No ring encircled the third finger.
"Martha," she called, softly.
Martha loomed large at the side of the bed.
"What is to-day?"
"Wednesday, Miss," replied Martha, too much surprised to be contemptuous.
"Martha—where is Mr. Chelsea?"
"Lord only knows," said Martha, tragically.
"Martha—is he—living?"
"Living?" repeated Martha, deliberately. Then she smiled, her crooked smile. "Living don't express it, Miss Christobel. Lively's more like it, when Mr. Guy is concerned. And I reckon, wherever 'e is, e's makin' things lively somewhere for somebody. You don't look quite the thing this morning, Miss. Sit up and take your tea."
She sat up, loosing the pillow out of her arms—the pillow which had been, first her Little Boy Blue, as she drew him to her in the darkness; then the dead body of Guy Chelsea, as she lifted it on the breakwater.