As for Jane, she watched the increasing intimacy with alarm.  She had suddenly become aroused to the fact that Lucy’s love affair with Bart was going far beyond the limits of prudence.  The son of Captain Nathaniel Holt, late of the Black Ball Line of packets, would always be welcome as a visitor at the home, the captain being an old and tried friend of her father’s; but neither Bart’s education nor prospects, nor, for that matter, his social position—­a point which usually had very little weight with Jane —­could possibly entitle him to ask the hand of the granddaughter of Archibald Cobden in marriage.  She began to regret that she had thrown them together.  Her own ideas of reforming him had never contemplated any such intimacy as now existed between the young man and her sister.  The side of his nature which he had always shown her had been one of respectful attention to her wishes; so much so that she had been greatly encouraged in her efforts to make something more of him than even his best friends predicted could be done; but she had never for one instant intended that her friendly interest should go any further, nor could she have conceived of such an issue.

And yet Jane did nothing to prevent the meetings and outings of the young couple, even after Maria’s and Max’s departure.

When Martha, in her own ever-increasing anxiety, spoke of the growing intimacy she looked grave, but she gave no indication of her own thoughts.  Her pride prevented her discussing the situation with the old nurse and her love for Lucy from intervening in her pleasures.

“She has been cooped up at school so long, Martha, dear,” she answered in extenuation, “that I hate to interfere in anything she wants to do.  She is very happy; let her alone.  I wish, though, she would return some of the calls of these good people who have been so kind to her.  Perhaps she will if you speak to her.  But don’t worry about Bart; that will wear itself out.  All young girls must have their love-affairs.”

Jane’s voice had lacked the ring of true sincerity when she spoke about “wearing itself out,” and Martha had gone to her room more dissatisfied than before.  This feeling became all the more intense when, the next day, from her window she watched Bart tying on Lucy’s hat, puffing out the big bow under her chin, smoothing her hair from the flying strings.  Lucy’s eyes were dancing, her face turned toward Bart’s, her pretty lips near his own.  There was a knot or a twist, or a collection of knots and twists, or perhaps Bart’s fingers bungled, for minutes passed before the hat could be fastened to suit either of them.  Martha’s head had all this time been thrust out of the easement, her gaze apparently fixed on a birdcage hung from a hook near the shutter.

Bart caught her eye and whispered to Lucy that that “old spy-cat” was watching them; whereupon Lucy faced about, waved her hand to the old nurse, and turning quickly, raced up the orchard and out of sight, followed by Bart carrying a shawl for them to sit upon.