PRISCILLA MILE, close-reefed as to her skirts, and walking solidly, reached the shipwrecked party soon after nine o’clock; as she came by the beach, the brilliant light of Porley’s fire guided her, as it had guided Cicely and Eve out on the dark lake. Priscilla asked no questions, her keen eyes took in immediately Eve’s wet clothes and Jack’s no clothes, the child being wrapped merely in a shawl. She said to the Irishman, who was wet also: “Patrick Carty, you go back to the camp, you run just as fast as you can split; tell them what’s happened, and let them send for us as soon as they can. ’Taint going to rain much, I guess.”

The man hesitated.

“Well, what are you about?” asked Mrs. Mile, walking up to him threateningly, her beetle shawl-pins shining in the fire-light.

The Irishman, who had been in a confused state ever since Cicely had forced his canoe into the water again after he had hauled it up on the beach, and had beaten his hands off fiercely with the oar when he had tried to stop her progress—a little creature like that turning suddenly so strong—answered, hurriedly, “It’s goin’ I am; ye can see it yersilf!” and was off like a shot. “Wan attack from a fimmale will do!” was his thought.

The nurse then effected a change of dress; with the aid of part of her own clothing and part of Cicely’s and Porley’s, she got Eve and Jack into dry garments of some sort, Jack being wrapped in a flannel petticoat. The wind had grown much more violent, but the strange atmospheric conditions had passed away; the lightning had ceased. It was now an ordinary gale, the waves dashed over the beach, and the wind drove by with a shriek; but it was not cold. The four women sheltered themselves as well as they could, Cicely holding Jack closely; she would not let any one else touch him.

A little after two o’clock the crouched group heard a sound, and Hollis appeared in the circle of light shed by the flaring wind-swept fire. He bore a load of provisions and garments in baskets, in a sack suspended from his neck, in bags dangling from his arms, as well as in his hands and pockets; he had even brought a tea-kettle; it was a wonder how he had come so far with such a load, the wind bending him double. Priscilla Mile made tea as methodically as though the open beach, with the roaring water and the shrieking gale, had been a quiet room. Hollis watched them eat with an eagerness so intense that unconsciously his face made masticating movements in sympathy. When they had finished, a start passed over him, as if he were awakening, and, making a trumpet of his hands, he shouted to Cicely: “Must go now; ’f I don’t, the old judge ’ll be trying to get here. Back—with boat—soon as ca-a-an.”

“I’ll take your coat, if you don’t mind,” said Mrs. Mile, shrieking at him in her turn; “then Miss Bruce can have this shawl.” And she tapped her chest violently to show him her meaning. Hollis denuded himself, and started.

With the first light of dawn he was back. They reached the camp about ten o’clock the next morning.

At three in the afternoon Cicely woke from a sleep of four hours. Her first movement was to feel for Jack.

Jack was sitting beside her, playing composedly with four spools and a little wooden horse on rollers.

“We’d better dress him now, hadn’t we?” suggested Mrs. Mile, coming forward. She spoke in her agreeing voice; Mrs. Mile’s voice agreed beforehand that her patients should agree with her.

“I will dress him,” said Cicely, rising.

“I wouldn’t, now, if I were you, Mrs. Morrison; you’re not strong enough.”

“Where is my dress?” asked Cicely, looking about her.

“You don’t want anything, surely, but your pretty blue wrapper?” said Mrs. Mile, taking it from its nail.

“Bring me my thick dress and my walking-shoes, please.”

They were brought.

Eve came in while Cicely was dressing.

“Eve, who is this person?” Cicely demanded, indicating the nurse with a sideward wave of her head.

“Oh, I’m just a lady’s maid—they thought you’d better have one; Porley, in that way, you know, isn’t good for much,” answered Mrs. Mile, readily.

“Whatever you are, I shall not need your services longer,” said Cicely. “Do you think you could go to-night?”

“Certainly, ma’am; by the evening boat.”

“There is no evening boat. I must have been ill a long while,—you talk in such a wheedling manner. I am well now, at any rate, and you can return to Port aux Pins whenever you like; no doubt you have been much missed there.”

Mrs. Mile, giving Eve a significant look, went out.

The storm was over, but the air had turned much colder; the windows of the lodge were closed. Eve seated herself by the east window.

“I have been ill, then?” asked Cicely.

“Yes.”

“I have been out of my mind?”

“Yes,” Eve answered again, in a listless voice.

“I’m not so any longer,—you understand that?”

“I understand,” Eve responded.

Her cheeks were white, the lines of her face and figure had fallen; she looked lifeless.

Cicely stopped her work of dressing Jack, and gazed at her sister-in-law for a moment or two; then she came and stood before her. “Perhaps you didn’t understand what I said on the beach? I told you that I remembered everything, knew everything. And that I forgave you because you had saved baby; you jumped into the lake and saved him.” She paused a moment; “I forgive you—yes; but never let us speak of it again—never on this earth;—do you hear?” And, putting her hands on Eve’s shoulders, she pressed the palms down violently, as emphasis.

Then going back to Jack, she resumed the dressing. “It’s the strangest thing in the world about a child. When it comes, you think you don’t care about it—little red thing!—that you love your husband a million times more, as of course in many ways you do. But a new feeling comes too, a feeling that’s like no other; it takes possession of you whether you want it to or not; it’s stronger than anything else—than life or death. You would let yourself be cut to pieces, burned alive, for your child. Something came burning right through me when I knew that Jacky was in danger.—Never mind, Jacky, play away; mamma’s not frightened now, and Jacky’s her own brave boy.—It made everything clear, and I came to myself instantly. I shall never lose my senses again; though I might want to, I’m so miserable.”

