The lamps lighted and Martha gone, Doctor John looked about the room, his glance resting on the sofa where he had so often sat with her; on the portrait of Morton Cobden, the captain’s friend; on the work-basket filled with needlework that Jane had left on a small table beside her chair, and upon the books her hands had touched.  He thought he had never loved her so much as now.  No one he had ever known or heard of had made so great a sacrifice.  Not for herself this immolation, but for a sister who had betrayed her confidence and who had repaid a life’s devotion with unforgivable humiliation and disgrace.  This was the woman whose heart he held.  This was the woman he loved with every fibre of his being.  But her sufferings were over now.  He was ready to face the world and its malignity beside her.  Whatever sins her sister had committed, and however soiled were Lucy’s garments, Jane’s robes were as white as snow, he was glad he had yielded to the impulse and had come at once.  The barrier between them once broken down and the terrible secret shared, her troubles would end.

The whispering of her skirts on the stairs announced her coming before she entered the room.  She had been sitting by Archie’s crib and had not waited to change her loose white gown, whose clinging folds accentuated her frail, delicate form.  Her hair had been caught up hastily and hung in a dark mass, concealing her small, pale ears and making her face all the whiter by contrast.

“Something alarming has brought you at this hour,” she said, with a note of anxiety in her voice, walking rapidly toward him.  “What can I do?  Who is ill?”

Doctor John sprang forward, held out both hands, and holding tight to her own, drew her close to him.

“Has Martha told you?” he said tenderly.

“No; only that you wanted me.  I came as soon as I could.”

“It’s about Barton Holt.  His father has just left my office.  I have very sad news for you.  The poor boy—­”

Jane loosened her hands from his and drew back.  The doctor paused in his recital.

“Is he ill?” she inquired, a slight shiver running through her.

“Worse than ill!  I’m afraid you’ll never see him again.”

“You mean that he is dead?  Where?”

“Yes, dead, in Rio.  The letter arrived this morning.”

“And you came all the way up here to tell me this?” she asked, with an effort to hide her astonishment.  Her eyes dropped for a moment and her voice trembled.  Then she went on.  “What does his father say?”

“I have just left him.  He is greatly shaken.  He would not tell you himself, he said; he was afraid it might shock you too much, and asked me to come up.  But it is not altogether that, Jane.  I have heard something to-night that has driven me half out of my mind.  That you should suffer this way alone is torture to me.  You cannot, you shall not live another day as you have!  Let me help!”