go without
you, Dollier."

The priest's face cleared, and a moment afterwards the three comrades
shook hands together.

CHAPTER VIII

AS SEEN THROUGH A GLASS, DARKLY

When King Louis and King James called for peace, they could not know
that it was as little possible to their two colonies as between rival
buccaneers. New France was full of bold spirits who loved conquest
for conquest's sake. Besides, in this case there was a force at work,
generally unknown, but as powerful as the convincing influence of an
army. Behind the worst and the best acts of Charles II was a woman.
Behind the glories and follies of Louis XIV was also a woman. Behind
some of the most striking incidents in the history of New France, New
England, and New York, was a woman.

We saw her when she was but a child--the centre of singular events.
Years had passed. Not one of those events had gone for nothing; each was
bearing fruit after its kind.

She is sitting alone in a room of a large unhandsome house, facing on
Boston harbour. It is evening. The room itself is of dark wood, and
evening has thrown it into gloom. Yet somehow the girl's face has a
light of its own. She is turned fair towards the window, and is looking
out to sea. A mist is rising from the water, and the shore is growing
grey and heavy as the light in the west recedes and night creeps in from
the ocean. She watches the waves and the mist till all is mist without;
a scene which she had watched, how often she could not count. The night
closes in entirely upon her, but she does not move. At last the door of
the room opens and some one enters and closes it again. "My daughter!"
says an anxious voice. "Are you here, Jessica?"

"I am here, father," is the reply. "Shall we have lights?"

"As you will."

Even as they speak a servant enters, and lighted candles are put upon
the table. They are alone again. Both are pale. The girl stands very
still, and so quiet is her face, one could never guess that she is
passing, through the tragic moment of her life.

"What is your answer, Jessica?" he asks. "I will marry him when he comes
back."

"Thank God!" is the old man's acknowledgment. "You have saved our
fortunes."

The girl sighs, and then, with a little touch of that demure irony which
we had seen in her years before, says: "I trust we have not lost our
honour."

"Why, you love him, do you not? There is no one you care for more than
George Gering?"

"I suppose not," is