With heavy hearts both Lance and Sylv accomplished their journey to Beaufort late that afternoon; and on the way Lance explained to his companion the new light in which Adela must be regarded.

Sylv, however, said little, and appeared anxious to reach home, where he could consult with Dennie.

He found his brother busily engaged in completing a ditch across the neck of the headland, which he had finally, in deference to the wishes of Aunty Losh, undertaken to dig, to the end that her live-stock might be kept from straying over to the mainland. "I am fearsome o' the tides," said Dennie, as he had said long ago; "but aunty wants this hyar for to be done, and so I am doin' on it."

The docile, plodding industry of his brother smote upon Sylv with a singular reproach. He could not throw off the conviction that he himself had been essentially idle in his devotion to book-learning, while Dennie had remained so faithful to the dull duties at home.

"Dennie," he said, "I got some good news for you."

"Ye mean that ar?" queried Dennie, halting in his toil, with his shovel in the loose ground. "I ain't had no good news for a long sight, Sylv. What mout it be?"

"Deely's coming back to you."

Dennie stood stock still and wiped the sweat from his brow. Then he touched his grimy knuckles to his eyelids; but, without betraying emotion in any other way, except by the softening of his voice, he said: "I'm glad on't, Sylv. Ar' she a-comin' back because she want to?"

"Yes; oh yes! There couldn't be any other reason, could there, Dennie?"

"Well, I warn't right sure," said Dennie. "No; I reckon they aren't no other reason." Seizing the shovel, he made a few more plunges with it into the soil. "Well, I'm right glad on't, Sylv. When ar' she comin'?"

"Now, I'll tell you how it is," Sylv returned, assuming an expository manner. "Deely thinks you've been a right good boy, and she allows she was impatient with you. But, then, you were impatient too. She's made up her mind to let go the rest of her school term, and she's waiting for you now up at the city. All you've got to do is to go there and get her."

Dennie abandoned his work for the moment, and gazed at his brother affectionately. "Thank ye kindly, Sylv. Ye been a good brother to me. Oh, it don't 'pear true! I don't make out how it's so; but I waited and sarved kind o'patient, Sylv, and all to once it comes out squar'. Deely's been fair to me, old man, and so ha' you been. Wall, it's more'n I desarve."

With the guilty knowledge of a hidden love for Adela in his heart, Sylv would rather have faced the threatening muzzle of his brother's gun, as it had once been pointed at him, than to have stood up before the glance of trust and affection which Dennie now directed toward him. But, thank Heaven, his conscience was clean. He had not betrayed the trust. He had preserved his honor, and had left Adela free.

"Don't think about what you deserve," he said, "but just you go and do what she expects you to. You go up there and fetch her back."

"Did she ask ye to tell me that, Sylv?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll do it! But I ar' got to dig this hyar ditch first off, don't you see I have? 'Cause I tole aunty I would, and she'd be a heap sight put out if I didn't. But ye'll go up to the city with me, won't ye, Sylv? I'd feel lonesome and quar' ef ye didn't."

"I'm right sorry, Dennie; but I can't. I've got to do some work for Mr. Lance, and I ought not to go back."

However, when Dennie was ready to take his departure Sylv came to him with a sealed letter. "I can't go with you, Dennie," he repeated; "but there's a few words I wanted to say to Deely, and you might as well carry them, I thought."

Dennie conscientiously dumped the missive into his hat; and, with a last joyous whisk of his red beard, took leave of his brother.

His impatience to see Adela caused him to spurn the faithful dug-out as a means of travel, and he went by rail.

In the long months of separation from his sweetheart he had succeeded in carrying out a great self-improvement. The hope of making himself worthy to recover her was the mainstay of his gallant persistence in this work, and it had wrought a wonderful effect. He was still the same Dennie—his temperament could not be remodelled—but from being irascible, hot-headed, untrustworthy, he had come to exercise a self-control that made him seem uncommonly gentle. What he gained in that direction he had to hold by untiring vigilance and firm will; but a succession of victories convinced him that now, when the reward was held out to him, he could prove his fitness to receive it.

A driving rain poured down upon North Carolina as he left the coast. The sea showed its white teeth at Hatteras and all along the sandy spits and islands that fringe that shore. Every one said that still uglier weather was likely to come soon. But to Dennie the drenching showers and the hurly-burly of the winds only enhanced the gladness in his heart. He basked in the delicious glow of cosiness which children feel when snugly housed from pelting storms that they can watch at ease. The slow-paced cars seemed to him to glide ahead with wonderful swiftness—his own happy anticipation lent speed to the wheels—and the humming rails echoed and rang again with one continual song of hope, hope, hope.

How many fond, encouraging things he would say to Adela! How bright he would make the prospect for her! He would show her, beyond question, that she need never undergo any trials or troubles which he could prevent.

