Cousin Gussie, already a much bewildered man, looked even more bewildered, but Martha did not observe his condition.  She turned to his companion.

“Mr. Bangs,” she said, “it’s all right.  Or goin’ to be all right, I’m sure.  Cap’n Jeth is takin’ the whole thing a good deal better than I was afraid there at first.  He is dreadfully shaken, poor man, and he seems to feel as if the last plank had foundered from beneath him, as father used to say; but, if it doesn’t have any worse effect than that, I shall declare the whole business a mercy and a miracle.  If it has the effect of curin’ him of the Marietta Hoag kind of spiritualism—­and it really looks like a cure—­then it will be worth all the scare it gave us.  At first all he would say was that everything was a fraud and a cheat, that his faith had been taken away, there was nothin’ left—­nothin’.  But Lulie, bless her heart, was a brave girl and a dear one.  She said, ’I am left, father.  You’ve got me, you know.’  And he turned to her and clung to her as if she was his only real sheet anchor.  As, of course, she is, and would have been always if he hadn’t gone adrift after Little Cherry Blossom and such rubbish.  Mr. Bangs, I—­”

She paused.  She looked first at Galusha and then at the Boston banker.  Her tone changed.

“Why, what is it?” she asked, quickly.  “What is the matter? . . .  Mr. Bangs—­”

Galusha had risen when she entered.  He was pale, but resolute.

“Miss Phipps,” he began, “I—­I have been waiting to—­to say something to you.  I—­ah—­yes, to say something.  Yes, Miss Phipps.”

It was the first time he had addressed her as “Miss Phipps” for many months.  He had, ever since she granted him permission and urged him to drop formality, addressed her as Miss Martha and seemed to take pride in that permission and to consider it an honor.  Now the very fact of his returning to the old manner was, although she did not yet realize it, an indication that he considered his right to her friendship forfeited.

“Miss Phipps,” he began once more, “I—­I wish to make a confession, a humiliating confession.  I shall not ask you to forgive me.  I realize that what I have done is quite beyond pardon.”

He stopped again; the road was a hard one to travel.  Martha gazed at him, aghast and uncomprehending.  Cabot, understanding but little more, shrugged his shoulders.

“For heaven’s sake, old man,” he exclaimed, “don’t speak like that!  You haven’t committed murder, have you?”

Galusha did not answer nor heed him.  It was to Martha Phipps he spoke and at her that he looked, as a guilty man in the prisoners’ dock might regard the judge about to pronounce his death sentence.

“Miss Phipps,” he began, for the third time, “I have deceived you.  I—­I have lied to you, not only once but—­ah—­ah—­a great many times.  I am quite unworthy of your respect—­ah, quite.”