"And the gentlemen, Manasseh--they will have taken a great deal of wine

by now?"

Manasseh spread out his hands, and again his teeth gleamed.  "To be
sho', Mis' Josselin; it is not ebery day in the yeah dat Cap'n Vyell
become Sir Olivah--"

"I did not ask you," interrupted Ruth coldly, "to excuse your errand.
. . . And now, Tatty dear, do you still bid me to go?"

"On the contrary, I forbid it."

Ruth stepped close to the little lady.  Said she, standing straight
before her and looking down, "It cost you some courage to say that."

"It may cost me more to-morrow; but I am not afraid."

"My brave Tatty!  But the courage is thrown away, for I am going."

"You do not mean this?"

"I do mean it.  My master sends for me.  You know what duty I owe him."

"He is just.  He will thank you to-morrow that you disobeyed."

"I shall not disobey."

Little Miss Quiney, looking up into her ward's eyes, argued this point
no further.  "Very well," said she.  "Then I go too."  She closed her
mouth firmly, squaring her jaw.

"But in the sedan there is room for one only."

"Then I go first," said Miss Quiney, "and the chair shall return for
you.  That," she went on, falling back upon her usual pedantic speech,
"presents no difficulty whatever to me.  What I wear does not matter--
the gentlemen will not regard it.  But you must dress in what you have
of the best.  It--it will assist you.  Being without experience, you
probably have no notion how dress assists one's self-respect."

"I think I have some little notion," Ruth assured her demurely.

"And while the chair is taking me and returning, you will have good time
to dress.  On no account are you to hurry. . . . It is essential that at
no point--at _no_ point, dear--you allow yourself to be hurried, or to
show any trace of hurry."

Ruth nodded slowly.  "Yes, Tatty.  I understand.  But, little lioness
that you are, do _you?_  You will be alone, and for some time with
these--with these--"

"I have never mentioned it to a living soul before," said Miss Quiney,
dismissing Manasseh with a wave of the hand and closing the door upon
him; "but I had an eldest brother--in the Massachusetts militia--who,
not to put too fine a point on it, was sadly addicted to the bottle.
It shortened his days. . . . A bright young genius, of which we hoped
much, and (I fear me) not all unselfishly, for our family was
impoverished.  But he went astray.  Towards the end he would bring home
his boon companions--I will say this for poor dear George, that his
footsteps, at their unsteadiest, ever tended homeward; he never affected
low haunts--and it fell to me as the eldest daughter of the house to
keep his hospitality within bounds--"

"Dear Tatty!" Ruth stooped and kissed the plain little face, cutting
short the narrative.  It was strange to note how these two of diverse
ages--between whom for the length of their acquaintance no dispute of
mastery had arisen--now suddenly and in quick alternation, out of pure
love, asserted will against will.  "You shall tell me to-morrow.
(I always knew that your meekness and weakness were only pretence.)
But just now we must hurry."

"Hurry, as I must repeat," answered Miss Quiney primly, smoothing down
the front of her creased grey satin skirt, "is--will be--our capital
mistake.  For me, I need in this weather but an additional shawl.
I am ready. . . . Go to your room . . . and let me enjoin a certain
deliberation even in crossing the hall.  Manasseh is there, and before
servants--even a negro--The white brocade if I may advise; it is fresher
than the rose-coloured silk--and the hair combed a trifle higher off the
brows.  That, with the brocade, will correct your girlishness somewhat.
Brocades are for dignity, and it is dignity we chiefly need to-night.
. . . Shall I send Selina to you?  No?  Well, she would be persuading
you to some new twist or experiment with your hair, and you are better
without her.  Also I shall want a last word with you when I have fetched
my cloak, and Selina is better out of the way."


Miss Quiney's last word was a curious one.  It took the form of a pearl
necklace, her one possession of value, last surviving heirloom of the
Quineys, of whom she was the last surviving descendant: her last
tangible evidence, too, of those bygone better days.  She never wore it,
and it never saw the light save when she unlocked the worn jewel-case to
make sure that her treasure had not been stolen.