It was not so easy to do all this, at first, as he had imagined it would be. On meeting, they were both rather quiet. Dennie took her hand bashfully: he discovered all at once that he was in the presence of a superior being. The muscles of his right arm, also, appeared to succumb to a peculiar disorder, and would not act when he wanted to throw that arm around her waist. Good Lord! was he afraid? Had he been afraid to clasp her in his arm a year before? But gradually this paralytic attack wore itself out: he sat down beside her, and presently his right hand was visible to his own eyes, resting easily at a point on the right side of her belt.

"I'm glad to be with ye again, Deely," he said, carefully eliminating as much of the gruffness as he could from his strong out-of-doors voice.

But the hearty gruffness that remained was, somehow, very agreeable to Adela. "Dear old Dennie," she said, in a gentle, musing way, as if she were speaking of him to some third person.

"And ye're glad, too, be ye, Deely?" he asked, gazing at her indulgently, but with some vestiges of anxious doubt.

"Yes, Dennie, I'm glad to be with you; you're so good now. And I like to see you happy."

"That's a puss," said the big fellow, but instantly felt astonishment at his own familiarity. Finding, too, that he was instinctively patting her with his hand, he promptly stopped, because it struck him that his hand was too rough, and he might hurt or crush her. He drew it softly away to a more normal position. "Why, they tell me," he resumed, "that ye're a great lady now—a sort o' princess, or su'thin' that way, I didn't know for sure ye'd want to see me or have me hangin' round ye no more."

And then he laughed at the deceptiveness and the wild humor of his own speech.

"Oh, Dennie," she implored, "don't talk about that! What difference does it make?"

"Ye needn't bat yer eyes," he replied. "I ain't 'shamed on it, if ye ain't. Why Sylv, he said how ye war just as good as Miss Jessie, 'cause ye war born away back out'n the same family; leastways, some one else did the bornin' for ye, them ar times. But I—well, I allays thought ye war a heap sight better'n Miss Jessie or any one else."

"I know that, Dennie. You always loved me true. Oh, it was wrong for me to come away from you so!"

Adela leaned her head upon him, and began to sob slightly. This proceeding was to totally unlooked for, that Dennie was amazed.

"Thar, thar," he said, "ye'd oughtn't for to cry when I come back to ye. No; ye had the right on't, Deely. I warn't fit, then, and I wouldn't ha' been a fip better ef ye hadn't ha' left me be. It ar' all right, I tell ye. But fust, when I saw ye just now, thinks I, ye've changed so, and ye look so sort o' ironed up all careful, ye won't care nothin' for a old rough boy like Dennie no more. But if ye're goin' to cry, Deely, why, I want for to stop ye; and I do think it war all right, your leavin' me."

"Oh no, no," she reaffirmed, still weeping. "I did you a great wrong, Dennie!"

Dennie's face became apprehensive for a moment; but that look quickly dissolved, and he permitted himself a subdued laugh. "It are enough to make a man laugh," he said, in excuse, "to think o' my forgivin' ye; but if ye feel ye done wrong, why, I'll say I forgive ye, Deely. I do forgive ye, right free."

She had made the only confession she could. Indeed, what was there to reveal, except that in her long companionship with Sylv she had learned to love him, before she comprehended what was happening, and that she had honestly, at a fearful cost, stifled that love so far as might be, in order to remain true to the man she had promised to wed? But to tell this would in itself be to dishonor her vow.

She looked up to Dennie with streaming eyes, and her hand sought his. "Thank you, thank you!" she murmured. "I have suffered a great deal here, Dennie—away from you. I know you have suffered too. But you are generous and kind; and now I hope we can forget all the pain."

Dennie, in listening to her, was strongly impressed with the feeling that he was hearing something read from a book, so sharp was the contrast between her utterance and his. But the contents of the supposititious book were very soothing and acceptable. He turned quickly to her, and for the first time since his arrival they embraced each other with thorough self-forgetfulness.

"But, Deely," he said, "I ain't like ye ar'. I ain't got l'arnin' the way ye have now. Don't ye reckon that ar'll disapp'int ye?"

"No; not a bit," she answered, warmly; "you'll be kind and good to me, Dennie, and I will be a good wife to you. All I want is for you to take me away from here. Take me home!"

There was an almost desperate energy in her voice. The truth was, Dennie's presence acted upon her as a restorative, and awakened many memories of the simple and happier time when they had played together and grown up together and carried on their courtship by the shore. Despite her love for Sylv—or perhaps in consequence of it—she threw herself upon Dennie's protection with an eagerness she would not have believed possible until she met him face to face. His big figure, his glowing cheeks, his heavy hands and rough accent—all brought to her a whiff of the salt air in which she had been born and bred. Her secret misery was dulled by his trusting companionship; she was lulled into reveries of some existence of comparative peace, in which she would be able to fulfil her ideal of duty and find her recompense in so doing.

