"Mother, I am so sorry. Please forgive me, and let me comfort your old age, mother! My little Joy sent me. She does so want to see you, and to know you will forgive me."
"Forgive you! What do you care for my forgiveness? You chose your own way, and made your own bed, and it isn't my fault you found it hard."
"Come to Joy, mother. Hear her dear little voice asking you to—to be kind. Will you come?"
"I'll see about it."
"But come now; it is not very dark; there's a moon rising. Oh, mother, come!"
There was a pause, and then Mrs. Skinner said—
"Get me my cloak and bonnet, Bet. I suppose for peace sake I shall have to go."
But Mrs. Skinner's voice trembled, and Bet saw her hand shake so that she could hardly fasten her cloak. She followed her daughter silently out of the house, only saying to Bet, "Be sure to lock the door."
Bet was left alone, and had again nothing to do but to count the clock's chimes as it struck the quarters. At last, lulled by the sound of the in-coming tide and the low moan of the wind, she fell asleep in her grandmother's chair.
She was awakened by the sound of a laugh—a discordant laugh. It came from her Uncle Joe's old room. Presently there was the chink of money, and Bet, creeping softly to the end of the passage, listened attentively.