She entered Ruth's room with it furtively.  Despite her injunction
against hurry, the girl had already indued the white brocade and stood
before the mirror conning herself.  She wore no jewels; she owned none.

"Shut your eyes, dear," commanded Miss Quiney, and, stealing up behind
her, slipped and clasped the necklace about her throat, then fell back,
admiring the reflection in the glass.

"Oh, Tatty!"

But Ruth, too, had to pause for a moment to admire.  When she turned,
Miss Quiney, forgetting her own injunction, had stolen in haste from the
room.

The girl's eyes moistened.  For a moment she saw herself reflected from
the glass in a blur.  Then through the blur the necklace took shape,
point by point of light, pearl by pearl, until the whole chain grew
definite in the parting of the bodice, resting on the rise of her young
bosom.

Yes, and the girl saw that it was good.

A string of words danced upon her brain, as though the mirrored pearls
reflected them.

_She shall be brought unto the King . . . the virgins that be her
fellows shall bear her company_.



Chapter V.


SIR OLIVER'S HEALTH.


"De lady is here, yo' Honah!"

Manasseh announced it from the doorway and stood aside.  Of the company
four had already succumbed and slid from their chairs.  The others
staggered to their feet, Sir Oliver as promptly as any.  With a face
unnaturally white he leaned forward, clutching the edge of the long oval
table, and stared between the silver candelabra down the broken ranks of
his guests--Mr. Silk, purple of face as his patron was pale; Ned Manley,
maundering the tag of a chorus; Captain St. Maur, Captain Goodacre, and
Ensign Lumley, British officers captured by the French at Fort Chanseau
and released to live at Boston on parole until the war should end; Mr.
Fynes, the Collector's Secretary; Mr. Bythesea, Deputy-Collector; young
Shem Hacksteed and young Denzil Baynes, sons of wealthy New Englanders,
astray for the while, and sowing their wild oats in a society openly
scornful of New England traditions.

Batty Langton's was the chair nearest the door, and Batty Langton was
the one moderately sober man of the company.  He had not heard, in time
to interfere, the proposal to send for Ruth: it had started somewhere at
the Collector's end of the table.  But trifler though he was, he thought
it cruel to the girl--a damnable shame--and pulled himself together to
prevent what mischief he might.  At the same time he felt curious to see
her, curious to learn if these many months of seclusion had fulfilled
the Collector's wager that Ruth Josselin would grow to be the loveliest
woman in America.  At Manasseh's announcement he faced about, and, with
a gasp, clutched at the back of his chair.

In the doorway stood little Miss Quiney.  It was so ludicrous a
disappointment that for the moment no one found speech.  Langton heard
Goodacre, behind him, catch his breath upon a wondering "O--oh!" and
felt the shock run down the table along the unsteady ranks.  At the far
end a voice--Mr. Silk's--cackled and burst into unseemly laughter.

Langton swung round.  "Mr. Fynes," he called sharply, "oblige me,
please, by silencing that clergyman--with a napkin in his mouth, if
necessary."

He turned again to Miss Quiney.  "Madam," he said, offering his arm,
"let me lead you to a seat by Sir Oliver."

The little lady accepted with a curtsy.  A faint flush showed upon
either cheek bone, and in her eyes could be read the light of battle.
It commanded his admiration the more that her small arm trembled against
his sleeve.  "The courage of it," he murmured; "and Miss Quiney of all
women!"

She needed courage.  The Collector's handsome face greeted her with a
scowl and a hard stare; he could be intractable in his cups.

"Excuse me, madam, but I sent for Miss Josselin."

She answered him, but first made low obeisance.  "Ruth Josselin will
attend, sir, with all despatch.  The sedan is capable of accommodating
but one at a time."