“And I, who think you fortunate!” said Eve.

Cicely turned her head and looked at her with parted lips.

“Ferdie loved you—”

“Oh, he cared for others too,” said Cicely, bringing her little teeth together. “I know more than you think;—than Paul thinks.” She went on hurriedly with her task.

A quiver had passed over Eve at the name. “You loved him, and he was your husband. But Paul can never take me for his wife; you forgive, but he couldn’t.”

“You love Paul, then; is that it?” said Cicely, turning round again. “Now I remember—that day when I saw you in the woods. Why, Eve, he did forgive you, he had you in his arms.”

“He did not know. He does not know now.”

“You haven’t told him?”

“I couldn’t.”

Cicely paused, consideringly. “No, you could not,” she said, with conviction. “And he can never marry you.” She sat down on the side of the bed and folded her hands.

“Not when he knows,” Eve answered.

“And were you going to deceive him, not let him know?”

“That is what I tried to do,” said Eve, sombrely. “You were the only person who knew (you knew because I had told you), and you were out of your mind; his love came to me,—I took it.”

“Especially as you loved him!”

“Yes, I loved him.”

“I’m glad you do,” said Cicely; “now you won’t be so lofty. Now you understand, perhaps, how I felt about Ferdie, and why I didn’t mind, no matter what he did?”

“Yes, now I understand.”

“Go on; what made you change your mind? Was it because I had got back my senses, and you were afraid I should tell?” She spoke with a jeer in her voice.

“No; it changed of itself when I saw baby out in that boat alone—my brother’s poor little child. I said then,‘O, let me save him, and I’ll give up everything!’”

“And supposing that nothing had happened to Jack, and that I had not got back my senses, how could you even then have married Paul, Eve Bruce?—let let him take as his wife a woman who did what you did?”

“What I did was not wrong,” said Eve, rising, a spot of red in each cheek. She looked down upon little Cicely. “It was not wrong,” she repeated, firmly.

“‘Blood for blood’?” quoted Cicely, with another jeer.

“Yes, that is what Paul said,” Eve answered. And she sank down again, her face in her hands.

“You say you have given him up;—are you going to tell him the reason why you do it?” pursued Cicely, with curiosity.

“How can I?”

“Well, it would keep him from pursuing you,—if he does pursue.”

“I don’t want him to stop!”

“Oh! you’re not in earnest, then; you are going to marry him, after all? See here, Eve, I’ll be good; I’ll never tell him, I’ll promise.”

“No,” said Eve, letting her hands fall; “I gave him up when I said, ‘If I can only save baby!’” Her face had grown white again, her voice dull.

“What are you afraid of? Hell? At least you would have had Paul here. I should care more for that than for anything else.”

“We’re alike!” said Eve.

“If we are, do it, then; I should. It’s a muddle, but that is the best way out of it.”

“You don’t understand,” Eve replied. “What I’m afraid of is Paul himself.”

“When he finds out?”

“Yes.”

“I told you I wouldn’t tell.”

“Oh, any time; after death—in the next world.”

“You believe in the next world, then?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I should take all the happiness I could get in this,” remarked Cicely.

“I care for it more than you do—more than you do?” said Eve, passionately.

Cicely gave a laugh of pure incredulity.

“But I cannot face it—his finding out,” Eve concluded.

Cicely gazed at her. “How handsome you are to-day! What are men, after all? Poor things compared to us. What wouldn’t we do for them when we love them?—what don’t we do? And what do they ever do for us in comparison? Paul—he ought to be at your feet for such a love as you have given him; instead of that, we both know that he would mind; that he couldn’t rise above it, couldn’t forget. See here”—she ran to Eve, and put her arms round her, excitedly—“supposing that he is better than we think,—supposing that I should go to him and tell him the whole, and that he should come here and say: ‘What difference does that make, Eve? We will be married to-morrow.’” And she looked up at Eve, her dark little face flushed for the moment with unselfish hopefulness.

“No,” answered Eve, slowly, “he couldn’t, he loved Ferdie so!” She raised her right hand and looked at it. “He would see me holding it—taking aim—”

Cicely drew away, she struck Eve’s hand down with all her force. Then she ran sobbing to the bed, where Jack, half dressed, had fallen asleep again, and threw herself down beside him. “Oh, Ferdie! Ferdie!” she sobbed, in a passion of grief.

Eve did not move.

After a while Cicely dried her eyes and rose; she woke Jack, and finished dressing him in silence; kneeling down, she began to put on his shoes.

The child rolled his little wooden horse over her shoulder. Then he called: “Old Eve! old Eve! Pum here, an’ det down; I want to roll de hortie on you, too.”

Eve obeyed; she took up the other little shoe.

“Oh, well,” said Cicely, her voice still choked with sobs, “we can’t help it, Eve—as long as we’ve got him between us; he’s a tie. We shall have to make the best of each other, I suppose.”

“May I go with you to Romney?” Eve asked, in a low tone.

“How can you want to go there?” demanded Cicely, her eyes beginning to flash again.

“I know.—But I don’t want to leave Jack and you. If you would take me—”

They said but a few words more. Yet it was all arranged; they would go to Romney; Paul was to know nothing of it.