widow was called Rachel. She had been Rachel Holt; and her
sister's name was Priscilla. Rachel was one of those women who suggest
slumbering fires; she was slow of speech, and quiet, and calm.... But
John Shore and Mark had both loved her; and when she married John, Mark
laughed a hard and reckless laugh that made the woman afraid. John and
Mark never spoke, one to another, after that marriage.

Rachel's sister, Priscilla, was a gay and careless child. She was six
years younger than Joel, and she had acquired in babyhood the habit of
thinking Joel the most wonderful created thing. Their yards adjoined; and
she was the baby of her family, and he of his. Thus the big boy and the
little girl had always been comrades and allies against the world. Before
Joel first went to sea, as ship's boy, the two had decided they would
some day be married....

Joel went to supper that night at Priscilla's home. He was alone in his
own house; and Mrs. Holt was a person with a mother's heart. Rachel lived
at home. She gave Joel quiet welcome at the door, before Priscilla in the
kitchen heard his voice and came flying to overwhelm him. She had been
making popovers, and there was flour on her fingers--and on Joel's best
black coat, when she was done with him. Rachel brushed it off, when Priss
had run back to her oven.

They sat down at table. Mrs. Holt at one end, her husband--he was a big
man, an old sea captain, and full of yarns as a knitting bag--at the
other; and Rachel at one side, facing Priss and Joel. Joel's ship had
come in only that day; the _Nathan Ross_ had been in port for weeks. So
the whole town knew Mark Shore's story. They spoke of it now, and Joel
told them what he knew.... Rachel wondered if there was any chance that
Mark might still be alive. Her father broke in with a story of Mark's
first cruise, when the boy had saved a man's life by his quickness with
the hatchet on the racing line. The town was full of such stories; for
Mark was one of those men about whom legends arise. And now he was
gone....

Priscilla listened to the talk with the wide eyes of youth, awed by the
mystery and majesty of tragic things. She remembered Mark as a huge man,
like a pagan god, in whose eyes she had been only a thin-legged little
girl who made faces through the fence.... After supper, when the others
had left them in the parlor together, she said to Joel: "Do you think
he's dead?" Her voice was a whisper.

"I aim to know," said Joel