"Yes." ""

"Then my baby is a baby no longer," sighed the father.

"No; she is a pretty little girl now.”

"And has no recollection of her father?"

"How could she?"

"But my little boy?"

"He was five when you left home?"

"No, not quite; four and some months."
"Then he would remember you."
"He is a good-sized boy."

"Almost fifteen," she answered.

"Heaven grant I may yet see them!"

"Amen!" replied Blanche. "God has not forgotten you; our prayers will be heard."

John made no answer. He arose, took his gun and went out among the hills.

"When he talks of them," Blanche thought, "he always goes to the hills. God grant he does not. die of despair, for then I would be all alone on this island of desolation."

Tears gathered in her eyes and, falling on her knees, she breathed a fervent prayer.

CHAPTER VII.

IN WIDOW'S WEEDS.

Go; you may call it madness, folly;
You may not chase my gloom away.
There's such a charm in melancholy,
I would not, if I could, be gay.

-ROGERS.

DOROTHE STEVENS was not a woman to take misfortune much to heart. She watched the ship in which her husband sailed until it vanished from sight, shed a few tears, heaved a few sighs and went home to see if the negro slave had prepared breakfast. She smiled next day, and before the week was past she was quite gay. She said she was not going to repine and languish in sorrow.

Her conduct shocked the staid Puritans, and her fine apparel was ungodly in their eyes.

Weeks rolled on, and no news came from the good ship Silverwing; but they might not hear from her for months, and Mrs. Stevens did not borrow trouble. She did not dream that the ship could possibly be lost, or that her husband's voyage could be other than prosperous, so she plunged into a course of

extravagance and pleasure that would have ruined a wealthier man than poor John Stevens.

"I must do something," she declared, "to relieve my mind from thoughts. of my poor, dear, absent husband, for whom I grieve continually."

Once John's mother and sister came to see her; but she was entertaining some ladies from Greensprings and wholly neglected her visitors. The grandmother held the baby on her knee, kissed the face, while her tears fell on it; then silently the two unwelcome visitors departed for their home, while Mrs. Stevens was so busily engaged with the ladies from Greensprings that she did not even bid them adieu.

Dark days were in store for Dorothe Stevens. She heeded not the constant reduction of her money until it was gone. Then she reasoned that her husband would soon return with a goodly supply, and she began to use her credit, which had always been good; but she found that the merchants who once had smiled on her frowned when she came to ask for credit.

"Have you heard from your husband, Dorothe Stevens?" one asked, when she applied to him for credit.

"The Silverwing has not yet reached London." "How know you that?" she asked, a momentary shadow coming over her face.

"The Ocean Star hath just arrived, but brought no report from the Silverwing."

"It left before the Silverwing arrived. The ship was delayed a little. It has reached there safely by this time, I am quite sure," and Mrs. Stevens' face grew bright as she made some purchases for which she had not the money to pay. The merchant sold to her reluctantly, and she, without dreaming that calamity could possibly befall her, went on enjoying herself. Ex-Governor Berkeley had invited her to spend a few days at Greenspring, where she met her husband's friend Hugh Price, with other gay cavaliers and ladies.

Dorothe was a thorough royalist, and she heard, while at the governor's, that Cromwell was in poor health, and there was a strong feeling that the exiled Prince Charles would be recalled to the throne. Berkeley had invited him to Virginia. Many of England's nobles, flying from Cromwell's persecutions, had taken refuge with ex-Governor Berkeley, and no other greater pleasure could Dorothe wish than to be associated with them.

When she returned to her home, it looked poor and mean in comparison with the governor's excellent manor house; but troubles thickened. Bills

came pouring in upon her, which she was unable to meet, for she had not a farthing, and her creditors became clamorous.

"Why don't John come back with the money?" she asked, angry tears starting from her eyes. "I cannot meet these bills, and he knows I must live.” "You have been grossly extravagant, Mrs. Stevens," one heartless creditor returned. He was a merchant who had smiled on her most sweetly in her prosperous days, and had always welcomed her to his shop. "Had you economized with the money your husband left, you would not be in such sore straits."

Mrs. Stevens was shocked and indignant. She wept and asked for time. Ann Linkon, who had never forgiven Dorothe Stevens for the ducking she had caused her, now boldly declared that she had all along told the truth and, shaking her gray head, repeated:

"She is a hussy. She hath driven John to sea and perchance to death. She is a hussy."

No one attempted to prevent Ann's tongue from wagging, and to the unfortunate Dorothe it was quite evident that she was no longer the favorite of Jamestown.

"When John comes back, all will change," she thought; but, alas, the months crept slowly by, and John came not. There came a rumor which