“You dear, foolish sister,” Lucy’s letter began, “what should I tell him for?  He loves me devotedly and we are very happy together, and I am not going to cause him any pain by bringing any disagreeable thing into his life.  People don’t do those wild, old-fashioned things over here.  And then, again, there is no possibility of his finding out.  Maria agrees with me thoroughly, and says in her funny way that men nowadays know too much already.”  Then followed an account of her wedding.

This letter Jane did not read to the doctor—­no part of it, in fact.  She did not even mention its receipt, except to say that the wedding had taken place in Geneva, where the Frenchman’s mother lived, it being impossible, Lucy said, for her to come home, and that Maria Collins, who was staying with her, had been the only one of her old friends at the ceremony.  Neither did she read it all to Martha.  The old nurse was growing more feeble every year and she did not wish her blind faith in her bairn disturbed.

For many days she kept the letter locked in her desk, not having the courage to take it out again and read it.  Then she sent for Captain Holt, the only one, beside Martha, with whom she could discuss the matter.  She knew his strong, honest nature, and his blunt, outspoken way of giving vent to his mind, and she hoped that his knowledge of life might help to comfort her.

“Married to one o’ them furriners, is she?” the captain blurted out; “and goin’ to keep right on livin’ the lie she’s lived ever since she left ye?  You’ll excuse me, Miss Jane,—­you’ve been a mother, and a sister and everything to her, and you’re nearer the angels than anybody I know.  That’s what I think when I look at you and Archie.  I say it behind your back and I say it now to your face, for it’s true.  As to Lucy, I may be mistaken, and I may not.  I don’t want to condemn nothin’ ’less I’m on the survey and kin look the craft over; that’s why I’m partic’lar.  Maybe Bart was right in sayin’ it warn’t all his fault, whelp as he was to say it, and maybe he warn’t.  It ain’t up before me and I ain’t passin’ on it,—­but one thing is certain, when a ship’s made as many voyages as Lucy has and ain’t been home for repairs nigh on to seven years—­ain’t it?” and he looked at Jane for confirmation—­“she gits foul and sometimes a little mite worm-eaten—­especially her bilge timbers, unless they’re copper-fastened or pretty good stuff.  I’ve been thinkin’ for some time that you ain’t got Lucy straight, and this last kick-up of hers makes me sure of it.  Some timber is growed right and some timber is growed crooked; and when it’s growed crooked it gits leaky, and no ‘mount o’ tar and pitch kin stop it.  Every twist the ship gives it opens the seams, and the pumps is goin’ all the time.  When your timber is growed right you kin all go to sleep and not a drop o’ water’ll git in.  Your sister Lucy ain’t growed right.  Maybe she kin help it and maybe she can’t, but she’ll leak every time there comes a twist.  See if she don’t.”