Lucy raised both her hands to Heaven, and then, bowing her head, wept tenderly and humbly.

A woman’s tears do not always affect another woman; but one reason is, they are very often no sign of grief or of any worthy feeling.  The sex, accustomed to read the nicer shades of emotion, distinguishes tears of pique, tears of disappointment, tears of spite, tears various, from tears of grief.  But Lucy’s was a burst of regret so sincere, of sorrow and pity so tender and innocent that it fell on Eve’s hot heart like the dew.

“Ah! well,” she cried, “it was to be, it was to be; and I suppose I oughtn’t to blame you.  But all he does for you tells against himself, and that does seem hard.  It isn’t as if he and you were anything to one another; then I shouldn’t grudge it so much.  He has lost his character as a seaman.”

“Oh dear!”

“He valued it a deal more than his life.  He was always ready to throw THAT away for you or anybody else.  He has lost his standing in the service."

“Oh!”

“You see he has no interest, like some of them; he only got on by being better and cleverer than all the rest; so the Company won’t listen to any excuses from him, and, indeed, he is too proud to make them.”

“He will never be captain of a ship now?”

“Captain of a ship!  Will he ever leave the bed of sickness he lies on?”

“The bed of sickness!  Is he ill?  Oh, what have I done?”

“Is he ill?  What! do you think my brother is made of iron?  Out all night with you—­then off, with scarce a wink of sleep; then two days and two nights chasing the Combermere, sometimes gaining, sometimes losing, and his credit and his good name hanging on it; then to beat back against wind, heartbroken, and no food on board—­”

“Oh, it is too horrible.”

“He staggered into me, white as a ghost.  I got him to bed:  he was in a burning fever.  In the night he was lightheaded, and all his talk was about you.  He kept fretting lest you should not have got safe home.  It is always so.  We care the most for those that care the least for us.”

“Is he in the Indiaman?”

“No, Miss Fountain, he is not in the Indiaman,” cried Eve, her wrath suddenly rising again; “he lies there, Miss Fountain, in that room, at death’s door, and you to thank for it.”

At this stab Lucy uttered a cry like a wounded deer.  But this cry was followed immediately by one of terror:  the door opened suddenly, and there stood David Dodd, looking as white as his sister had said, but, as usual, not in the humor to succumb.  “Me at death’s port, did you say?” cried he, in a loud tone of cheerful defiance; “tell that to the marines!!”

CHAPTER XXII.

“I HEARD your voice, Miss Lucy; I would know it among a million; so I rigged myself directly.  Why, what is the matter?”

“Oh, Mr. Dodd,” sobbed Lucy, “she has told me all you have gone through, and I am the wicked, wicked cause!”