Betty’s heart was full also, but not with joy. She had been deceived. The fine Spanish Don, who had made her love him so desperately, had sailed away and left her without a word. She could not doubt it, he had been seen standing on the ship—and not one word. It was cruel, cruel, and now she must help another woman to be made a happy wife, she who was beggared of hope and love. Moodily, full of bitterness, she went about her tasks, biting her lips and wiping her fine eyes with the sleeve of her robe, when suddenly the door opened, and a servant, not one of their own, but a strange man who had been brought in to help at the morrow’s feast, called out that a sailor wished to speak with her. “Then let him enter here; I have no time to go out to listen to his talk,” snapped Betty. Presently the sailor was shown in, the man who brought him leaving the room at once. He was a dark fellow, with sly black eyes, who, had he not spoken English so well, might have been taken for a Spaniard. “Who are you, and what is your business?” asked Betty sharply. “I am the carpenter of the ship Margaret,” he answered, “and I am here to say that our master Castell has met with an accident there, and desires that Mistress Margaret, his daughter, should come to him at once.” “What accident?” asked Betty. “In seeing to the stowage of cargo he slipped and fell down the hold, hurting his back and breaking his right arm, and that is why he cannot write. He is in great pain; but the physician whom we summoned bade me tell Mistress Margaret that at present he has no fear for his life. Are you Mistress Margaret?” “No,” answered Betty; “but I will go to her at once; do you bide here.” “Then are you her cousin, Mistress Betty Dene, for if so I have something for you?” “I am. What is it?” “This,” said the man, drawing out a letter which he handed to her. “Who gave you this?” asked Betty suspiciously. “I do not know his name, but he was a noble-looking Spanish Don, and a liberal one too. He had heard of the accident on the Margaret, and, knowing my errand, asked me if I would deliver this letter to you, for the fee of a gold ducat, and promise to say nothing of it to any one else.” “Some rude gallant, doubtless,” said Betty, tossing her head; “they are ever writing to me. Bide here; I go to Mistress Margaret.” Once she was outside the door Betty broke the seal of the letter eagerly enough, for she had been taught with Margaret, and could read well. It ran: