ould not teach him how bitter must have been the life that rendered her
so. He had never thought of it--he did not think of it now. He was not
blaming her, and he was scarcely blaming himself. He had tried to make
her happy and had failed. There were two causes for the heavy passion of
misery that was ruling him, but neither of them was remorse.

His treachery had betrayed him, and he had lost the woman he had loved
and worked for. Soul and body were sluggish alike, but each had its dull
pang of weight and wretchedness.

"I've come to th' eend now surely," he said, and, dropping into her
seat, he hid his face.

As he sat there a choking lump rose in his throat with a sudden click,
and in a minute or so more he was wiping away hot rolling tears with the
back of his rough hand.

"I'm forsook somehow," he said--"aye, I'm forsook. I'm not th' soart o'
chap to tak' up wi' th' world. She wur all th' world I cared fur, an'
she'll ne'er forgie me, for she's a hard un--she is. Aye! but I wur
fond o' her! I wonder what she'll do--I do wonder i' my soul what she's
gettin' her mind on!"

It did not occur to him to call to her or go and see what she was doing.
He had always stood in some dull awe of her, even when she had been
kindest, and now it seemed that they were too far apart for any
possibility of approach at reconciliation. So he sat and pondered
heavily, the sea air blowing upon him fresh and sweet, the sun shining
soft and warm upon the house, and the few common flowers in the strip
of garden whose narrow shell walks and borders he had laid out for her
himself with much clumsy planning and slow labor.

Then he got up and took his rough working-jacket over his arm.

"I mun go down to th' Mary Anne," he said, "an' work a bit, or we'll
ne'er get her turned o'er afore th' tide comes in. That boat's a moit o'
trouble." And he sighed heavily.

Half-way to the gate he stopped before a cluster of ground honeysuckle,
and perhaps for the first time in his life was conscious of a sudden
curious admiration for them.

"She's powerful fond o' such loike bits o' things--posies an' such
loike," he said. "Thems some as I planted to please her on th' very day
as we were wed. I'll tak' one or two. She's main fond on 'em--fur such a
hard un."

And when he went out he held in his hand two or three slender stems hung
with the tiny pretty humble bells.

He had these very bits of simple blossoms in his hand when he went
down to wher