When she had thought of him as going alone with his terrible burden away from her into the wilderness, true to her until the last breath of reason was gone, there had been a thrill of delight in the intolerable pain.  But planning, like finical little Waring, that she should fall snugly into a fashionable set, Parisian gowns, a suitable marriage!

Jane had not the womanish faculty of thinning every fact or thought that came to her into tears or talk.  Neckart had gone out of her life.  She accepted the fact at once, without argument.  What the loss imported to her would assuredly be known only to her own narrow, one-sided mind, and the God who had given it to her.

“Shall we go to the house, father?  Can’t you laugh again, and look like yourself?  Why, I will give myself up, body and soul, to Society or Philanthropy—­anything you choose—­rather than see you so shaken.”  She hung on his arm as they went up the path, talking incessantly, and laughing more, as even the captain felt, than the jokes would warrant.  The moment was favorable for introducing the subject he had at heart.

“The last train brought out a dozen men to consult Mr. Van Ness,” he began—­“deputations from church and charitable organizations.  ’Pon my soul, I don’t know what Christianity in this country would do without that man!”

“It would wear a very different face,” absently.

“I went with Rhodes to a great revival-meeting in town one night lately, and Van Ness, of course, was called up on the platform.  Rhodes thought he looked like one of the apostles in modern dress; and all the ladies near me said that his face beamed with heavenly light.  It would have made anybody devout to look at him.  Are you listening?” glancing at her abstracted face.  “You certainly think him remarkably handsome?  As to his nose, now?”

“I don’t suppose anybody could find fault with his nose,” smiling.

“Nor with his manner?”

“Nor with his manner.”

“And yet you are not friends, eh?” holding his breath for her answer.

“No,” carelessly.  “Mr. Van Ness and I could not be friends.”

“Why? why?”

“How could I tell?” with a shrug, and looking at Bruno, who was fighting a cat just then without cause.

The captain looked and sighed.  It was of no use, he thought, to try to account for the prejudices or likings of any of the lower animals.

Mr. Waring met them at the moment in an anxious flutter:  “Mrs. Wilde is here.  She is coming down the path.”

Mrs. Wilde was a small, plump old lady with a sober, tranquil face framed in soft puffs of white hair; her dress never rustled or brought itself into any notice; her language never fell uneasily out of its quiet gait; when she spoke to you, you felt that something genuine and happy dominated you for the moment.

“I followed Mr. Waring here,” holding out her hand.  “One makes acquaintance so much more quickly out of doors.  I must begin ours by asking for your arm, Miss Swendon.  I am fat and scant o’ breath, and apt to forget it.”