pleasantries of
Captain Simmons in regard to the inconstancy of his calling. No! there
was but one thing for her to do: she would make a clean breast to him;
she would tell him everything she had done except the fatal fancy that
compelled her to it! She began to look for his coming now with alternate
hope and fear--with unabated impatience! The night that he should have
arrived passed slowly; morning came, but not Zephas. When the mist had
lifted she ran impatiently to the rocks and gazed anxiously towards the
lower bay. There were a few gray sails scarce distinguishable above
the grayer water--but they were not his. She glanced half mechanically
seaward, and her eyes became suddenly fixed. There was no mistake! She
knew the rig!--she could see the familiar white lap-streak as the vessel
careened on the starboard tack--it was her husband's schooner slowly
creeping out of the Golden Gate!

PART III.

Her first wild impulse was to run to the cove, for the little dingey
always moored there, and to desperately attempt to overtake him. But
the swift consciousness of its impossibility was followed by a dull,
bewildering torpor, that kept her motionless, helplessly following the
vessel with straining eyes, as if they could evoke some response from
its decks. She was so lost in this occupation that she did not see that
a pilot-boat nearly abreast of the cove had put out a two-oared gig,
which was pulling quickly for the rocks. When she saw it, she trembled
with the instinct that it brought her intelligence. She was right;
it was a brief note from her husband, informing her that he had been
hurriedly dispatched on a short sea cruise; that in order to catch the
tide he had not time to go ashore at the bluff, but he would explain
everything on his return. Her relief was only partial; she was already
experienced enough in his vocation to know that the excuse was a feeble
one. He could easily have "fetched" the bluff in tacking out of the Gate
and have signaled to her to board him in her own boat. The next day she
locked up her house, rowed round the Point to the Embarcadero, where
the Bay steamboats occasionally touched and took up passengers to San
Francisco. Captain Simmons had not seen her husband this last trip;
indeed, did not know that he had gone out of the Bay. Mrs. Bunker was
seized with a desperate idea. She called upon the Secretary of the
Fishing Trust. That gentle man was business-like, but neither expansive
nor