at was a brother to me since I was a boy! Jane that that
child'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 her
sister that's too scared to come home. I want to cut my tongue out for
tellin' ye, but I thought ye knew. Martha told me you loved her and
that 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 shall
I?"

"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 the
breakers cut sharply against Doctor John's cheeks as he sprang into his
gig and dashed out of his gate toward Yardley. Under the shadow of the
sombre pines, along the ribbon of a road, dull gray in the light of the
stars, and out on the broader highway leading to Warehold, the sharp
click of the mare's hoofs striking the hard road echoed through the
night. The neighbors recognized the tread and the speed, and Uncle
Ephraim threw up a window to know whether it was a case of life or
death, an accident, or both; but the doctor only nodded and sped on. It
WAS life and death--life for the woman he loved, death for all who
traduced her. The strange news that had dropped from the captain's lips
did not affect him except as would the ending of any young life;
neither was there any bitterness in his heart against the dead boy who
had wrecked Lucy's career and brought Jane humiliation and despair. All
he thought of was the injustice of Jane's sufferings. Added to this was
an overpowering desire to reach her side before her misery should
continue another moment; to fold her in his arms, stand between her and
the world; help her to grapple with the horror which was slowly
crushing out her life. That it was past her hour for retiring, and that
there 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 the
hood of the gig at the outlines of the old house, looming dimly through
the avenue of bushes, he saw that the occupants were asleep; no lights
shone from the upper windows and none burned in the hall below. This
discovery checked to some extent the impetus with which he had flung
himself into the night, his whole being absorbed and dominat