Throughout the severe weather it was impossible for John Lee to see more than a passing glimpse of his lady. The hardship of this specially touched Grace's heart, and not seldom, after intimate chatter with the American, she purposely sought disconsolate John that she might cheer his loneliness and longing. But in the vital matter of the guest, young Lee suffered less than would have been supposed. Jealousy was no part of his nature. He rejoiced heartily that Grace should have company so interesting during the tedious days after the storm. In common with Beer, Woodman and the rest, John appreciated Cecil Stark, and found his own sentiments echo the sailor's on many subjects. The labourers often discussed their visitor, admired the frank, friendly spirit in which he came amongst them at their work, and regretted the fact that he must soon return to prison. Once in a morning hour Grace played her piano to the guest, and upon opening a music-book, the ghost of a sprig of white heather, now turned brown, tumbled out of it. Mr. Peter Norcot had presented this trophy, and placed it to mark a song of Herrick's, with Purcell's accompaniment. Now Stark noted the flower. "You like it not, I see," he said, for memory suddenly clouded the singer's eyes. "Dead heath," she answered; "and for me I vow that it never lived. A gentleman placed it there because the song pleased him." "I'd give the world to know who 'twas, Miss Malherb." "You shall hear for nothing. There is no secret. The name will not be new to you, I think; Mr. Peter Norcot." Stark's face fell, and the recollection of many things crowded down bleakly upon him. "He's a good man--a great-hearted, generous spirit," he declared. Grace did not answer. "I have been blind lately," he continued. "My wits went wandering in the blizzard and have never returned. It has pleased me to forget Mr. Norcot too long. What might have been, Miss Malherb! He won parole for us out of his own pure goodness and love of humanity. But meantime we had tried to escape and failed. A mad world! And but for that Jonathan Miller might still be living. The man's name must be blessed by every American that hears it--Norcot's, I mean." Still Grace made no reply. "Such a gentleman must be above possibility of error in such a vital thing as he confided to me," pursued Cecil gloomily. "I ought to have faced the fact sooner and not let my fool thoughts---- So you are going to marry him, Miss Malherb?" "Never, Mr. Stark." "He told me so--truly he believed it." "He is wrong. He is a most worthy person, and he very seldom makes a mistake. But he is wrong for once when he says that, or thinks it--wildly, utterly, hopelessly wrong." "You do not love him?" "My father does. He desires that I should wed him." "But surely----?" "'Surely I could do no better,' you were going to say?" "Indeed, no. Surely your father's first thought is your future happiness?"