Martha’s kindly voice as she opened the door awoke him from his revery.

“Did she take it bad?” she asked.

“No,” he replied aimlessly, without thinking of what he said.  “She sent a message to the captain.  I’ll go now.  No, please don’t bring a light to the door.  The mare’s only a short way down the road.”

When the old nurse had shut the front door after him she put out the lamps and ascended the stairs.  The other servants were in bed.  Jane’s door was partly open.  Martha pushed it gently with her hand and stepped in.  Jane had thrown herself at full length on the bed and lay with her face buried in her hands.  She was talking to herself and had not noticed Martha’s footsteps.

“O God! what have I done that this should be sent to me?” Martha heard her say between her sobs.  “You would be big enough, my beloved, to bear it all for my sake; to take the stain and wear it; but I cannot hurt you—­not you, not you, my great, strong, sweet soul.  Your heart aches for me and you would give me all you have, but I could not bear your name without telling you.  You would forgive me, but I could never forgive myself.  No, no, you shall stand unstained if God will give me strength!”

Martha walked softly to the bed and bent over Jane’s prostrate body.

“It’s me, dear.  What did he say to break your heart?”

Jane slipped her arm about the old nurse’s neck, drawing her closer, and without lifting her own head from the pillow talked on.

“Nothing, nothing.  He came to comfort me, not to hurt me.”

“Do ye think it’s all true ’bout Bart?” Martha whispered.

Jane raised her body from the bed and rested her head on Martha’s shoulder.

“Yes, it’s all true about Bart,” she answered in a stronger and more composed tone.  “I have been expecting it.  Poor boy, he had nothing to live for, and his conscience must have given him no rest.”

“Did the captain tell him about—­” and Martha pointed toward the bed of the sleeping child.  She could never bring herself to mention Lucy’s name when speaking either of Bart or Archie.

Jane sat erect, brushed the tears from her eyes, smoothed her hair back from her temples, and said with something of her customary poise: 

“No, I don’t think so.  The captain gave me his word, and he will not break it.  Then, again, he will never discredit his own son.  The doctor doesn’t know, and there will be nobody to tell him.  That’s not what he came to tell me.  It was about the stories you heard last week and which have only just reached his ears.  That’s all.  He wanted to protect me from their annoyance, but I would not listen to him.  There is trouble enough without bringing him into it.  Now go to bed, Martha.”

As she spoke Jane regained her feet, and crossing the room, settled into a chair by the boy’s crib.  Long after Martha had closed her own door for the night Jane sat watching the sleeping child.  One plump pink hand lay outside the cover; the other little crumpled rose-leaf was tucked under the cheek, the face half-hidden in a tangle of glossy curls, now spun-gold in the light of the shaded lamp.