"Suppose," he said hoarsely, "suppose I could offer you—Thornly's love?"
The stab was cruel, and the wound smarted. Under the soft, brown skin the color died away, and the eyes widened and deepened.
"That is no gift of yours!" she whispered proudly; "and I know now what happens to girls like my mother and me when we—forget!"
Devant recoiled. Then a shame humbled and stung him.
"Do not judge him by me!" he said.
"I do not." The words were hardly above a whisper. "But you know, and he knows, there is a bar between us, and we must sail wide, if we would not be wrecked. He would not hurt me, nor let me hurt myself. That is why he went away!"
"But," and Devant was himself again, broken, beaten, but himself, "if Captain Billy should ever leave you—should die, you understand? Will you not promise to send for me? When you are older, you will judge less harshly. Will you promise to let me come next to Captain Billy?" He stretched out his hands, pleadingly. Janet hesitated for a moment, then she placed her slim, brown hands in his.
"I do not know. How can I tell? I thank you, but I cannot see any further than Cap'n Billy! Good bye."
"Good bye, my child!" Their hands dropped, and they went their ways.
Janet was not permitted to reach the Light without further trouble. The day was doomed to be freighted with heavy cares. In the depths of the scrub oaks she came upon Mark Tapkins, sitting upon a log and looking as nearly tragic as he, poor, slow fellow, could look. When he heard Janet, he raised his heavy eyes to her face.