"But Martin Howe is too much of a Christian for that. Yes, you can sneer. He is a Christian and a gentleman. You are not worthy to touch the ground beneath his feet. He would not leave you without help. Since you have been ill, he has given part of each day to working in your garden; and he is busy and tired, too. He's done it that your crops might not fail. It is Martin Howe that you have to thank for your harvest, whether you like it or not--Martin Howe!" Breathlessly she paused. "You seem to have a terrible high opinion of Martin Howe," scoffed Ellen, with scathing sarcasm. "I have." "Likely you're in love with him," jibed the tormentor. "Yes, I love him." The simple confession came proudly from the girl's lips. "An' he loves you, no doubt," continued the old woman with a laugh. "At least he's probably told you so." "No, he hasn't." "Oh-ho! He hasn't, eh?" "No." "An' never will," shouted the harpy triumphantly. "He ain't marryin' no Websters--don't you think it for one minute. He's just makin' a fool of you. That's his idea of revenge--your Christian gentleman!" She rubbed her dank hands together. "I don't believe it." "You wouldn't be likely to," returned Ellen sharply. "I didn't expect it. No girl is ever willin' to believe her lover's a scoundrel. But mark my words--Martin Howe is playin' with you--playin'--just the way a cat plays with a mouse. He's aimin' to get you into his clutches an' ruin you--wait an' see if he ain't. Oh, he's a deep one, this gentleman you seem to think so much of!" "I'll not believe it," repeated Lucy hotly. "You'd marry him, I s'pose," Ellen hissed. "If he asked me, yes." "You traitor! An' you a Webster!" "I don't care." The woman surveyed her niece in silence. "Well," she said finally, "you can put your soul at rest. Martin Howe will never marry you--never! He would no more marry anybody of the Webster blood than he'd hang himself. Go on lovin' him if you want to. No good will come of it." With this parting prophecy Ellen shut her lips, and Lucy, throbbing from the stripes of the encounter and seeing further parley fruitless, slipped from the room and fled to the quiet of the still night's solitude. After she had gone and Ellen was once more in bed, Melvina tried in vain to quiet the increasing restlessness of her patient, but all attempts to soothe the invalid were without avail. Tossing from side to side on the pillows, her fingers picking nervously at the coverings, Ellen stared into the darkness, breaking from time to time into fragments of angry dialogue. The benediction of the evening's peace, musical with the rustling of leaves and laden with the perfume of blossoming vines, brought no solace to her heart. Presently, unable to endure the silence longer, she started up. "Melviny," she called to the woman sitting beside her. The nurse rose from the deepening gloom and stood erect in the moonlight, her figure throwing upon the whitewashed wall a distorted, specterlike silhouette.