There stood an empty chair on the Collector's right.  To set it for her
Mr. Langton had, as a preliminary, to stoop and drag aside the legs of a
reveller procumbent on the floor.  The effort flushed him; but Miss
Quiney, with an inclination of the head, slipped into the seat as though
she had seen nothing unusual.

"And it gives me the occasion," she continued respectfully, as her eyes
passed over the form of young Manley opposite, who stood with his glass
at an angle, spilling its wine on the mahogany, "of expressing--I thank
you. . . . What?  Is it Mr. Silk?  A pleasure, indeed! . . .Yes, I
rarely take wine, but on such an occasion as this--an occasion, as I was
saying, to felicitate Sir Oliver Vyell on his accession to a title which
we, who have served him, best know his capacity to adorn."

"Oh, damn!" growled the Collector under his breath.

"Half a glassful only!" Miss Quiney entreated, as Mr. Silk poured for
her.  She was, in fact, desperately telling herself that if she
attempted to lift a full glass, her shaking hand would betray her.


"Yo' Honah--Mis' Josselin!"

Mr. Langton had caught the sound of Manasseh's footfall in the corridor
without, and was on the alert before the girl entered.  But at sight of
her in the doorway he fell back for a moment.

Yes, the Collector's promise had come true--and far more than true.
She was marvellous.

It was by mere beauty, too, that she dazzled, helped by no jewels but
the one plain rope of pearls at her throat.  She stood there holding
herself erect, but not stiffly, with chin slightly lifted; not in
scorn, nor yet in defiance, though you were no sooner satisfied of this
than a tiniest curve of the nostril set you doubting.  But no; she was
neither scornful nor defiant--alert rather, as a fair animal quivering
with life, confronting some new experience that for the moment it fails
to read.  Or--borrowing her morning's simile, to convert it--you might
liken her to huntress-maiden Diana, surprised upon arrested foot;
instep arched, nostril quivering to the unfamiliar, eyes travelling in
sudden speculation over a group of satyrs in a glade.  For a certainty
that poise of the chin emphasised the head's perfect carriage; as did
the fashion of her head-tire, too--the hair drawn straight above the
brows and piled superbly, to break and escape in two careless
love-locks on the nape of the neck--in the ripple of each a smile,
correcting the goddess to the woman.  The right arm hung almost straight
at her side, the hand ready to gather a fold of the white brocaded
skirt; the left slanted up to her bosom, where its finger-tips touched
the stem of a white rose in the lace at the parting of the bodice. . . .

So she stood--for ten seconds maybe--under the droop of the heavy
curtain Manasseh held aside for her.  The hush of the room was homage to
her beauty.  Her gaze, passing between the lines of his guests, sought
the Collector.  It was fearless, but held a hint of expectancy.  Perhaps
she waited for him to leave his place and come forward to receive her.
But he made no motion to do this; not being, in fact, sufficient master
of his legs.

"Good-evening, my lord!"  She swept him a curtsy.  "You sent for me?"

Before he could answer, she had lowered her eyes.  They rested on a
chair that happened to stand empty beside Batty Langton, and a slight
inclination of the head gave Langton to understand that she wished him
to offer it.  He did so, and she moved to it.  The men, embarrassed for
a moment by their host's silence--they had expected him to answer her,
but he stood staring angrily as one rebuffed--followed her cue and
reseated themselves.  He, too, dropped back in his chair, leaned forward
for the decanter, and poured himself more wine.  The buzz of talk
revived, at first a word or two here and there, tentative after the
check, then more confidently.  Within a minute the voices were babel
again.

Batty Langton pondered.  A baronet should not be addressed as "my lord,"
and she had been guilty of a solecism.  At the same time her manner had
been perfect; her carriage admirably self-possessed.  Her choice of a
seat, too, at the end of the table and furthest from Sir Oliver--if she
had come unwillingly--had been wittily taken, and on the moment, and
with the appearance of deliberate ease.

