looking almost as if guilty of the old ocean's crime himself.
But the girl's hands never relinquished their grasp, and the dark eyes gazing straight into his own compelled an answer.
"There was a storm, Sally—and Ben—wouldn't leave the ship."
She recoiled—swayed a little, then, gathering her strength, demanded in a voice whose shrillness was strangely different from the musical tones her neighbours had always known:
"But you saved him—somebody saved him—oh, tell me the rest—tell me the rest"
But Martin's answer to the plea of her voice and outstretched hands was a mute shake of the head.
There were no outcries, only a heart-quiver that made her tremble. Some of the good people stretched out their arms in pity to steady her, but she straightened, and the look on her face stayed their kindly impulses. Silently they again opened the circle and out she passed, and on over the Square and up the hill to her home. And although everyone in Salthaven saw the mute evidence in her face, no one then or ever after heard her speak of her grief. Only the wind on the dunes and the waves knew, and the Light, and for all their eloquent whispers or bright illuminings, none can ever apostrophize them into betrayal of confidence or counsel.
Quenched was all the old sparkle, broken the blithe spirit. As spring passed and summer ripened the fruit in the old orchard, Philip persisted in his wooing; and Aunt