"Take ye home, dear girl! Why, that's what I'm wantin' to do," he rejoined, tenderly. And, fired by the thought, he went on to tell her where they would make the home; how Sylv and he were going to take part in Lance's wide-reaching plans; how he would perhaps have something to do with the paper-mill or the market gardens that were to replace the swamp; and how happy she and he could be.

Adela entered eagerly into all these glowing particulars. A new life opened before her, which she believed would be beautified with all sorts of unexpected happiness; and she was filled with thanksgiving because she had clung resolutely to her plighted troth.

"We'll go to-morrow!" cried Dennie, with enthusiasm. "D'ye think ye can make out to be ready, Deely?"

"I could be ready to-day," she replied, "if there's a train."

Dennie, wonderful to relate, had provided himself with a time-table, though the "summer arrangement" of the railroad to Beaufort was not complicated. He resorted to his hat to find it. But as he plucked the printed slip from its place in the inner band of the hat his eye lighted on Sylv's letter. Until that moment he had entirely forgotten that he was a usurper of the postal function.

"Dog-gone it!" he exclaimed, "I come mighty near not givin' you this. It's from Sylv."

Adela stripped away tho yellow envelope with startled haste; and on a poor sheet of blue-ruled note-paper she read these words:

"Dear Deely: I did not mean to write anything, but the feeling comes over me that I ought to say good-by to you and Dennie. I have decided that my life here has been a failure, and I am going away. I shall not come back. Mr. Lance thinks I have gone to do something for him, but it is no use to look for me, because no one can find me.

"I love you and Dennie, and want you to be happy together. Remember that, and do not mourn over me any more than if I had died. You know we cannot help dying. If I could do any good by staying I would; but I am certain it is better for me to go.

"Tell Dennie I trust him to make you happy. I believe in him and love him. Good-by. Sylv."

Dennie awaited the result of her reading in dumb expectancy, and saw the look of horror in her face, but could not account for it.

Adela shrieked aloud. "Oh, he is dead!" she cried. "He meant to kill himself! Help, Dennie, help! What are we to do?"

She stretched out her hand, with the letter in it; but Dennie only shook his head, in helpless bewilderment.

"I can't read it," he said, piteously. "I don't know enough, Deely. That ar writin'—Deely, what ails ye? What's he said there?"

The mistress of the academy came running in, alarmed by the girl's outcry.

"Sylv is going to kill himself," Adela repeated. "He says he's going away; but I know—oh, I know what he means! See, Dennie; that's what he says." And again she held the letter toward him, distractedly. "He says good-by to you and me. Can we go to-day? Is there any train?"

Dennie offered the mistress his time-table, which to him was merely an illegible curiosity—a memento of his unprecedented journey.

Without looking at it, however, she drew out her watch with a sharp tug at the silken guard that held it. "Yes, you have time," she announced, "if you hurry. I'll bring your things, Miss Reefe."

She disappeared.

"Tell me 'bout it, Deely," said Dennie, fumbling hopelessly with the letter, which he had now taken into his sunburned hands.

Adela set foot upon her agitation, and rapidly read the letter over to him.

Dennie appeared to be stunned. "Suicide?" he said. "What for? Hev you got any right for to think that ar?" His tone was indignant. "What call ar' he got to kill hisself? Sylv—our Sylv, I tell ye. My brother!"

"Because he hadn't anything left to live for! He was miserable," Adela answered, with vengeful emphasis. "It is Mr. Lance did it—sending me here. No! I did it, because I would not tell him what I felt. I wanted to be true to you."

The truth burst upon Dennie like a flood, and his fierce temper rose to meet it. For an instant a blinding light flashed dazzingly by across everything that surrounded him; he grew giddy, and Adela had no more important existence in his eyes than the table and the chairs around him, or the lifeless walls of the room. His single desire was, in his rage, to destroy something, to create havoc and ruin, answering to the ruin of his own hopes. But the next instant he felt as if he were among the pines, with his gun aimed at Sylv; and the thought that Sylv at this very instant might be lying dead somewhere brought a ghastly picture before his eyes. The whirl of maddening light passed away, and he stood humiliated, mournful, calm, motionless.

"Then it's true at last!" he said, hoarsely. "You loved that man—my brother—and he loved you."

For a moment Adela could not speak. Her lips moved, without sound. At last she answered: "Yes. But I never told him, and he said nothing to me. 'Twas only after we came here."

Dennie replied in a voice that made her think of the muffled breaking of the waves on the distant coast. "I was fearsome of it, Deely, but I swore I wouldn't think on't. It ar' best I know it now. We'll go and look for—for Sylv. If he ar' alive, I'll bring you to him."