"They will be calling on you presently to drink our host's health," he
suggested, clearing a space of the table in front of her and collecting
very dexterously two or three unused wine-glasses.  Champagne? . . .
Miss Quiney is drinking champagne, I see, though her neighbours have
deserted it for red wine.  Sir Oliver, by the way, grows lazy in pushing
the decanters. . . . Shall I signal to him?"

"On no account.  Champagne, if you please . . . though I had rather you
kept it in readiness."

"I am sorry, Miss Josselin, but there you ask of me the one thing
impossible.  I cannot abide to let wine stand and wait; and champagne--
watch it, how it protests!"  He filled her glass and refilled his own.
"By the way," he added, sinking his voice, "one is permitted to
congratulate a debutante?"

"And to criticise."

"There was nothing to criticise except--Oh, well, a trifle.  At home in
England we don't 'my lord' a mere baronet, you know."

"But since he _is_ my lord?"  She smiled gently, answering his puzzled
stare.  "How, otherwise, should I be here?"

Mr. Langton took wine to digest this.  He shook his head.  "You must
forgive me.  It is clear that I am drunk--abominably drunk--for I miss
the point--"

"You accuse yourself unjustly."

"Do I?  Well, I have certainly drunk a deal more wine than is good for
me, and it will be revenged to-morrow.  As a rule,"--he glanced around
at his fellow-topers--"I pride myself that in head and legs I am
inexpugnable.  We all have our gifts; and i' faith until a moment ago I
was patting myself on the back for owning this one."

"And why, Mr. Langton?"

"On the thought, Mistress Josselin, that I had cut out the frigate, as
our tars say, and towed the prize to moorings before the others could
fire a gun."

"I had hoped," she murmured, and bent her eyes on the wine-bubbles
winking against the rim of her glass, "you did it in simple kindness."

"Well," he owned slowly, "and so I did.  This belittling of good
intentions, small enough to begin with, is a cursed habit, and I'll
renounce it for once.  It was little--it was nothing; yet behold me
eager to be thanked."

"I thank you."  She fingered the stem of the glass, not lifting her
eyes.  "But you have belittled me, too.  I read it in books, and here on
the threshold, as I step outside of books, you meet me with it.  We
women are always, it seems, poor ships, beating the seas, fleeing
capture; and our tackle, our bravery--"  She broke off, and sat musing,
while her fingers played with the base of the glass.

"I take back my metaphors, Miss Josselin.  I admit myself no buccaneer,
but a simple ass who for once pricked ears on an honest impulse."

"That is better.  But hush!  Mr. Manley, yonder, is preparing to sing."

Mr. Manley, a young protege of the Collector's, had a streak of genius
as an architect and several lesser gifts, among them a propensity for
borrowing and a flexible tenor voice.  He trolled an old song, slightly
adapted--

"Here's a health unto Sir Oliver,
With a fal-la-la, lala-la-la;
Confusion to his enemies,
With a fa-la-la, lala-la-la;
And he that will not drink his health,
I wish him neither wit nor wealth,
Nor yet a rope to hang himself--
With a fa-la-la, lala-la-la."

The effort was applauded.  Above the applause the bull voice of Mr. Silk
shouted,--

"But Miss Josselin has not drunk it yet!  Langton monopolises her.
Miss Josselin!  What has Miss Josselin to say?"

The cry was taken up.  "Miss Josselin!  Miss Josselin!"

Batty Langton arose, glass in hand.  "Is it a toast, gentlemen?"
He glanced at Sir Oliver, who sat sombre, not lifting his eyes.
"Our host permits me. . . . Then I give you 'Miss Josselin!'"
Acclamations drowned his voice here, and the men sprang up, waving their
glasses.  Sir Oliver stood with the rest.

"Miss Josselin!  Miss Josselin!" they shouted, and drank what their
unsteady hands left unspilt.  Langton waited, his full glass half
upraised.

"Miss Josselin," he repeated very deliberately on the tail of the
uproar, "who honours this occasion as Sir Oliver's ward."

