o anything for the sake of his love that a man with respect for
himself could do, but there was one thing at which he must stop, at
which he must bow his head and submit to his fate--he could not marry
the daughter of an executed felon.

Thus came to that little family group the news of the pirate Bonnet's
death. There was more of the letter, but Mr. Delaplaine did not read it.

Kate did not scream, nor moan, nor faint, but she sat up straight in her
chair and gazed, with a wild intentness, at her uncle. No one spoke. At
such a moment condolence or sympathy would have been a cruel mockery.
They were all as pale as chalk. In his heart, Mr. Delaplaine said: "I
see it all; the Governor must have known, and he loved her so he could
not break her heart."

In the midst of the silence, in the midst of the chalky whiteness of
their faces, in the midst of the blackness which was settling down upon
them, Kate Bonnet still sat upright, a coldness creeping through every
part of her. Suddenly she turned her head, and in a voice of wild
entreaty she called out: "Oh, Dickory, why don't you come to me!"

In an instant Dickory was there, and, cold and lifeless, Kate Bonnet was
in his arms.

CHAPTER XXXIX

THE BLESSINGS WHICH COME FROM THE DEATH OF THE WICKED

It was three weeks after Martin Newcombe's letter came before Ben
Greenway arrived in Spanish Town. He had had a hard time to get there,
having but little money and no friends to help him; but he had a strong
heart and an earnest, and so he was bound to get there at last; and,
although Kate saw no visitors, she saw him. She was not dressed in
mourning; she could not wear black for herself.

She greeted the Scotchman with earnestness; he was a friend out of the
old past, but she gave him no chance to speak first.

"Ben," she exclaimed, "have you a message for me?"

"No message," he replied, "but I hae somethin' on my heart I wish to say
to ye. I hae toiled an' laboured an' hae striven wi' mony obstacles to
get to ye an' to say it."

She looked at him, with her brows knit, wondering if she should allow
him to speak; then, with the words scarcely audible between her tightly
closed lips, she said: "Ben, what is it?"

"It is this, an' no more nor less," replied the Scotchman; "he was never
fit to be your father, an' it is not fit now for ye to remember him as
your father. I was faithful to him to the vera last, but there was no
truth in him. It is an abomination an