“No, do you keep on home.  I want to see if the little wretch will be contented with me alone.  Good-by,” and without giving her sister time to protest, she called to Meg, and with a wave of her hand, the red cloak flying from her shoulders, ran toward the beach, Meg bounding after her.

Jane waved back in answer, and kept her eyes on the graceful figure skipping along the road, her head and shoulders in silhouette against the blue sea, her white skirts brushing the yellow grass of the sand-dune.  All the mother-love in her heart welled up in her breast.  She was so proud of her, so much in love with her, so thankful for her!  All these foolish love affairs and girl fancies would soon be over and Bart and the others like him out of Lucy’s mind and heart.  Why worry about it?  Some great strong soul would come by and by and take this child in his arms and make a woman of her.  Some strong soul—­

She stopped short in her walk and her thoughts went back to the red rose lying on the doctor’s desk.

“Will he know?” she said to herself; “he loves flowers so, and I don’t believe anybody ever puts one on his desk.  Poor fellow! how hard he works and how good he is to everybody!  Little Tod would have died but for his tenderness.”  Then, with a prayer in her heart and a new light in her eyes, she kept on her way.

Lucy, as she bounded along the edge of the bluff, Meg scurrying after her, had never once lost sight of her sister’s slender figure.  When a turn in the road shut her from view, she crouched down behind a sand-dune, waited until she was sure Jane would not change her mind and join her, and then folding the cloak over her arm, gathered up her skirts and ran with all her speed along the wet sand to the House of Refuge.  As she reached its side, Bart Holt stepped out into the afternoon light.

“I thought you’d never come, darling,” he said, catching her in his arms and kissing her.

“I couldn’t help it, sweetheart.  I told sister I was going to see Mrs. Cavendish, and she was so delighted she said she would go, too.”

“Where is she?” he interrupted, turning his head and looking anxiously up the beach.

“Gone home.  Oh, I fixed that.  I was scared to death for a minute, but you trust me when I want to get off.”

“Why didn’t you let her take that beast of a dog with her?  We don’t want him,” he rejoined, pointing to Meg, who had come to a sudden standstill at the sight of Bart.

“Why, you silly!  That’s how I got away.  She thought I was going to give him a bath.  How long have you been waiting, my precious?” Her hand was on his shoulder now, her eyes raised to his.

“Oh, ’bout a year.  It really seems like a year, Luce” (his pet name for her), “when I’m waiting for you.  I was sure something was up.  Wait till I open the door.”  The two turned toward the house.

“Why! can we get in?  I thought Fogarty, the fisherman, had the key,” she asked, with a tone of pleasant surprise in her voice.