Ellery took his hat from the peg and opened the door.  His foot was on the step when Keziah spoke again.

“She—­it don’t mean nothin’, John, except that she ain’t so hard-hearted as maybe you might think—­she’s asked me about you ’most every time I’ve been there.  She told me to take good care of you.”

The door closed.  Keziah put down her sewing and listened as the minister’s step sounded on the walk.  She rose, went to the window and looked after him.  She was wondering if she had made a mistake in mentioning Grace’s name.  She had meant to cheer him with the thought that he was not entirely forgotten, that he was, at least, pitied; but perhaps it would have been better to have remained silent.  Her gaze shifted and she looked out over the bay, blue and white in the sun and wind.  When she was a girl the sea had been kind to her, it had brought her father home safe, and those homecomings were her pleasantest memories.  But she now hated it.  It was cruel and cold and wicked.  It had taken the man she loved and would have loved till she died, even though he could never have been hers, and she had given him to another; it had taken him, killed him cruelly, perhaps.  And now it might be bringing to her the one who was responsible for all her sorrow, the one she could not think of without a shudder.  She clung to the window sash and prayed aloud.

“Lord!  Lord!” she pleaded, “don’t put any more on me now.  I couldn’t stand it!  I couldn’t!”

Ellery, too, was thinking deeply as he walked up the main road on his way to Mrs. Prince’s.  Keziah’s words were repeating themselves over and over in his brain.  She had asked about him.  She had not forgotten him altogether.  And what did the housekeeper mean by saying that she had not loved Captain Hammond in the way that—­Not that it could make any difference.  Nothing could give him back his happiness.  But what did it mean?

Mrs. Prince was very glad to see him.  He found her in the big armchair with the quilted back and the projecting “wings” at each side of her head.  She was wrapped in a “Rising Sun” quilt which was a patchwork glory of red and crimson.  A young girl, a neighbor, who was apparently acting in the dual capacity of nurse and housekeeper, admitted him to the old lady’s presence.

“Well, well!” she exclaimed delightedly.  “Then you ain’t forgot me altogether.  I’m awful glad to see you.  You’ll excuse me for not gettin’ up; my back’s got more pains in it than there is bones, a good sight.  Dr. Parker says it’s nothin’ serious, and all I had to do was set still and take his medicine.  I told him that either the aches or the medicine made settin’ still serious enough, and when your only amusement is listenin’ to Emeline Berry—­she’s the girl that’s takin’ care of me—­when your only fun is listenin’ to Emeline drop your best dishes in the kitchen sink, it’s pretty nigh tragic.  There! there! don’t mind an old woman, Mr. Ellery.  Set down and let’s talk.  It’s a comfort to be able to say somethin’ besides ‘Don’t, Emeline!’ and ’Be sure you pick up all the pieces!’”