He approached her a hundred times determined to end his misery of suspense, and face the incalculable weight of her disdain; but on each occasion he failed as he had at the first. Now his admission seemed too damned roundabout; in an unflattering way forced upon him. His position was too insecure, he told himself.... Perhaps the threat in the apothecary's shop would be sufficient to shut the mouth of rumor. It had not been empty; he was still capable of uncalculating rage. How closely was Honora bound to him? What did she think of him at heart? He couldn't bear to remember how he had laid open her dignity, the dignity and position of the Canderays in Cottarsport, to whispered vilification. Connected with him she was being discussed in “Pack” Clower's shanty. His mind revolved endlessly about the same few topics, he elaborated and discarded countless schemes to secure Honora. He even considered giving Thomas Gast a sum of money to repair what harm the latter had wrought. Useless--his danger flourished on hatred and envy and malice. However exculpable the killing of Eddie Lukens had been, the results were immeasurably unfortunate, for a simple act of violent local justice. They were in the carriage above Cottarsport; Coggs had died through the winter, and his place been taken by a young coachman from the city. The horses rested somnolently in their harness, the bright bits of rubbed silver plate shining. Honora was looking out over the harbor, a gentian blue expanse. “Good Heavens,” she cried with sudden energy, “I am getting old at a sickening rate. Only last year the schooners and sea made me as restless as a gull. I wanted to sail to the farthest places; but now the boats are--are no more than boats. It fatigues me to think of their jumping about; and I haven't walked down to the wharves for six weeks. Do I look a haggard fright?” “You seem as young as before I went to California,” he replied simply. She did. A strand of hair had slipped from its net, and wavered across her flawless cheek, her lips were bright and smooth, her shoulders slimly square. “You're a marvelous woman, Honora,” he told her. She gazed at him, smiling. “I wonder if you realize that that is your first compliment of our entire wedded life?” “Ridiculous,” he declared incredulously. “Isn't it?” “I mean I'm complimenting you all the time. I think----” “You can hardly expect me to hear thoughts,” she interrupted. He silently debated another--it was to be about the ribbon on her throat--but decided against giving it voice. Why, like the reasons for so much else, he was unable to say; they all had their root in the blind sense of the uncertainty of his situation.