that was discernible to other eyes than those of Luke Merlyn.  Luke said it was the ring that wrought the change,—­that he could see its light all around her,—­that it had a charm of which they could know nothing save by its results, for its secret had perished with its owner in the sea.  His mermaid he would sometimes call her,—­and declared that often, by that mysterious pearly light, he saw Clarice when far out at sea, and that at any time by two words he could bring her to him.  She knew the words,—­they were as dear to her as to him.

While Clarice was thus unfolding to this loveliness through love, Bondo Emmins suddenly saw her as if for the first time.  The vision was to him as surprising as if the ring had indeed a power of enchantment, and it had been thrown around him.  He was as active and as resolute in attempting to persuade himself that all this was nothing to him as he was active and resolute in other endeavors,—­but he was not as successful as he supposed he should be.  For it was not enough that Emmins should laugh at himself, and say that the pretty couple were meant for each other.  Now and then, by accident, he obtained a glimpse of Clarice’s happy heart; the pearl-like secret of their love, which was none the less a secret because everybody knew that Luke and Clarice were to be married some day, would sometimes of itself unexpectedly give some token, which he, it seemed, could better appreciate than any one beside the parties concerned.  When some such glimpse was obtained, some such token received, Bondo Emmins would retire within himself to a most gloomy seclusion; there was a world which had been conquered, and therein he had no foothold.  If Clarice wore the pearl in her bosom, on Luke’s head was a crown, and Bondo Emmins just hated him for that.

But he never thought of a very easy method by which he might have escaped the trouble of his jealousy.  The great highway of ocean was open before him, and millions of men beside Luke Merlyn were in the world, millions of women beside Clarice Briton.  No!  Diver’s Bay,—­and a score of people,—­and a thought that smelt like brimstone, and fiery enough to burn through the soul that tried to keep it,—­this for him;—­fishing,—­making bargains,—­visiting at Old Briton’s,—­making presents to the dame,—­telling stories, singing songs by that fireside, and growing quieter by every other,—­that was the way he did it;—­cured himself of jealousy?  No! made himself a fool.

Old Briton liked this young man; he could appreciate his excellences even better than he could those of Luke; there were some points of resemblance between them.  Emmins was as careless of money, as indifferent to growing rich, as Briton ever was; the virtues of the youth were not such as ever reproached the vices of the veteran.  They could make boisterous merriment in each other’s company.  Briton’s praise was never lacking when Bondo’s name was mentioned.  He accepted service of the youth, and the two were half the time working in partnership.  In the cabin he had always a welcome, and Dame Briton gave him her entire confidence.