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Billy laid down his knife and fork and smiled reminiscently. "I was jest thinkin' of ol' Harry O'Dule," he said, answering the question in her eyes. "He's quit a bad habit, too. He's quit drinkin'; don't touch a drop any more—hasn't fer over a month now.",

"Why, teacher, it's jest as bright as ever," cried the boy. "It fair seems to laugh as it swings 'round an' jumps down the bay like a long, white arm.",

"Yep, cross my heart, an' spit on my thumb," grinned Billy.,

"Oh no, oh no!" interposed Miss Acton; "she would not be our Lucy if she did."

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Eastward the leaden clouds opened to let an arrow of orange light pierce the damp mists of dawn; then the fissure closed again and tardy daylight disclosed only a dun-colored waste of cowering rushes and tossing water. Far out in the bay a great flock of ducks arose, the beat of their wings growing up above the boom of the wind, stood black against the lowering skies an instant, then swept like a gigantic shadow close down above the curling water. Here and there detached fragments of the flock grew up and drifted shoreward. A flock of widgeon, gleaming snow-white against the clouds as they swerved in toward the decoys, were joined by a pair of kingly canvasbacks. Swiftly they approached, twisted aside just out of range, and then turned and came in with wings set against the wind.,

As evidence that Mr Lawrence was improving in general esteem, a brief conversation passed at Old Harbour House on the fourth evening following the day of the loss of the letter. Captain Acton had invited some friends to a rubber of whist. Sir William Lawrence was to be amongst the guests, but as he lived near he was always late, explaining that the fact of his living near excused him for taking plenty of time. Miss Lucy was lovely in black muslin spangled with stars as the hair is dusted with gold.,

She bent and kissed him. "Best Daddy ever was," she whispered. Then jumping up she ran to the stove and put the kettle on.,

In some strokes of this character he might have indeed believed that she was merely acting, but other features had impressed him to such a degree that, though he was determined—not yet, perhaps—to accept the suspicion, or the persuasion of his own opinion, he, behind the darkest curtains of his heart, felt a fear that his stratagem would force her reason from her brain, that she would go mad when she clearly understood that the ship was bound to Rio to be feloniously sold there, when she realised that she had been ruthlessly torn from her father, from her home, and all that she loved, and that her name must ever bear the stain, happen what might, of Mr Lawrence's ignoble feat of abduction.