Caleb looked up over the rim of his glasses into the captain’s face. He was sitting at the table in his shirt-sleeves and rough overalls, the carpet slippers on his feet. He was eating his supper,—the supper that he had cooked himself. “How d’ ye know?” he asked. The voice did not sound like Caleb’s; it was hoarse and weak. “She come inter Mr. Sanford’s place night 'fore last, scared almost to death, and he tuk her to them Leroy folks; they was stavin’ good to her an’ kep’ ’er till mornin’, an’ telegraphed me. I got the eight-ten this mornin’. There warn’t no time, Caleb,”—in an apologetic tone,—“or I’d sent for ye, jes’ ’s Aunty Bell wanted me to; but I knowed ye’d understand. We jes’ got back. I’d brought ’er up, only she’s dead beat out, poor little gal.” It was a long answer of the captain’s to so direct a question, and it was made with more or less misgiving. It was evident from his manner that he was a little nervous over the result. He did not take his eyes from the diver’s face as he fired these shots at random, wondering where and how they would strike. “Where is she now?” inquired Caleb quietly. “Down on my kitchen floor with her head in Aunty Bell’s lap. Git yer hat and come 'long.” The captain leaned over the table as he spoke, and rested one hand on the back of Caleb’s chair. Caleb did not raise his eyes nor move. “I can’t do her no good no more, Cap’n Joe. It was jes’ like ye to try an’ help her. Ye’d do it for anybody that was a-sufferin’; but I don’t see _my_ way clear. I done all I could for her 'fore she lef’ me,—leastwise I thought I had.” There was no change in the listless monotone of his voice. “You allus done by her, Caleb.” The captain’s hand had slipped from the chair-back to Caleb’s shoulder. “I know it, and she knows it now. She ain’t ever goin’ to forgive herself for the way she’s treated ye,—tol’ me so to-day comin’ up. She’s been hoodooed, I tell ye,—that’s what’s the matter; but she’s come to now. Come along; I’ll git yer hat. She ought’er go to sleep purty soon.” “Ye needn’t look for my hat, Cap’n Joe. I ain’t a-goin’,” said Caleb quietly, leaning back in his chair. The lamp shone full on his face and beard. Captain Joe could see the deep lines about the eyes, seaming the dry, shrunken skin. The diver had grown to be a very old man in a week. “You say you ain’t a-goin’, Caleb?” In his heart he had not expected this. “No, Cap’n Joe; I’m goin’ to stay here an’ git along th’ best way I kin. I ain’t blamin’ Betty. I’m blamin’ myself. I been a-thinkin’ it all over. She done ’er best to love me and do by me, but I was too old for ’er. If it hadn’t been Billy, it would’er been somebody else,—somebody younger ’n me.” “She don’t want nobody else but you, Caleb.” The captain’s voice rose quickly. He was crossing the room for a chair as he spoke. “She told me so to-day. She purty nigh cried herself sick comin’ up. I was afeard folks would notice her.”