"Was her mother by her when she was lying on the rock?" "No; came up afterwards, just as I got her on her feet." "Humph! What sort of a character is her mother?" "Oh, a tidy, God-fearing person, enough. One of these Methodist class-leaders, Brianites they call themselves. I don't hold with them, though I do go to chapel at whiles: but there are good ones among them; and I do believe she's one, though she's a little fretful at times. Keeps a little shop that don't pay over well; and those preachers live on her a good deal, I think. Creeping into widows' houses, and making long prayers--you know the text." "Well, now, Captain Willis, I don't want to hurt your feelings; but do you not see that one of two things I must believe,--either that the belt was torn off my waist, and washed back into the sea, as it may have been after all; or else, that--" "Do you mean that she took it?" asked Willis, in voice of such indignant astonishment that Tom could only answer by a shrug of the shoulders. "Who else could have done so, on your own showing?" "Sir!" said Willis, slowly. "I thought I had to do with a gentleman: but I have my doubts of it now. A poor girl risks her life to drag you out of that sea, which but for her would have hove your body up to lie along with that line there,"--and Willis pointed to the ghastly row--" and your soul gone to give in its last account--You only know what that would have been like--And the first thing you do in payment is to accuse her of robbing you--her, that the very angels in heaven, I believe, are glad to keep company with;" and the old man turned and paced the beach in fierce excitement. "Captain Willis," said Tom, "I'll trouble you to listen patiently and civilly to me a minute." Willis stopped, drew himself up, and touched his hat mechanically. "Just because I am a gentleman, I have not accused her; but held my tongue, and spoken to you in confidence. Now, perhaps, you will understand why I have said nothing to the Lieutenant." Willis looked up at him. "I beg your pardon, sir. I see now, and I'm sorry if I was rude; but it took me aback, and does still. I tell you, sir," quoth he, warming again, "whatever's true,--that's false. You're wrong there, if you never are wrong again; and you'll say so yourself, before you've known her a week. No, sir! If you could make me believe that, I should never believe in goodness again on earth; but hold all men, and women too, and those above, for aught I know, that are greater than men and women, for liars together." What was to be answered? Perhaps only what Tom did answer. "My good sir, I will say no more. I would not have said that much if I had thought I should have pained you so. I suppose that the belt was washed into the sea. Why not?" "Why not, indeed, sir? That's a much more Christian-like way of looking at it, than to blacken your own soul before God by suspecting that sweet innocent creature."