I had a good opportunity to observe the constant, dutiful, self-denying Yankee girl,—­girl no longer, now that twenty years of unrewarded patience had lined her face with unmistakable graving.  But I could not agree with Eben’s statement that she was not pretty; she must have been so in her youth; even now there was beauty in her deep-set and heavily fringed dark eyes, soft, tender, and serious, and in the noble and pensive Greek outline of the brow and nose; her upper lip and chin were too long to agree well with her little classic head, but they gave a certain just and pure expression to the whole face, and to the large thin-lipped mouth, flexible yet firm in its lines.  It is true, her hair was neither abundant, nor wanting in gleaming threads of gray; her skin was freckled, sallow, and devoid of varying tint or freshness; her figure angular and spare; her hands red with hard work; and her air at once sad and shy;—­still, Hetty Buel was a very lovely woman in my eyes, though I doubt if Lizzy would have thought so.

I hardly knew how to approach the painful errand I had come on, and with true masculine awkwardness I cut the matter short by drawing out from my pocket-book the Panama chain and ring, and placing them in her hands.  Well as I thought I knew the New England character, I was not prepared for so quiet a reception of this token as she gave it.  With a steady hand she untwisted the wire fastening of the chain, slipped the ring off, and, bending her head, placed it reverently on the ring-finger of her left hand;—­brief, but potent ceremony; and over without preface or comment, but over for all time.

Still holding the chain, she offered me a chair, and sat down herself,—­a little paler, a little more grave, than on entering.

“Will you tell me how and where he died, Sir?” said she,—­evidently having long considered the fact in her heart as a fact; probably having heard Seth Crane’s story of the Louisa Miles’s loss.

I detailed my patient’s tale as briefly and sympathetically as I knew how.  The episode of Wailua caused a little flushing of lip and cheek, a little twisting of the ring, as if it were not to be worn, after all; but as I told of his sacred care of the trinket for its giver’s sake, and the not unwilling forsaking of that island wife, the restless motion passed away, and she listened quietly to the end; only once lifting her left hand to her lips, and resting her head on it for a moment, as I detailed the circumstances of his death, after supplying what was wanting in his own story, from the time of his taking passage in Crane’s ship, to their touching at the island, expressly to leave him in the Hospital, when a violent hemorrhage had disabled him from further voyaging.

I was about to tell her I had seen him decently buried,—­of course omitting descriptions of the how and where,—­when the grandmother, who had been watching us with the impatient querulousness of age, hobbled across the room to ask “what that ‘are man was a-talkin’ about.”