The house was deserted. The boat was gone. That was what she had done, then.
“Betsy! Dear Betsy!” he murmured.
He looked at his watch, then took a sudden determination.
Like a thief he stole downstairs without a sound, and out of doors.
Then he started on a slow, steady run down the village street. It was not a long pull to the isolated cottage among the rocks, and when he came in sight of it he was rewarded by seeing a light in the windows.
Stealthily drawing near, he peered within. There he could see a cheerful tea-table, and Captain Salter and Betsy eating their late supper.
A lump rose in his throat. The trunk still stood on the piazza, and he passed it, to open the door gently. Smiling and dim-eyed he stood before the pair, who pushed their chairs back from the table.
“Well, Irving!” cried the captain’s big voice.
He extended a welcoming hand, but the visitor did not see it. He had fallen on his knees beside the bride’s chair, and buried his face in her lap.