“Why, I expected you yesterday, Henry,” she said, holding out her hand, seating Sanford upon the divan, and drawing up a chair beside him. “What happened?” “Nothing more serious than an elopement.” “Not Jack and Helen Shirley?” she said, laughing. “No; I wish it were; they would go on loving each other. This affair brings misery. It’s Caleb West’s wife. Captain Joe is half crazy about it, and poor Caleb is heartbroken. She has gone off with that young fellow she was nursing the day you came up with the major.” “Eloped! Pretty doings, I must say. Yes, I remember her,—a trim, rather pretty little woman with short curly hair. I caught a glimpse of Caleb, too, you know, as he came in from the Ledge. He seemed years older than she. What had he done to her?” “Nothing, so far as I know, except love her and take care of her. Poor Caleb!” “What did he let her go for, then? I’m sorry for the old diver, but it was his fault, somewhere. The girl had as good a face as I ever looked into. She never left her husband without some cause, poor child. What else has happened at Keyport?” “Kate, don’t talk so. She’s treated him shamefully. They have only been married two years.” Mrs. Leroy bent her head and looked out under the awnings for a moment in a thoughtful way. “Only two years?” she said, with some bitterness. “The poor child was impatient. When she had tried it for fifteen she would have become accustomed to it. It is the same old story, I suppose. We hear it every day. He ugly and old and selfish, never thinking of what she would like and what she longed for, keeping her shut up to sing for him when she wanted now and then to sing for herself; and then she found the door of the cage open, and out she flew. Poor little soul! I pity her. She had better have borne it; it is a poor place outside for a tired foot; and she’s nothing but a child.” Then musing, patting her slipper impatiently, “What sort of a man has she gone with? I couldn’t see him that morning, she hung over him so close, and his head was so bandaged.” “I don’t know much about him. I haven’t known him long,” Sanford answered carelessly. “Good-looking, isn’t he, and alive, and with something human and manlike about him?” she asked, leaning forward eagerly, her hands in her lap. “Yes, I suppose so. He could climb like a cat, anyway,” said Sanford. “Yes, I know, Henry. I see it all. I knew it was the same old story. She wanted something fresh and young,—some one just to play with, child as she is, some one nearer her own age to love. She was lonely. Nothing for her to do but sit down and wait for him to come home. Poor child,” with a sigh, “her misery only begins now. What else have you to tell me?”