It had been upon the shapely brown hand lifted to remove the hat from a young man's head, that summer day, at the Sachem's Cave. There came to her a sudden rush of misgiving, as she asked herself the meaning of it all. What had this hated Britisher's ring to do with Dorothy's illness and with her ravings? What was all this about Master Weeks, and signing the register? She determined to tell her husband of what she had heard and seen, and let his judgment decide what was to be done. And yet when he returned, and with him his father and Aunt Lettice and 'Bitha, all of them sad-faced and alarmed over Dorothy's sudden sickness, something seemed to hold back the words Mary had intended to speak. And so she said nothing to her husband, but hid the ring away, resolved that for the present, at least, she would hold her own counsel. After all--so she tried to reason--it might be nothing more than that the young Britisher had given Dorothy the ring. And yet that the girl should accept such a gift from him surprised and grieved her, knowing as she did that had there been any lovemaking between the two, it would surely bring greater trouble than she dared now to consider. Mary was one who always shrank from doing aught to cause discord; and so, albeit with a mind filled with anxiety, she decided to keep silence. Dorothy's ailment proved to be an attack of brain fever, and it was many weeks before she recovered. And when she was pronounced well again, she went about the old house, such a pale-faced, listless shadow of her former self that her brother watched her with troubled eyes, while her father was well-nigh beside himself with anxiety. But as often as they spoke to her of their misgivings she answered that she was entirely well, and would soon be quite as before. She appeared to have forgotten about the ring, and Mary waited for her to mention it, wondering after a time that she did not. At last, late in January, the hated soldiers were ordered away from the Neck; and great was the rejoicing amongst the townspeople, whose open demonstrations evinced their delight at being freed from the petty tyranny of their unwelcome visitors. It was John Devereux who brought the news, as the other members of the family sat late one afternoon about the big fireplace in the drawing-room. Aunt Lettice and Mary were busy with some matter of sewing, and 'Bitha, with an unusually grave face, was seated between them on a low stool. A half-finished sampler was on her knee, and the firelight quivered along the bright needle resting where she had left off when it became too dark for her to work. Dorothy was at the spinet, drawing low music from the keys, and playing as if her thoughts were far away. Her father had just come from out of doors, and now sat in his big armchair, with his hands near the blaze, for the cold had increased with the setting of the sun.