"Oh, Jack," the girl cried piteously, "cannot you see—can you not understand? I could not go and leave you all. I dared not tell at the time all that had happened—I did not know what to do."
"And you love not the cause he fights for, though you love the man himself?" And a faint smile touched his lips.
"That is it, Jack," she answered, relieved at being understood. "You have spoken my own feelings. I could not leave father; had I done so, think of what would have come to me now."
"Poor father, 't is well he will never need to know. Well, Dot," and he tried to speak cheerily, "although 't is a sad tangle now, perhaps time will straighten it somewhat; and all we can do is to wait and hope."
"And you'll never say aught to—him, should you two meet?" Dorothy asked wistfully, a burning color deepening in her cheeks.
"Should he and I meet," the young man said with a scowl, "it is not likely to be in a fashion that will permit discourse of any sort." Then he regretted his words, for his sister shivered and hid her face over his heart.
"Come, Dot,"—and now he spoke more calmly, while he caressed the curly head lying against his breast—"try to keep a brave heart. You have done no wrong, little one, and we are all in God's hands. Pray you to Him for your brother while he is from home; and pray as well that all these sad matters will come right in the end."
He pressed a kiss upon her tearful face, and was gone.
Arriving in the town, he found his companions ready to depart; and before sunset he was upon the road to Boston, leaving his wife to stop for a day with Mistress Horton.
The following evening it was apparent that the end was coming fast to Joseph Devereux.