“Have it as you like, _Vauch_, and don’t burn your little fingers,” said Davy; and then he opened the letter, and with many interjections proceeded to read it. “‘Dear Captain. How can I ask you to forgive me for the trick I have played upon you? ‘(Forgive, is it?)’ I have never had an appointment with the Manx lady; I have never had an intention of carrying her off from her husband; I have never seen her in church, and the story I have told you has been a lie from beginning to end.’” Davy lifted his head and laughed. “Another match, Willie,” he cried. And while the boy was striking a fresh one Davy stamped out the burning end that Nelly dropped on to the grass, and said: “A lie! Well, it was an’ it wasn’t. A sort of a scriptural parable, eh?” “Go on, Davy,” said Nelly, impatiently, and Davy began again: “‘You know the object of that trick by this time’ (Wouldn’t trust), ‘but you have been the victim of another’ (Holy sailor!), ‘to which I must also confess. In the gambling by which I won a large part of your money’ (True for you!) ‘I was not playing for my own hand. It was for one who wished to save you from yourself.’ (Lord a massy!) ‘That person was your wife’ (Goodness me!), ‘and all my earnings belong to her.’ (Good thing, too!) ‘They are deposited at Dumbell’s in her name’ (Right!), ‘and---’” “There--that will do,” said Nelly, nervously. “‘And I send you the bank-book, together with the dock bonds,... which you transferred for Mrs. Quiggin’s benefit... to the name... of her friend...’” Davy’s lusty voice died off to a whisper. “What is that?” said Nelly, eagerly. “Nothin’,” said Davy, very thick about the throat; and he rammed the letter into his breeches’ pocket and grabbed at his hat. As he did so, a paper slipped to the ground. Nelly caught it up and held it on the breezy side of the flickering match. It was a note from Jenny Crow: “‘You dear old goosy; your jealous little heart found out who the Manx sailor was, but your wise little poll never once suspected that Mr. Lovibond could be anything to anybody, although I must have told you twenty times in the old days of the sweetheart from whom I parted. Good thing, too. Glad you were so stupid, my dear, for by helping you to make up your quarrel we have contrived to patch up our own. Good-by! What lovely stories I told you! And how you liked them! We have borrowed your husband’s berths for the Pacific steamer, and are going to have an Irish marriage tomorrow morning at Belfast--’” “So they’re a Co. consarn already,” said Davy. “‘Good-by! Give your Manx sailor one kiss for me--’” “Do it!” cried Davy. “Do it! What you’ve got to do only once you ought to do it well.” Then they became conscious that a smaller and dumpier figure was standing in the darkness by the side of Willie. It was Peggy Quine. “Are you longing, Peggy?” Willie was saying in a voice of melancholy sympathy. And Peggy was answering in a doleful tone, “Aw, yes, though--longing mortal.”