“The Englishman went back to England; and the American found another girl more kind to him.”

“I wonder what made Mr. Van Ariens tell you this story?”

“He talked much of his sister, and this young lady was her chief friend and confidante.”

“When did it happen?”

“A few days after his sister’s marriage.”

“Then the Marquise could not know of it; and so she could not have told her brother.  However in the world could he have found out the mistake?  Do you think the girl herself found it out?”

“That is inconceivable,” answered Mary.  “She would have written to her lover and explained the affair.”

“Certainly.  It is a very singular incident.  I want to think it over—­ how—­did—­Mr. Van Ariens—­find—­it—­out, I wonder!”

“Perhaps the rejected lover confided in him.”

“But why did not the rejected lover send the letter he received—­and which he must have known he had no right to retain—­to Miss Moran, or to the Englishman for whom it was intended?  A man who could keep a letter like that, must have some envious sneaking devil in his body.  A bad man, Mary, a bad man—­the air must be unclean in any room he comes into.”

“Why Annie!  How angry you are.  Let us drop the subject.  I really do want to tell you something about Willie Seabright.”

“What did Mr. Van Ariens say about the matter?  What did he think?  Why did he tell you?”

“We were talking of the Marquise.  The story came up quite naturally.  I think Mr. Van Ariens felt very sorry for Miss Moran.  Of course he did.  Will you listen to Captain Seabright’s letter?  I had no idea it could affect me so much.”

“But you loved him once?”

“Very dearly.”

“Well then, Mary, I think no one has a double in love or friendship.  If the loved one dies, or goes away, his place remains empty forever.  We have lost feelings that he, and he only, could call up.”

At this point in the conversation Hyde entered, brown and wind-blown, the scent of the sedgy water and the flowery woods about him.

“Your servant, ladies,” he said gayly, “I have bream enough for a dozen families, Mary; and I have sent a string to the rectory.”

“Poor little fish!” answered Annie.  “They could not cry out, or plead with you, or beg for their lives, and because they were dumb and opened not their mouths, they were wounded and strangled to death.”

“Don’t say such things, Annie.  How can I enjoy my sport if you do?”

“I don’t think you ought to enjoy sport which is murder.  You have your wherry to sail, is not that sport enough?  I have heard you say nothing that floats on fresh water, can beat a Norfolk wherry.”

“I vow it is the truth.  With her fine lines and strong sails she can lie closer to the wind than any other craft.  She is safe, and fast, and handy to manage.  Three feet of water will do her, though she be sixty tons burden; and I will sail her where nothing but a row boat can follow me.”