that you
fired no shot that night, but only helped a hunted, miserable man away,
for you did get free. Just in the nick of time your sail caught the
wind, and you steered for the open sea. Three days from that, Tom
Doane was safe in the Low Country, and you were on your way back to
Lincolnshire. You came by a fishing boat to Saltfleet Haven, and made
your way down the coast towards Mablethorpe. Passing Theddlethorpe,
you went up to Faddo's house, and, looking through the window, you saw
Faddo, not dead, but being cared for by his wife. Then you came on to
Mablethorpe, and standing under my window, at the very moment when I was
on my knees praying for the safety of those who travelled by sea, you
whistled like a quail from the garden below--the old signal. Oh, how
my heart stood still a moment and then leaped, for I knew it was you! I
went down to the garden, and there you were. Oh, but I was glad to see
you, Cousin Dick!

"You remember how I let you take me in your arms for an instant, and
then I asked if he was safe. And when you told me that he was, I burst
into tears, and I asked you many questions about him. And you answered
them quickly, and then would have taken me in your arms again. But I
would not let you, for then I knew--I knew that you loved me, and, oh,
a dreadful feeling came into my heart, and I drew back, and could have
sunk upon the ground in misery, but that there came a thought of your
safety! He was safe, but you--you were here, where reward was posted for
you. I begged you to come into the house, that I might hide you there,
but you would not. You had come for one thing, you said, and only one.
An hour or two, and then you must be gone for London. And so you urged
me to the beach. I was afraid we might be seen, but you led me away from
the cottages near to the little bridge which crosses the dyke. By that
way we came to the sands, as we thought unnoted. But no, who should
it be to see us but that canting Baptist, Solby! And so the alarm was
given. You had come, dear Cousin Dick, to ask me one thing--if I loved
you? and if, should you ever be free to come back, I would be your wife?
I did not answer you; I could not answer you; and, when you pressed me,
I begged you to have pity on me and not to speak of it. You thought I
was not brave enough to love a man open to the law. As if--as if I knew
not that what you did came out of a generous, reckless heart. And on my
knees--oh, on my knees--I ought to h