A few days after this, Jessica, at her home in Boston,--in the room where
she had promised her father to be George Gering's wife,--sat watching the
sea. Its slow swinging music came up to her through the October air.
Not far from her sat an old man, his hands clasping a chair-arm, a book
in his lap, his chin sunk on his breast. The figure, drooping
helplessly, had still a distinguished look, an air of honourable pride.
Presently he raised his head, his drowsy eyes lighted as they rested on
her, and he said: "The fleet has not returned, my dear? Quebec is not
yet taken?"

"No, father," she replied, "not yet."

"Phips is a great man--a great man!" he said, chuckling. "Ah, the
treasure!"

Jessica did not reply. Her fingers went up to her eyes; they seemed to
cool the hot lids.

"Ay, ay, it was good," he added, in a quavering voice, "and I gave you
your dowry!"

Now there was a gentle, soft laugh of delight and pride, and he reached
out a hand towards her. She responded with a little laugh which was not
unlike his, but there was something more: that old sweet sprightliness of
her youth, shot through with a haunting modulation,--almost pensiveness,
but her face was self-possessed. She drew near, pressed the old man's
hand, and spoke softly. Presently she saw that he was asleep.

She sat for some time, not stirring. At last she was about to rise and
take him to his room, but hearing noises in the street she stepped to the