it with tidy garments, and
no trace of that tempestuous night remained but deeper lines upon the
forehead and the docile look of a repentant child. He did not cross the
threshold, did not offer me his hand,--only took off his cap, saying,
with a traitorous falter in his voice,--

"God bless you, Ma'am! I'm goin'."

I put out both my hands, and held his fast.

"Good bye, Robert! Keep up good heart, and when I come home to
Massachusetts we'll meet in a happier place than this. Are you quite
ready, quite comfortable for your journey?"

"Yes, Ma'am, yes; the Doctor's fixed everything; I'm goin' with a friend
of his; my papers are all right, an' I'm as happy as I can be till I
find"--

He stopped there; then went on, with a glance into the room,--

"I'm glad I didn't do it, an' I thank yer, Ma'am, fer hinderin'
me,--thank yer hearty; but I'm afraid I hate him jest the same."

Of course he did; and so did I; for these faulty hearts of ours cannot
turn perfect in a night, but need frost and fire, wind and rain, to
ripen and make them ready for the great harvest-home. Wishing to divert
his mind, I put my poor mite into his hand, and, remembering the magic
of a certain little book, I gave him mine, on whose dark cover whitely
shone the Virgin Mother and the Child, the grand history of whose life
the book contained. The money went into Robert's pocket with a grateful
murmur, the book into his bosom with a long look and a tremulous--

"I never saw _my_ baby, Ma'am."

I broke down then; and though my eyes were too dim to see, I felt the
touch of lips upon my hands, heard the sound of departing feet, and knew
my contraband was gone.

When one feels an intense dislike, the less one says about the subject
of it the better; therefore I shall merely record that the captain
lived,--in time was exchanged; and that, whoever the other party was, I
am convinced the Government got the best of the bargain. But long before
this occurred, I had fulfilled my promise to Robert; for as soon as my
patient recovered strength of memory enough to make his answer
trustworthy, I asked, without any circumlocution,--

"Captain Fairfax, where is Lucy?"

And too feeble to be angry, surprised, or insincere, he straightway
answered,--

"Dead, Miss Dane."

"And she killed herself, when you sold Bob?"

"How the Devil did you know that?" he muttered, with an expression
half-remorseful, half-amazed; but I was satisfied, and said no more.

Of c