The diver raised his head erect, looked Captain Joe calmly in the eye, and, without a trace of bitterness in his voice, said: “She’ll never set foot here as my wife agin, Cap’n Joe, as long ’s she lives. I ain’t got the courage to set still an’ see her pine away day arter day, if she comes back, an’ I won’t. I love ’er too much for that. If she was my own child instead o’ my wife, I’d say the same thing. It’s Betty I’m a-thinkin’ of, not myself. It’d be twict ’s hard for ’er the next time she got tired an’ wanted to go. It’s all over now, an’ she’s free. Let it all stay so.” “Don’t say that, Caleb.” The shock of the refusal seemed to have stunned him. “Don’t say that. Think o’ that child, Caleb: she come back to ye, an’ you shut your door agin ’er.” Caleb shook his head, with a meaning movement that showed the iron will of the man and the hopelessness of further discussion. “Then she ain’t good 'nough for ye, ’s that it?” The captain was fast losing his self-control. He knew in his heart that in these last words he was doing Caleb an injustice, but his anger got the better of him. Caleb did not answer. “That’s it. Say it out. You don’t believe in her.” His voice now rang through the kitchen. One hand was straight up over his head; his lips quivered. “Ye think she’s some low-down critter instead of a poor child that ain’t done nobody no wrong intentional. I ask ye for th’ las’ time, Caleb. Be decent to yerself. Be a father to ’er, if ye can’t be no more; an’ if ye can’t be that,—damn ye!—stan’ up an’ forgive her like a man.” Caleb made no sign. The cruel thrust had not reached his heart. He knew his friend, and he knew all sides of his big nature. The clear blue eyes still rested on the captain’s face. “You won’t?” There was a tone almost of defiance in the captain’s words. The diver again shook his head. “Then I’ll tell ye one thing, Caleb, right here” (he was now bent forward, his forefinger in Caleb’s face straight out like a spike): “ye’re doin’ the meanest thing I ever knowed a man to do in my whole life. I don’t like ye fur it, an’ I never will ’s long ’s I live. I wouldn’t serve a dog so, let alone Betty. An’ now I’ll tell ye another: if she ain’t good 'nough to live with you, she’s good 'nough to live with Aunty Bell an’ me, an’ there’s where she’ll stay jes’ ’s long ’s she wants to.” Without a word of good-night he picked up his hat and strode from the room, slamming the door behind him with a force that rattled every plate on the table. Caleb half started from his chair as if to call him back. Then, with a deep indrawn sigh, he rose wearily from the chair, covered the smouldering fire with ashes, locked the doors, fastened the two shutters, and, taking up the lamp, went slowly upstairs to his empty bed. * * * * *