“Bring your candle into the sitting-room, Martha; I have something to tell you,” he said gravely, loosening the cape of his overcoat and laying his hat on the hall table.

The nurse followed.  The measured tones of the doctor’s voice, so unlike his cheery greetings, especially to her, unnerved her.  This, in connection with the suppressed excitement under which he seemed to labor and the late hour of his visit, at once convinced her that something serious had happened.

“Is there anything the matter?” she asked in a trembling voice.

“Yes.”

“Is it about Lucy?  There ain’t nothin’ gone wrong with her, doctor dear, is there?”

“No, it is not about Lucy.  It’s about Barton Holt.”

“Ye don’t tell me!  Is he come back?”

“No, nor never will.  He’s dead!

“That villain dead!  How do you know?” Her face paled and her lips quivered, but she gave no other sign of the shock the news had been to her.

“Captain Nat, his father, has just left my office.  I promised I would tell Miss Jane to-night.  He was too much broken up and too fearful of its effect upon her to do it himself.  I drove fast, but perhaps I’m too late to see her.”

“Well, ye could see her no doubt,—­she could throw somethin’ around her—­but ye mustn’t tell her that news.  She’s been downhearted all day and is tired out.  Bart’s dead, is he?” she repeated with an effort at indifference.  “Well, that’s too bad.  I s’pose the captain’s feelin’ putty bad over it.  Where did he die?”

“He died in Rio Janeiro of yellow fever,” said the doctor slowly, wondering at the self-control of the woman.  Wondering, too, whether she was glad or sorry over the event, her face and manner showing no index to her feelings.

“And will he be brought home to be buried?” she asked with a quick glance at the doctor’s face.

“No; they never bring them home with yellow fever.”

“And is that all ye come to tell her?” She was scrutinizing Doctor John’s face, her quick, nervous glances revealing both suspicion and fear.

“I had some other matters to talk about, but if she has retired, perhaps I had better come to-morrow,” answered the doctor in undecided tones, as he gazed abstractedly at the flickering candle.

The old woman hesitated.  She saw that the doctor knew more than he intended to tell her.  Her curiosity and her fear that some other complication had arisen—­one which he was holding back—­got the better of her judgment.  If it was anything about her bairn, she could not wait until the morning.  She had forgotten Meg now.

“Well, maybe if ye break it to her easy-like she can stand it.  I don’t suppose she’s gone to bed yet.  Her door was open on a crack when I come down, and she always shuts it ’fore she goes to sleep.  I’ll light a couple o’ lamps so ye can see, and then I’ll send her down to ye if she’ll come.  Wait here, doctor, dear.”