This was a rarely good love-letter, but it plunged Kate into the deepest woe, and Dickory saw this first of all.  He had brought the letter, and for the second time he saw tears in her eyes.  The absence of news of Major Bonnet was soon known to the rest of the family, and then there were other tears.  It was perfectly plain, even to Dame Charter, that things had been said in Bridgetown which Mr. Newcombe had not cared to write.

“No, Dame Charter,” said Kate, “I cannot talk to you about it.  My uncle has already spoken words of comfort, but neither you nor he know more than I do, and I must now think a little for myself, if I can.”

So saying, she walked out into the grounds to a spot at a little distance where Dickory stood, reflectively gazing out over the landscape.

“Dickory,” said the girl, “my mind is filled with horrible doubts.  I have heard of the talk in Bridgetown before we left, and now here is this letter from Mr. Newcombe from which I cannot fail to see that there must have been other talk that he considerately refrains from telling me.”

“He should not have written such a letter,” exclaimed Dickory hotly; “he might have known it would have set you to suspecting things.”

“You don’t know what you are talking about, you foolish boy,” said she; “it is a very proper letter about things you don’t understand.”

She stepped a little closer to him as if she feared some one might hear her.  “Dickory,” said she, “he did not put that thing into my mind; it was there already.  That was a dreadful ship, Dickory, and it was filled with dreadful men.  If he had not intended to go with them he would not have put himself into their power, and if he had not intended to be long away he would not have planned to leave me here with my uncle.”

“You ought not to think such a thing as that for one minute,” cried Dickory.  “I would not think so about my mother, no matter what happened!”

She smiled slightly as she answered.  “I would my father were a mother, and then I need not think such things.  But, Dickory, if he had but written to me!  And in all this time he might have written, knowing how I must feel.”

Dickory stood silent, his bosom heaving.  Suddenly he turned sharply towards her.  “Of course he has written,” said he, “but how could his letter come to you?  We know not where he has sailed, and besides, who could have told him you had already gone to your uncle?  But the people at Bridgetown must know things.  I believe that he has written there.”

“Why do you believe that?” she asked eagerly, with one hand on his arm.

“I think it,” said Dickory, his cheeks a little ruddier in their brownness, “because there is more known there than Master Newcombe chose to put into his letter.  If he has not written, how should they know more?”

She now looked straight into his eyes, and as he returned the gaze he could see in her pupils his head and his straw hat, with the clear sky beyond.