stopped irresolute. A new light broke in
upon his heart. It was not against himself and her own happiness that
she had taken this stand, but to save her father's and her sister's
name. He knew how strong was her devotion to her duty, how blind her
love for Lucy, how sacred she held the trust given to her by her dead
father. No; she was neither obstinate nor quixotic. Hers was the work
of a martyr, not a fanatic. No one he had ever known or heard of had
borne so great a cross or made so noble a sacrifice. It was like the
deed of some grand old saint, the light of whose glory had shone down
the ages. He was wrong, cruelly wrong. The only thing left for him to
do was to wait. For what he could not tell. Perhaps God in his mercy
would 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 sent
a message to the captain. I'll go now. No, please don't bring a light
to 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 the
lamps and ascended the stairs. The other servants were in bed. Jane's
door was partly open. Martha pushed it gently with her hand and stepped
in. Jane had thrown herself at full length on the bed and lay with her
face buried in her hands. She was talking to herself and had not
noticed Martha's footsteps.

"O God! what have I done that this should be sent to me?" Martha heard
her say between her sobs. "You would be big enough, my beloved, to bear
it all for my sake; to take the stain and wear it; but I cannot hurt
you--not you, not you, my great, strong, sweet soul. Your heart aches
for me and you would give me all you have, but I could not bear your
name without telling you. You would forgive me, but I could never
forgive myself. No, no, you shall stand unstained if God will give me
strength!"

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's
shoulder.

"Yes, it's all true about Bart," she answered in a