“Toward night the old man come to, and begun to ask questions—­as ugly as ever, only as weak as a baby.  ‘Bout midnight I was comin’ out of his room, and I seen the missus in a gray dress, with her eyes shinin’ like coals of fire, dive out of her room and up the stairs, and nobody never seen her afterward.  The next morning the supercargo was gone too, and I think they just drownded themselves, ’cause they couldn’t bear to live any more without each other.  Mebbe the mate knew somethin’ about it, but he never let on, and I dunno no more about it; only the old man had another fit when he heard it, and died without no mourners.”

“It might be she was saved, after all,” I said, with true Yankee skepticism.

“Then why should I see her ghost, if she ain’t dead-drownded?”

“Did you never find anything in the state-room that would explain?”

“Well, I did find some bits of paper, but I couldn’t read writin’.”

“Oh, what did you do with them?” I insisted, quivering with excitement.

“You won’t tell the cap’n?”

“No, never.”

“You’ll give ’em back to me?”

“Yes, yes—­of course.”

“Here they be,” he said, opening his shirt, and showing a little bag hung round his neck like an amulet.  He took out a little wad of brown paper, and gave it jealously into my hand.

“I will give it back to you to-night,” I said with the solemnity of an oath, and carried it to my room.

It proved to be a short and fragmentary account of the sufferings which the “missus” had endured in the middle room, written in pencil on coarse wrapping-paper, and bearing marks of trembling hands and frequent tears.  I thought I might copy the papers without breaking faith with Pedro.  The outside paper bore these words: 

“Whoever finds this is besought for pity’s sake, by its most unhappy writer, to send it as soon as possible to Mrs. Jane Atwood of Davidsville, Connecticut, United States of America.”

Then followed a letter to her mother: 

Dearest Mother:  If I never see your blessed face again, I know you will not believe me guilty of what my husband accuses me of.  I married Captain Eliot for your sake, believing, since Herbert had proved faithless, that no comfort was left to me except in pleasing others.  I meant to be a good wife to Captain Eliot, and I believe I should have kept my vow all my days if the most unfortunate thing had not wakened his jealousy.  Since then he has been almost or quite crazed.

I knew we had a supercargo of whom Captain Eliot spoke highly.  He kept his room for a month from sea-sickness, and when he came out it was Herbert.  Of course I knew him, every line of his face had been so long written on my heart.  I strove to treat him as if I had never seen him before, but the old familiar looks and tones were very hard to bear.  If Herbert could only have submitted patiently to our fate!  But it was not in him to be patient under anything, and one evening, when I was sitting alone on deck, he must needs pour out his soul in one great burst, trying to prove that he had never deserted me, but only circumstances had been cruel.  I longed to believe him, but I could only keep repeating that it was too late.