"She went 'fore breakfast, an' she told her little sister t' tell her mother she'd gone t' you!"
"To me?"
"Yes. An' course that was just t' spar fur time."
"Of course! Well, Mark, we must find her, and then—she may stay with me!" Janet drew herself up very straight and there was defiance in her action and expression. "Are any of the boats gone?"
"Lord knows!" shivered Mark, "but she wouldn't try a boat. She can't sail fit fur anythin'. She's got the fear so many down here has—fur the water. Don't you remember?" But the suggestion brought a new agony to the poor fellow. "Whatever made you think of a boat?" he said.
Suddenly a further knowledge, born of the new womanhood, almost blinded Janet. This simple fellow, suffering at her feet, had never loved her! She had but led him far afield in some strange fashion. He had always loved the missing, giddy girl; and this awful trouble had driven the dense fog away forever! In the clear view, Janet's heart arose in sympathy.
"You love her, Mark?" she whispered, "oh! I understand." The man looked at her stupidly, clasping and unclasping his bony fingers.
"Do I?" he said brokenly; "I thought 't was you! As God hears me, I thought 't was you! But now this has happened 'long of the—the poor little thing, it's kinder knocked me down. I allus felt sorry fur her! You had so much an' she had, what you might say, nothin'. I allus was a master hand fur wantin' t' help, an' when I saw you driftin' off t' the Hills, I wanted t' help you, an' I thought I loved you! An' now I want t' help her. I'm poor shucks, Janet, an' not over keen; but I'm fairly full of trouble now!" He bowed his head, and the big tears splashed upon his rough hands.
In all the past Janet had never so respected him as she did at that moment. Almost reverently, she touched the bent shoulder.
"It may not be too late, dear Mark," she comforted; "we'll find her, and all may be well. The best man I ever knew did what you may have to do, Mark. Forgive and forget, and let a great love have its way!"