“God bless you, Ma’am!  I’m goin’.”

I put out both my hands, and held his fast.

“Good bye, Robert!  Keep up good heart, and when I come home to Massachusetts we’ll meet in a happier place than this.  Are you quite ready, quite comfortable for your journey?”

“Yes, Ma’am, yes; the Doctor’s fixed everything; I’m goin’ with a friend of his; my papers are all right, an’ I’m as happy as I can be till I find”—­

He stopped there; then went on, with a glance into the room,—­

“I’m glad I didn’t do it, an’ I thank yer, Ma’am, fer hinderin’ me,—­thank yer hearty; but I’m afraid I hate him jest the same.”

Of course he did; and so did I; for these faulty hearts of ours cannot turn perfect in a night, but need frost and fire, wind and rain, to ripen and make them ready for the great harvest-home.  Wishing to divert his mind, I put my poor mite into his hand, and, remembering the magic of a certain little book, I gave him mine, on whose dark cover whitely shone the Virgin Mother and the Child, the grand history of whose life the book contained.  The money went into Robert’s pocket with a grateful murmur, the book into his bosom with a long look and a tremulous—­

“I never saw my baby, Ma’am.”

I broke down then; and though my eyes were too dim to see, I felt the touch of lips upon my hands, heard the sound of departing feet, and knew my contraband was gone.

When one feels an intense dislike, the less one says about the subject of it the better; therefore I shall merely record that the captain lived,—­in time was exchanged; and that, whoever the other party was, I am convinced the Government got the best of the bargain.  But long before this occurred, I had fulfilled my promise to Robert; for as soon as my patient recovered strength of memory enough to make his answer trustworthy, I asked, without any circumlocution,—­

“Captain Fairfax, where is Lucy?”

And too feeble to be angry, surprised, or insincere, he straightway answered,—­

“Dead, Miss Dane.”

“And she killed herself, when you sold Bob?”

“How the Devil did you know that?” he muttered, with an expression half-remorseful, half-amazed; but I was satisfied, and said no more.

Of course, this went to Robert, waiting far away there in a lonely home,—­waiting, working, hoping for his Lucy.  It almost broke my heart to do it; but delay was weak, deceit was wicked; so I sent the heavy tidings, and very soon the answer came,—­only three lines; but I felt that the sustaining power of the man’s life was gone.

“I thought I’d never see her any more; I’m glad to know she’s out of trouble.  I thank yer, Ma’am; an’ if they let us, I’ll fight fer yer till I’m killed, which I hope will be ’fore long.”

Six months later he had his wish, and kept his word.