and trying to twist the letters from his grasp. 

A frown gathered on the captain's brow and his voice had an ugly ringin it:

"But I tell ye the Superintendent's got to have 'em for a while. That'sregulations, and that's what we carry out. They ain't goin' to belost--you'll git 'em ag'in. "

"He sha'n't have them, I tell you!" Her voice rang now with somethingof her old imperious tone. "Nobody shall have them. They're mine--notyours--nor his. Give them--"

"And break my oath!" interrupted the captain. For the first time herealized what her outburst meant and what inspired it. 

"What difference does that make in a matter like this? Give them to me. You dare not keep them, " she cried, tightening her fingers in theeffort to wrench the letters from his hand. "Sister--doctor--speak tohim! Make him give them to me--I will have them!"

The captain brushed aside her hand as easily as a child would brushaside a flower. His lips were tight shut, his eyes flashing. 

"You want me to lie to the department?"

"YES!" She was beside herself now with fear and rage. "I don't care whoyou lie to! You brute--you coward-- I want them! I will have them!"Again she made a spring for the letters. 

"See here, you she-devil. Look at me!"--the words came in cold, cuttingtones. "You're the only thing livin', or dead, that ever dared askNathaniel Holt to do a thing like that. And you think I'd do it tooblige ye? You're rotten as punk--that's what ye are! Rotten from yerkeel to yer top-gallant! and allus have been since I knowed ye!"

Jane started forward and faced the now enraged man. 

"You must not, captain--you shall not speak to my sister that way!" shecommanded. 

The doctor stopped between them: "You forget that she is a woman. Iforbid you to--"

"I will, I tell ye, doctor! It's true, and you know it. " The captain'svoice now dominated the room. 

"That's no reason why you should abuse her. You're too much of a man toact as you do. "

"It's because I'm a man that I do act this way. She's done nothin' butbring trouble to this town ever since she landed in it from school nightwenty year ago. Druv out that dead boy of mine lyin' there, and made atramp of him; throwed Archie off on Miss Jane; lied to the man whomarried her, and been livin' a lie ever since. And now she wants me tobreak my oath! Damn her--"

The doctor laid his hand over the captain's mouth. "Stop! And I meanit!" His own calm eyes were flashing now. "This is not the place fortalk of this kind. We are in the presence of death, and--"

The captain caught the doctor's wrist and held it like a vice. 

"I won't stop. I'll have it out--I've lived all the lies I'm goin' tolive! I told you all this fifteen year ago when I thought Bart wasdead, and you wanted me to keep shut, and I did, and you did, too, andyou ain't never opened your mouth since. That's because you're aman--all four square sides of ye. You didn't want to hurt Miss Jane, and no more did I. That's why I passed Archie there in the street;that's why I turned round and looked after him when I couldn't seesometimes for the tears in my eyes; and all to save that THING therethat ain't worth savin'! By God, when I think of it I want to tear mytongue out for keepin' still as long as I have!"

Lucy, who had shrunk back against the wall, now raised her head:

"Coward! Coward!" she muttered. 

The captain turned and faced her, his eyes blazing, his rageuncontrollable:

"Yes, you're a THING, I tell ye!--and I'll say it ag'in. I used tothink it was Bart's fault. Now I know it warn't. It was yours. Youtricked him, damn ye! Do ye hear? Ye tricked him with yer lies and yerways. Now they're over--there'll be no more lies--not while I live! I'mgoin' to strip ye to bare poles so's folks 'round here kin see. Git outof my way--all of ye! Out, I tell ye!"

The doctor had stepped in front of the infuriated man, his back to theclosed door, his open palm upraised. 

"I will not, and you shall not!" he cried. "What you are about do to isruin--for Lucy, for Jane, and for little Ellen. You cannot--you shallnot put such a stain upon that child. You love her, you--"

"Yes--too well to let that woman touch her ag'in if I kin help it!" Thefury of the merciless sea was in him now--the roar and pound of thesurf in his voice. "She'll be a curse to the child all her days; she'llgo back on her when she's a mind to just as she did on Archie. Thereain't a dog that runs the streets that would 'a' done that. She didn'tkeer then, and she don't keer now, with him a-lyin' dead there. Sheain't looked at him once nor shed a tear. It's too late. All hell can'tstop me! Out of my way, I tell ye, doctor, or I'll hurt ye!"

With a wrench he swung back the doors and flung himself into the light. 

"Come in, men! Isaac, Green--all of ye--and you over there! I gotsomething to say, and I don't want ye to miss a word of it! You, too, Mr. Feilding, and that lady next ye--and everybody else that kin hear!

"That's my son, Barton Holt, lyin' there dead! The one I druv out o'here nigh twenty year ago. It warn't for playin' cards, but on accountof a woman; and there she stands--Lucy Cobden! That dead boy beside himis their child--my own grandson, Archie! Out of respect to the bestwoman that ever lived, Miss Jane Cobden, I've kep' still. If anybodyain't satisfied all they got to do is to look over these letters. That's all!"

Lucy, with a wild, despairing look at Max, had sunk to the floor andlay cowering beneath the lifeboat, her face hidden in the folds of hercloak. 

Jane had shrunk back behind one of the big folding doors and stoodconcealed from the gaze of the astonished crowd, many of whom werepressing into the entrance. Her head was on the doctor's shoulder, herfingers had tight hold of his sleeve. Doctor John's arms were about herfrail figure, his lips close to her cheek. 

"Don't, dear--don't, " he said softly. "You have nothing to reproachyourself with. Your life has been one long sacrifice. "

"Oh, but Archie, John! Think of my boy being gone! Oh, I loved him so, John!"

"You made a man of him, Jane. All he was he owed to you. " He washolding her to him--comforting her as a father would a child. 

"And my poor Lucy, " Jane moaned on, "and the awful, awful disgrace!"Her face was still hidden in his shoulder, her frame shaking with theagony of her grief, the words coming slowly, as if wrung one by one outof her breaking heart. 

"You did your duty, dear--all of it. " His lips were close to her ear. No one else heard. 

"And you knew it all these years, John--and you did not tell me. "

"It was your secret, dear; not mine. "

"Yes, I know--but I have been so blind--so foolish. I have hurt you sooften, and you have been so true through it all. O John, please--pleaseforgive me! My heart has been so sore at times--I have suffered so!"

Then, with a quick lifting of her head, as if the thought alarmed her, she asked in sudden haste:

"And you love me, John, just the same? Say you love me, John!"

He gathered her closer, and his lips touched her cheek:

"I never remember, my darling, when I did not love you. Have you everdoubted me?"

"No, John, no! Never, never! Kiss me again, my beloved. You are all Ihave in the world!"

THE END