me join my husband again so soon." (Such was
the selfishness of conjugal love; she thought
little of Lois's desolation in comparison with her
rejoicing over her speedy reunion with her dead
husband!) "Write to thine uncle, Ralph
Hickson, Salem, New England (put it down,
child, on thy tablets), and say that I, Henrietta
Barclay, charge him, for the sake of all he holds
dear in heaven or on earth, for his salvation's
sake, as well as for the sake of the old home at
Lester-bridge, for the sake of the father and
mother that gave us birth, as well as for the
sake of the six little children who lie dead
between him and me, that he take thee into his
home as if thou wert his own flesh and blood,
as indeed thou art. He has a wife and children
of his own, and no one need fear having thee,
my Lois, my darling, my baby, among his household.
Oh, Lois, would that thou wert dying
with me! The thought of thee makes death
sore!" Lois comforted her mother more than
herself, poor child, by promises to obey her
dying wishes to the letter, and by expressing
hopes she dared not feel of her uncle's
kindness.

"Promise me"— the dying woman's breath
came harder and harder— " that thou wilt go at
once. The money our goods will bring— the
letter thy father wrote to Captain Holdernesse,
his old schoolfellow— thou knowest all I would
say—my Lois, God bless thee!"

Solemnly did Lois promise; strictly she kept
her word. It was all the more easy, for Hugh
Lucy met her, and told her, in one great burst
of love, of his passionate attachment, his vehement
struggles with his father, his impotence at
present, his hopes and resolves for the future.
And intermingled with all this came such
outrageous threats and expressions of uncontrolled
vehemence, that Lois felt that in Barford she
must not linger to be a cause of desperate quarrel
between father and son, while her absence
might soften down matters so that either the
rich old miller might relent, or—and her heart
ached to think of the other possibility— Hugh's
love might cool, and the dear playfellow of her
childhood might learn to forget. If not— if
Hugh were to be trusted in one tithe of what he
said—God might permit him to fulfil his resolve
of coming to seek her out before many years
were out. It was all in God's hands, and that
was best, thought Lois Barclay.

She was roused out of her trance of recollections
by Captain Holdernesse, who, having done
all that was necessary in the way of orders and
directions to his mate, now came up to her, and,
praising her for her quiet patience, he told her
that he would now take her to the Widow
Smith's, a decent kind of house, where he and
many other sailors of the better order were in the
habit of lodging during their stay on the New
England shores. Widow Smith, he said, had a parlour
for herself and her daughters, in which Lois
might sit, while he went about the business that
he had before told her would detain him in
Boston for a day or two before he could accompany
her to her uncle's at Salem. All this had
been to a certain degree arranged on shipboard;
but Captain Holdernesse, for want of anything
else that he could think of to talk about,
recapitulated it as he and Lois walked along. It
was his way of showing sympathy with the
emotion that made her grey eyes full of tears, as she
started up from the pier at the sound of his voice.
In his heart he said, " Poor wench! poor wench!
it's a strange land to her, and they are all strange
folks, and I reckon she will be feeling desolate.
I'll try and cheer her up." So he talked on
about hard facts connected with the life that lay
before her until they reached Widow Smith's,
and perhaps Lois was more brightened by this
style of conversation, and the new ideas it
presented to her, than she would have been by the
tenderest woman's sympathy.

"They are a queer set, these New Englanders,"
said Captain Holdernesse. " They are rare chaps
for praying; down on their knees at every turn
of their life. Folk are none so busy in a new
country, else they would have to pray like me,
with a 'Yo-hoy!' on each side of my prayers, and
a rope cutting like fire through my hand. Yon
pilot was for calling us all to thanksgiving for a
good voyage, and lucky escape from the pirates;
but I said I always put up my thanks on dry
land after I had got my ship into harbour. The
French colonists, too, are vowing vengeance
for the expedition against Canada, and the
people here are raging like heathens—at least,
as like as godly folk can be— for the loss of
their charter. All that is the news the pilot
told me; for, for all he wanted us to be
thanksgiving instead of casting the lead, he was as
down in the mouth as could be about the state
of the country. But here we are at Widow
Smith's! Now, cheer up, and show the godly a
pretty smiling Warwickshire lass!"

Anybody would have smiled at Widow Smith's
greeting. She was a comely, motherly woman,
dressed in the primmest fashion in vogue twenty
years before, in England, among the class to
which she belonged. But, somehow, her pleasant
face gave the lie to her dress; were it as brown
and sober-coloured as could be, folk remembered
it bright and cheerful, because it was a part of
Widow Smith herself.

She kissed Lois on both cheeks before she
rightly understood who the stranger maiden
was; only because she was a stranger, and looked
sad and forlorn; and then she kissed her again
because Captain Holdernesse commended her
to the widow's good offices. And so she led
Lois by the hand into her rough, substantial
log-house, over the door of which hung a great
bough of a tree, by way of sign of entertainment
for man and horse. Yet not all men were
received by Widow Smith. To some she could be
as cold and reserved as need be, deaf to all
inquiries save one—where else they could find
accommodation? To this question she would give
a ready answer, and speed the unwelcome guest
on his way. Widow Smith was guided in these
matters by instinct; one glance at a man's face
told her whether or not she chose to have him
as an inmate of the same house as her daughters;