stronger and more
composed tone. "I have been expecting it. Poor boy, he had nothing to
live for, and his conscience must have given him no rest."

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

Jane sat erect, brushed the tears from her eyes, smoothed her hair back
from 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 not
break it. Then, again, he will never discredit his own son. The doctor
doesn't know, and there will be nobody to tell him. That's not what he
came to tell me. It was about the stories you heard last week and which
have only just reached his ears. That's all. He wanted to protect me
from their annoyance, but I would not listen to him. There is trouble
enough without bringing him into it. Now go to bed, Martha."

As she spoke Jane regained her feet, and crossing the room, settled
into a chair by the boy's crib. Long after Martha had closed her own
door for the night Jane sat watching the sleeping child. One plump pink
hand lay outside the cover; the other little crumpled rose-leaf was
tucked under the cheek, the face half-hidden in a tangle of glossy
curls, now spun-gold in the light of the shaded lamp.

"Poor little waif," she sighed, "poor little motherless, fatherless
waif! 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 room
to her desk, propped a book in front of it so that its rays would not
fall upon the sleeping child, opened her portfolio, and sat down to
write.

When she had finished and had sealed her letter it was long past
midnight. It was addressed to Lucy in Dresden, and contained a full
account 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 with
the care of a self-appointed nurse temporarily doing her duty by her
charge. Later on, as the fact became burned into her mind that Lucy
would never willingly return to Warehold, she clung to him with that
absorbing love and devotion which an unmarried woman often lavishes
upon a child not her own. In his innocent eyes she saw the fulfilment
of her promise to her father. He would grow to be a man of courage and
strength, the stain up