f had turned Rosewarne's
brain. He had prepared himself against laughter; but no one laughed: and
though, as the news spread, curiosity brought many to the shores to see,
the groups dispersed as the boat approached. Public penance is a rare
thing in these days, and all found it easier to believe that the man was
mad. Some read the Lord's retributive hand again in the form his madness
took.

In silence he took the passengers' coppers or handed them their change.
Few men had ever opened talk with Rosewarne, and none were bold enough to
attempt it in the three days during which he plied the ferry.

"You left him lonely to his sinning; leave him alone now," said old Daddo,
tilling his cottage-garden up the hill, to the neighbours who leaned
across his fence questioning him about his share in the strange business.
His advice was idle; they could not help themselves. Something in
Rosewarne's face forbade speech.

On the evening of the third day he saw the signal for which he waited--the
smoke of a tug rising above the low roofs on the town quay, and above the
smoke the top-gallants and royals of a tall vessel pencilled against the
sunset's glow. With his eyes upon the vision he rowed to shore and
silently as ever took the fees of his passengers and gave them their
change; then, having made fast the boat, he walked up to Mr. Benny's
office.

"You have done me one service," he said. "I ask you to do me a second.
The _Virtuous Lady_ has come into port; in five minutes or less she will
drop anchor. Take boat and pull to her. Tell Mrs. Purchase that I have
gone up the hill to Hall, and will be waiting there; and if you can
persuade her, bring her ashore in your boat."

Mr. Benny reached up for his hat.

"Say that I am waiting to speak with her alone. On no account must she
bring the children."

Up in the Widows' Houses, high above the murmur of the little port, no ear
caught the splash as the _Virtuous Lady's_ anchor found and held her to
home again. In Aunt Butson's room Hester sat and read aloud to her
patient. The book was the Book of Proverbs, from which Aunt Butson
professed that she, for her part, derived more comfort than from all the
four Gospels put together. For an hour Hester read on steadily, and then,
warned by the sound of regular breathing, glanced at the bed and shut the
Bible.

Rising, she paused for a moment, watching the sleeper, opened and closed
the door behind her gently, and bent her