the gradual shock of placid minds, that she had gone, declaring her purpose never to come back. "If she said it, she 'll keep her word," the gossips decided, with deep knowledge of her character. Witnesses who had watched her embark in Sam Tipton's stage proved that she had said it repeatedly, loudly, in glib succession.
"She won't come back," Sam deposed, with a valedictory oath. "Am I sure? Hope so, anyway. I hat to drive her twenty mile."
Zwinglius Turner, when first cornered, was unsatisfactory. "No—that's right—she's gone fer good," he stammered, with a shy, golden grin. But his wish was too plainly father to that thought.
The captain himself supplied the final evidence. One chill and sparkling November day Mr. Gildersleeve found him pacing the empty wharf. His step was laggard, his carriage perceptibly older, and, though on a week day, he bore his Malacca stick with the carbine-cartridge ferule.
"The sea is powerful callin', ain't it?" he asked thoughtfully. Side by side they looked