For about five seconds an awkward silence held the company.
Their fuddled memories retained scraps of gossip concerning Ruth, her
history and destiny--gossip scandalous in the main.  One or two glanced
at the Collector, who had resumed his seat--and his scowl.

"The more reason she should drink his health."  Again Mr. Silk was
fugleman.

His voice braved it off on the silence.  Ruth was raising her glass.
Her eyes sought Miss Quiney's; but Miss Quiney's, lifted heavenward, had
encountered the ceiling upon which Mr. Manley had recently depicted the
hymeneals of Venus and Vulcan, not omitting Mars; and the treatment--a
riot of the nude--had for the moment put the redoubtable little lady out
of action.

Ruth leaned forward in her seat, lifting her glass high.  It brimmed,
but she spilled no drop.

"To Sir Oliver!"



Chapter VI.


CAPTAIN HARRY AND MR. HANMER.


"Guests, has he?--Out of my road, you rascal!  Guests?  I'll warrant
there's none so welcome--"

A good cheery voice--a voice the curtain could not muffle--rang it down
the corridor as on the note of a cornet.

The wine was at Ruth's lip, scarcely wetting it.  She lowered the glass
steadily and turned half-about in her chair at the moment when, as
before a whirlwind, the curtain flew wide and a stranger burst in on the
run with Manasseh at his heels.

"Oliver!"  The stranger drew himself up in the doorway--a well-knit
figure of a man, clear of eye, bronzed of hue, clad in blue sea-cloth
faced with scarlet, and wearing a short sword at the hip.  "Where's my
Oliver?" he shouted.  "You'll forgive my voice, gentlemen.  I'm Harry
Vyell, at your service, fresh from shipboard, and not hoarse with
anthems like old what-d'ye-call-him."  Running his gaze along the table,
he sighted the Collector and broke into a view-halloo.

"Oliver!  Brother Noll!"  Captain Harry made a second run of it, caught
his foot on the prostrate toper whom Langton had dragged out of Miss
Quiney's way, and fell on his brother's neck.  Recovering himself with a
"damn," he clapped his left hand on Sir Oliver's shoulder, seized Sir
Oliver's right in his grip and started pump-handling--"as though"
murmured Langton, "the room were sinking with ten feet of liquor in the
hold."

"Harry--is it Harry?"  Sir Oliver stammered, and made a weak effort to
rise.

"Lord!  You're drunk!"  Captain Harry crowed the cheerful discovery.
"Well, and I'll join you--but in moderation, mind!  Newly married man--
if some one will be good enough to pass the decanter? . . . My dear
fellow! . . . Cast anchor half an hour ago--got myself rowed ashore
hot-foot to shake my Noll by the hand.  Lord, brother, you can't think
how good it feels to be married!  Sally won't be coming ashore
to-night; the hour's too late, she says; so I'm allowed an hour's
liberty."  Here the uxorious fellow paused on a laugh, indicating that
he found irony in the word.  "But Sally--capital name, Sally, for a
sailor's wife; she's Sarah to all her family, Sal to me--Sally is
cunning.  Sally gives me leave ashore, but on condition I take Hanmer to
look after me.  He's my first lieutenant--first-rate officer, too--but
no ladies' man.  Gad!" chuckled Captain Harry, "I believe he'd run a
mile from a petticoat.  But where is he?  Hi, Hanmer! step aft-along
here and be introduced!"

A tall grave man, who had entered unnoticed, walked past the line of
guests and up to his captain.  He too wore a suit of blue with scarlet
facings, and carried a short sword or hanger at his belt.  He stood
stiffly, awaiting command.  The candle-light showed, beneath his right
cheek bone, the cicatrix of a recent wound.

But Captain Harry, slewing round to him, was for the moment bereft of
speech.  His gaze had happened, for the first time, on little Miss
Quiney.

"Eh?" he stammered, recovering himself.  "Your pardon, ma'am.  I wasn't
aware that a lady--"  Here his eyes, travelling to the end of the table,
were arrested by the vision of Ruth Josselin.  "Wh-e-ew!" he whistled,
under his breath.

