Then, catching his anxious look, she hastened to add, "It is
nothing infectious--some kind of a slow, sapping variety. There is no
danger, Esterbrook."

"I was not afraid for myself," he replied quietly. "My alarm was for
you. You are too precious to me, Marian, for me to permit you to risk
health and life, if it were dangerous. What a Lady Bountiful you are
to those people at the Cove. When we are married you must take me in
hand and teach me your creed of charity. I'm afraid I've lived a
rather selfish life. You will change all that, dear. You will make a
good man of me."

"You are that now, Esterbrook," she said softly. "If you were not, I
could not love you."

"It is a negative sort of goodness, I fear. I have never been tried or
tempted severely. Perhaps I should fail under the test."

"I am sure you would not," answered Marian proudly.

Esterbrook laughed; her faith in him was pleasant. He had no thought
but that he would prove worthy of it.

The Cove, so-called, was a little fishing hamlet situated on the low,
sandy shore of a small bay. The houses, clustered in one spot, seemed
like nothing so much as larger shells washed up by the sea, so grey
and bleached were they from long exposure to sea winds and spray.

Dozens of ragged children were playing about them, mingled with
several disreputable yellow curs that yapped noisily at the strangers.

Down on the sandy strip of beach below the houses groups of men were
lounging about. The mackerel, season had not yet set in; the spring
herring netting was past. It was holiday time among the sea folks.
They were enjoying it to the full, a happy, ragged colony, careless of
what the morrows might bring forth.

Out beyond, the boats were at anchor, floating as gracefully on the
twinkling water as sea birds, their tall masts bowing landward on the
swell. A lazy, dreamful calm had fallen over the distant seas; the
horizon blues were pale and dim; faint purple hazes blurred the
outlines of far-off headlands and cliffs; the yellow sands sparkled in
the sunshine as if powdered with jewels.

A murmurous babble of life buzzed about the hamlet, pierced through by
the shrill undertones of the wrangling children, most of whom had
paused in their play to scan the visitors with covert curiosity.

Marian led the way to a house apart from the others at the very edge
of the shelving rock. The dooryard was scrupulously clean and
unlittered; the little footpath through it was n