was my lover," she said, and shivered.

"Mar--ty--"

She looked up now, hardened her ugly, twitching face, forced her eyes
to meet her brother's, and went on breathlessly--

"I swear to you, Job--here, across this table--he was my lover; and
I ruined 'en. He was the only man, 'cept you and father, that ever
kissed me; and I betrayed 'en. As the Lord liveth, I stood up in the
box and swore away his name to save mine. An' what's more, he made
me."

"Mar--ty Lear!"

"Don't hinder me, Job. It's God's truth I'm tellin' 'ee. His folks
were a low lot, an' father'd have broken every bone o' me. But we used
to meet in the orchard 'most every night. Don't look so, brother. I'm
past sixty, an' nothin' known; an' now evil an' good's the same to
me."

"Go on."

"Well, the last night he came over 'twas spring tides, an' past the
flood. I was waitin' for 'en in the orchard, down in the corner by the
Adam's Pearmain. We could see the white front o' the house from there,
and us in the dark shadow: and there was the gap handy, that Amos
could snip through at a pinch--you fenced it up yoursel' the very
summer that father died in the fall. That night, Amos was late an' the
dew heavy, an' no doubt I lost my temper waitin' out there in the long
grass. We had words, I know; an' I reckon the tide ran far out while
we quarrelled. Anyway, he left me in wrath, an' I stood there under
the appletree, longin' for 'en to come back an' make friends again.
But the time went on, an' I didn' hear his footstep--no, nor his oars
pullin' away--though hearkenin' with all my ears.

"An' then I heard a terrible sound." Miss Marty paused and drew the
back of her hand across her dry lips before proceeding.

"--a terrible sound--a sort of low breathin', but fierce; an'
something worse, a suck-suckin' of the mud below; an' I ran down. I
suppose, in his anger, he took no care how he walked round the point
(for he al'ays moored his boat round the point, out o' sight), an'
went wide an' was taken. There he was, above his knees in it, and
far out it seemed to me, in the light o' the young moon. For all his
fightin', he heard me, and whispers out o' the dark--

"'Little girl, it's got me. Hush! don't shout, or they'll catch you.'

"'Can't you get out?' I whispered back.

"'No,' says he, 'I'm afraid I can't, unless you run up to the linhay
an' fetch a rope.'

"It was no more I stayed to hear, but ran up hot-foot to the linhay
and back inside the minut