"Sir Oliver--" Batty Langton stood up.

"Hey?"  The name gave Captain Harry yet another shock.  He spun about
again upon his brother.  "'Sir Oliver'?  _Whats_ he saying?"

"You've not heard?" said the Collector, gripping his words slowly, one
by one.  "No, of course you've not.  Harry, our uncle is dead."

There was a pause.  "Poor old boy!" he muttered.  "Used to be kind to
us, Noll, after his lights.  If it hadn't been for his womenkind."

"They're coming across to visit me, damn 'em!"

"What?  Aunt Carrie and Di'? . . . Good Lord!"

"They're on the seas at this moment--may be here within the week."

"Good Lord!" Captain Harry repeated, and his eyes wandered again to Ruth
Josselin.  "Awkward, hey? . . . But I say, Noll--you really _are_ Sir
Oliver!  Dear lad, I give you joy, and with all my heart. . . .
Gad, here's a piece of news for Sally!"

Again he came to a doubtful halt, and again with his eyes on Ruth
Josselin.  He was not a quick-witted man, outside of his calling, nor a
man apt to think evil; but he had been married a month, and this had
been long enough to teach him that women and men judge by different
standards.

"Sir Oliver," repeated Langton, "Miss Josselin craves your leave to
retire."

"Yes, dear"--Miss Quiney launched an approving nod towards her--"I was
about to suggest it, with Sir Oliver's leave.  The hour is late, and by
the time the sedan-chair returns for me--"

"There is no reason, Tatty, why we should not return together," said
Ruth quietly.  "The night is fine; and, with Manasseh for escort, I can
walk beside your chair."

"Pardon me, ladies," put in Mr. Silk.  "Once in the upper town, you may
be safe enough; but down here by the quay the sh--sailors--I know 'em--
it's my buishness.  'Low me--join the eshcort."

But here, perceived by few in the room, a somewhat remarkable thing
happened.  Mr. Hanmer, who had stood hitherto like a statue, put out a
hand and laid it on Mr. Silk's shoulder; and there must have been some
power in that grip, for Mr. Silk dropped into his seat without another
word.

Captain Harry saw it, and broke into a laugh.

"Why, to be sure!  Hanmer's the very man!  The rest of ye too drunk--
meaning no offence; and, for me,--well, for me, you see there's Sally
to be reckoned with."  He laughed aloud at this simple jocularity.
"Hanmer!"

"Yes, sir."

"Convoy."

"If you wish it, sir." The lieutenant bowed stiffly; but it was to be
noted that the scar, which had hitherto showed white on a bronzed cheek,
now reddened on a pale one.

Miss Quiney hesitated.  "The gentleman, as a stranger to Boston--"

"I'll answer for Hanmer, ma'am.  You'll get little talk out of him; but,
be there lions at large in Boston, Jack Hanmer'll lead you past 'em."

"Like Mr. Greatheart in the parable," spoke up Ruth, whose eyes had been
taking stock of the proposed escort, though he stood in the penumbra and
at half the room's length away.  "Tatty--if my lord permit and
Lieutenant Hanmer be willing--"

She stood up, and with a curtsy to Sir Oliver, swept to the door.
Miss Quiney pattered after; and Mr. Hanmer, with a bow and hand lifted
to the salute, stalked out at their heels.

"I'll warrant Jack Hanmer 'd liefer walk up to a gun," swore Captain
Harry as the curtain fell behind them.  "He bolts from the sight of
Sally.  I'll make Sally laugh over this."  But here he pulled himself up
and added beneath his voice, "I can't tell her, though."


The road as it climbed above the town toward Sabines grew rough and full
of pitfalls.  Even by the light of the full moon shining between the
elms Miss Quiney's chairmen were forced to pick their way warily, so
that the couple on the side-walk--which in comparison was well paved--
easily kept abreast of them.

