cheerful either. Only in one way did she
believe in Stede Bonnet, and that was, that after some fashion or
another he would come between her and her bright dreams for her dear
Dickory.

And so there were some people in Spanish Town who were not as happy as
they had been.

Still there were dinners and little parties, and society made itself
very pleasant; and in the midst of them all a ship came in from
Barbadoes, bringing a letter from Martin Newcombe.

A strange thing about this letter was that it was addressed to Mr.
Delaplaine and not to Miss Kate Bonnet. This, of course, proved the
letter must be on business; and, although he was with his little family
when he opened his letter, he thought it well to glance at it before
reading it aloud. The first few lines showed him that it was indeed a
business letter, for it told of the death of Madam Bonnet, and how the
writer, Martin Newcombe, as a neighbour and friend of the family, had
been called in to take temporary charge of her effects, and, having done
so, he hastened to inform Mr. Delaplaine of his proceedings and to ask
advice. This letter he now read aloud, and Kate and the others were
greatly interested therein, although they cautiously forbore the
expression of any opinion which might rise in their minds regarding this
turn of affairs.

Having finished these business details, Mr. Delaplaine went on and read
aloud, and in the succeeding portion of the letter Mr. Newcombe begged
Mr. Delaplaine to believe that it was the hardest duty of his whole life
to write what he was now obliged to write, but that he knew he must do
it, and therefore would not hesitate. At this the reader looked at his
niece and stopped.

"Go on," cried Kate, her face a little flushed, "go on!"

The face of Mr. Delaplaine was pale, and for a moment he hesitated,
then, with a sudden jerk, he nerved himself to the effort and read on;
he had seen enough to make him understand that the duty before him
was to read on.

[Illustration: In an instant Dickory was there.]

Briefly and tersely, but with tears in the very ink, so sad were the
words, the writer assured Mr. Delaplaine that his love for his niece had
been, and was, the overpowering impulse of his life; that to win this
love he had dared everything, he had hoped for everything, he had been
willing to pass by and overlook everything, but that now, and it tore
his heart to write it, his evil fortune had been too much for him; he
could d