She had been watching the gulls circling about with shrill screams or hanging poised over the water, when a low call caused her to start.

She turned at once, to see Dorothy sitting up and looking intently at her, while she seemed to fumble under the pillow for something.

"What is it, dear?" Mary asked, hastening to the side of the bed.

Dorothy drew from beneath the pillow a heavy ring of yellow gold, with a great ruby imbedded in it, like a drop of glowing wine.

"There it is," she whispered, putting the ring into Mary's hand. "It is his ring,--only he gave it to me. Hide it,--hide it, Mary. Never let any one see--any one know. I want to tell you all about it, but I am so tired now, so tired, and--" The girl fell back with closed eyes, and in a moment she appeared to be asleep.

After standing a few minutes with her eyes fixed upon the unconscious face, Mary opened her hand and looked at the ring.

It was a man's ring, and one she recalled at once as having seen before.

It had been upon the shapely brown hand lifted to remove the hat from a young man's head, that summer day, at the Sachem's Cave.

There came to her a sudden rush of misgiving, as she asked herself the meaning of it all. What had this hated Britisher's ring to do with Dorothy's illness and with her ravings? What was all this about Master Weeks, and signing the register?

She determined to tell her husband of what she had heard and seen, and let his judgment decide what was to be done.

And yet when he returned, and with him his father and Aunt Lettice and 'Bitha, all of them sad-faced and alarmed over Dorothy's sudden sickness, something seemed to hold back the words Mary had intended to speak. And so she said nothing to her husband, but hid the ring away, resolved that for the present, at least, she would hold her own counsel.

After all--so she tried to reason--it might be nothing more than that the young Britisher had given Dorothy the ring.

And yet that the girl should accept such a gift from him surprised and grieved her, knowing as she did that had there been any lovemaking between the two, it would surely bring greater trouble than she dared now to consider.

Mary was one who always shrank from doing aught to cause discord; and so, albeit with a mind filled with anxiety, she decided to keep silence.

Dorothy's ailment proved to be an attack of brain fever, and it was many weeks before she recovered. And when she was p.r.o.nounced well again, she went about the old house, such a pale-faced, listless shadow of her former self that her brother watched her with troubled eyes, while her father was well-nigh beside himself with anxiety.

But as often as they spoke to her of their misgivings she answered that she was entirely well, and would soon be quite as before.

She appeared to have forgotten about the ring, and Mary waited for her to mention it, wondering after a time that she did not.

At last, late in January, the hated soldiers were ordered away from the Neck; and great was the rejoicing amongst the townspeople, whose open demonstrations evinced their delight at being freed from the petty tyranny of their unwelcome visitors.

It was John Devereux who brought the news, as the other members of the family sat late one afternoon about the big fireplace in the drawing-room.

Aunt Lettice and Mary were busy with some matter of sewing, and 'Bitha, with an unusually grave face, was seated between them on a low stool.

A half-finished sampler was on her knee, and the firelight quivered along the bright needle resting where she had left off when it became too dark for her to work.

Dorothy was at the spinet, drawing low music from the keys, and playing as if her thoughts were far away.

Her father had just come from out of doors, and now sat in his big armchair, with his hands near the blaze, for the cold had increased with the setting of the sun.

It had gone down half an hour before, leaving a great crimson gash in the western sky, above which ran a bank of smoky gray clouds, where the evening star was beginning to blink.

It had been a day of thawing. The sun had started the icy rime to running from the trees and shrubs, and melted the snow upon the roofs, while the white covering of the land was burned away here and there, until it seemed to be out at knees and elbows, where showed the brown and dirty green of the soil.

But an intense cold had come with the darkness, turning the melted snow to crystal, and hanging glittering pendants from everything.

"I wish Cousin Dot was all well, the way she used to be," sighed small 'Bitha, sitting with her rosy face so rumpled by the pressure of the little supporting palms as to remind one of the cherubs seen upon ancient tombstones.

She spoke in a voice too low for any one to hear save those nearest her; and Mary gave a warning "Hush," as she glanced at the abstracted face of her father-in-law, who was gazing intently at the flames leaping from the logs.

"She 'll not hear what I say," the child went on, now with a touch of impatience. "She often does n't hear me when I speak to her. Many times I ask her something over and over again, when she is looking straight at me; and then she will act as if she'd been asleep, and ask me what I've been saying."

"Your cousin was very ill, you must remember, 'Bitha," her grandame explained; "and it takes her a long time to recover, and be like herself again."

But the child shook her blonde head with an air of profound wisdom.

"I think it is only that bad medicine of Dr. Paine's," she said. "When I am ill, I shall ask Tyntie to fetch me a medicine man, such as the Indians have. I should like to see him dance and beat his drum."

"I should think we have had enough of the sound of beating drums, 'Bitha," replied Mary, speaking so sharply as to arouse her father-in-law into looking toward her.

Here John Devereux, just returned from the town, came in and announced the withdrawal of the British soldiers from the town and Neck.

"When will they go?" his wife asked eagerly.

"A shipload of them has already sailed,--it left the harbor before sunset; and some of the dragoons are about starting. It did my heart good to see the red-backs taking the road to Salem. We are well quit of them; and when they are gone we can easily manage all the ships they send into the harbor to annoy us or spy upon us."

He laughed with a mingling of indignation and contempt; but his manner changed quickly as he glanced toward his sister.

"Dot!" he cried, "what is it, child?" And he sprang to her.

She had turned about when he came into the room, and was now lying back against the spinet, her head on the music-rack,--lying there speechless, motionless; for the girl--and for the first time in her life--had fainted.

CHAPTER XXIV

An hour later, when left in her own room with Mary, Dorothy poured out her secret sorrow.

The others had yielded to her urging and gone to the tea-table below, albeit with scant appet.i.tes, and with minds much troubled over the strange weakness that had come over Dot. But Mary remained; and so it came about that the two were now alone, Dorothy lying upon a lounge, and Mary beside her, clasping one of her hands.

The room was filled with weird shadows from the wood fire, which made the only light; for Jack, at his sister's request, had carried away the candles.

"Are you cold?" Mary asked, feeling Dorothy shiver. And she drew the silken cover more closely about the girl's shoulders and neck.

"No--no," was the quick reply. "It's not that I'm cold. I'm only so miserable that I don't know what to do with myself. Oh, Mary--if only I might die!" And she burst into pa.s.sionate sobbing.

Mary was greatly startled; but feeling that the time was now come to unravel the secret she was certain had been the cause of Dorothy's illness, she waited quietly until the first burst of grief had spent itself, while she soothed and caressed her sister-in-law as though she were a little girl.

Presently the sobs became less fierce, then ceased altogether, ending with a long, quivering sigh, as from a child worn out by the storm of its own pa.s.sion.

Mary felt that now was the opportunity for which she had been waiting.

"Dorothy," she whispered--"dear little Dot!"