How it was with him there were numberless ways in which she might have discovered, for every soul of her acquaintance knew Andrew, and must be aware of the fact if he were missing or ailing, or if any other ill chance had befallen him.  But as often as she tried to address one or another passing by the window, her voice failed her and her heart, and she asked no questions, and only waited on.  A life of suspense, exclaims some one, a life of a spider!  And when we are in suspense, says another, all our aids are in suspense with us.  Day after day she stayed continually in the house, looking for him to come, never stirring out even into the garden, lest coming she might miss him.  Night after night she sat alone at her window till the distant town-clocks struck midnight—­now picturing to herself the glad minute of his coming, the quick explaining words, the bursting tears of relief, the joy of that warm embrace, the touch of those strong arms—­now convinced that he would never come, and her heart sinking into a bitter loneliness of despair.

It grew worse with her when she knew that he was really in the town, alive and well; for, from the scuttle in the roof, by the aid of her father’s glass, she could see the Sabrina, and one day she was sure that a form whose familiar outlines made her pulses leap was Andrew himself giving orders on the deck there; and after that she tortured herself with conjectures till her brain was wild—­chained hand and foot, unable to write him or to seek him in any maidenly modesty, heart and soul in a ferment.  Still she waited in that shuddering suspense, with every nerve so tightly strung, that voice or footfall vibrated on them into pain.  If Andrew, in the midst of the gayeties by which he found himself accepted of the Maurices’ friends, was never haunted by any thought of all this, his heart had grown stouter in one year’s time than twenty years had found and left it previously.

But Louie’s suspense was of no long duration, as time goes, though to her it was a lifetime.  A week covered it—­a week full of stings and fevered restlessness—­when her father came in one day and said bitterly, thinking it best to make an end of all at once:  “So I hear that a friend of ours has been paid off at last.  Captain Andrew Traverse of the Sabrina is going to marry his owner’s daughter Frarnie.  Luck will take passage on that brig!” And when Louie rose from the bed on which she lay down that night, the Sabrina had been a fortnight gone on her long voyage—­a voyage where the captain had sailed alone, postponing the evil day perhaps, and at any rate pleading too much inexperience, for all his dazzling promotion, to be trusted with so precious thing as a wife on board during the first trip.  He had not felt that hesitation once when portraying the possibilities of the voyage to another.