if a thousand fine clammy webs were being spun about her.

"If you had any especial talent, as Waring says--if you were artistic or
musical, or concerned in some asylum-work--you could take your own path,
independent of society. But--" looking down at her anxiously.

"I understand. I don't know what I was made for."

It was the first time in her life that she had been driven in to consider
herself. She stood grave and intent, saying nothing for some time. Every
other woman had some definite aim. The whole world was marching by, keeping
step to a neat, orderly little tune. They made calls, they gave alms, they
dressed, all of the same fashion.

"Why not be like other people?" her father was saying, making a burden to
her thought.

"I don't know why," drearily.

"What would you have, Jenny?" taking her hand in his.

"Father, I never loved but one or two people in the world. You and Bruno
and--not many others. I can do nothing outside of them."

"Nonsense! You cannot be a law to yourself, child. God knows I want to see
you happy!" his voice breaking. "But," straightening his eye-glasses,
"Waring says, very justly, you are out of the groove which all other girls
are in." He stopped inquiringly, but she did not answer. She was a
strongly-built woman in mind and body, and just then she felt her strength.
The blood rushed in a swift current through her veins. Why should she be
hampered with these thousand meaningless, sham duties? She was fit for but
one purpose--to serve two men whom she loved. Her father was ill, and he
pushed her from him into Society; and Bruce Neckart was alone, and with a
worse fate than death creeping on him, and he--

"Why does not Mr. Neckart come to us?" she asked abruptly. "It is months
since I have seen him."

"His health is failing. There is some trouble of the brain threatened. I
hear that he is going to give up the paper, and is settling up his business
to go to Europe." Her question startled him: he watched her with a new keen
suspicion.

"If this must come on him, why should he not come here to bear it? I can
nurse you both. Surely, that is as good work as returning calls or learning
to dress in Parisian style," with a short laugh.

The captain's face gathered intelligence as he listened. He knew her secret
now. For a moment he felt a wrench of pity for her. But love, with the
captain, had been a sentimental fever ending in a cold ague: he had
experienced light heats and chills o