Ruth walked with the free grace of a Dryad.  The moonlight shone now and
again on her face beneath the arch of her wimple; and once, as she
glanced up at the heavens, Mr. Hanmer--interpreting that she lifted her
head to a scent of danger, and shooting a sidelong look despite
himself--surprised a lustre as of tears in her eyes; whereupon he felt
ashamed, as one who had intruded on a secret.

"Mr. Hanmer."

"Ma'am?"

"I have a favour to beg. . . . Is it true, by the way," she asked
mischievously, "that to talk with a woman distresses you?"

"Ma'am--"

"My name is Ruth Josselin."

Mr. Hanmer either missed to hear the correction or heard and put it
aside.  "Been at sea all my life," he explained.  "They caught me
young."

Ruth looked sideways at him and laughed--a liquid little laugh, much
like the bubbling note of a thrush.  "You could not have given an answer
more pat, sir.  I want to speak to you about a child, caught young and
about to be taken to sea.  You are less shy with children, I hope?"

"Not a bit," confessed Mr. Hanmer.  He added, "They take to me, though--
the few I've met.

"Dick will take to you, for certain.  Dicky is Sir Oliver's child."

"I didn't know--"  Mr. Hanmer came to a full stop.

"No," said Ruth, as though she echoed him.  "He is eight years old
almost."  Her eyes looked straight ahead, but she was aware that his had
scanned her face for a moment, and almost she felt his start of
reassurance.

"So, the child being a friend of mine, and his father having promised
him a cruise in the _Venus_, you see that I very much want to know what
manner of lady is Captain Harry's wife; and that I could not ask you
point-blank because you would have set the question down to idle
curiosity. . . . It might make all the difference to him," she added,
getting no answer.

"A child of eight, and the country at war!" Mr. Hanmer muttered.
"His father must know that we cruise ready for action."

"I tell you, sir, what Dicky told me this morning."

"But it's impossible!"

"To that, sir, I might find you half a dozen answers.  To begin with, we
all know--and Sir Oliver perhaps, from private information, knows better
than any of us--that peace is in sight.  Here in the northern Colonies
it has arrived already; the enemy has no fleet on this side of the
world, and on this coast no single ship to give you any concern."

"Guarda-costas?  There may be a few left on the prowl, even in these
latitudes.  I don't believe it for my part; we've accounted for most of
'em.  Still--"

"And Captain Harry thinks so much of them that he sails from Carolina to
Boston with his bride on board!"

"You are right, Miss Josselin, and you are wrong. . . . Mistress Vyell
has come to Boston in the _Venus_; and by reason that her husband, when
he started, had as little acquaintance with fear for others as for
himself.  But if she return to Carolina it will be by land or when peace
is signed.  Love has made the Captain think; and thought has made him--
well, with madam on board, I am thankful--"  He checked himself.

"You are thankful he did not sight a guarda-costa."  She concluded the
sentence for him, and walked some way in silence, while he at her side
was silent, being angry at having said so much.

"Yet Captain Harry is recklessly brave?" she mused.

"To the last degree, Miss Josselin," Mr. Hanmer agreed eagerly.  "To the
last degree within the right military rules.  Fighting a ship's an art,
you see."

It seemed that she did not hear him.  "It runs in the blood," she said.
She was thinking, fearfully yet exultantly, of this wonderful power of
women, for whose sake cowards will behave as heroes and heroes turn to
cowards.

They had outstripped the chairmen, and were at the gate of Sabines.
He held it open for her.  She bethought her that his last two or three
sentences had been firmly spoken, that his voice had shaken off its
husky stammer, and on the impulse of realised power she took a fancy to
hear it tremble again.

"But if madam will not be on board to look after Dicky, the more will he
need a friend.  Mr. Hanmer, will you be that friend?"

"You are choosing a rough sort of nurse-maid."

"But will you?"  She faced him, wonderful in the moonlight.

His eyes dropped.  His voice stammered, "I--I will do my best, Miss