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She broke down again, sobbing bitterly. Amid all the daze of his own pain Alan realized that, at any cost, he must not make it harder for her by showing his suffering. He tried to speak calmly, wisely, as a disinterested friend.

“Could it not be discovered whether your–this man–is or is not living? Surely your father could find out.”

Lynde shook her head.

“No, he says he has no way of doing so. We do not know if Captain Harmon had any relatives or even where his home was, and it was his own ship in which he sailed. Father would be glad to think that Frank Harmon was dead, but he does not think he is. He says he was always a fickle-minded fellow, one fancy driving another out of his mind. Oh, I can bear my own misery–but to think what I have brought on you! I never dreamed that you could care for me. I was so lonely and your friendship was so pleasant–can you ever forgive me?”

“There is nothing to forgive, as far as you are concerned, Lynde,” said Alan steadily. “You have done me no wrong. I have loved you sincerely and such love can be nothing but a blessing to me. I only wish that I could help you. It wrings my heart to think of your position. But I can do nothing–nothing. I must not even come here any more. You understand that?”

“Yes.”

There was an unconscious revelation in the girl’s mournful eyes as she turned them on Alan. It thrilled him to the core of his being. She loved him. If it were not for that empty marriage form, he could win her, but the knowledge was only an added mocking torment. Alan had not known a man could endure such misery and live. A score of wild questions rushed to his lips but he crushed them back for Lynde’s sake and held out his hand.

“Good-bye, dear,” he said almost steadily, daring to say no more lest he should say too much.

“Good-bye,” Lynde answered faintly.

When he had gone she flung herself down on the moss by the spring and lay there in an utter abandonment of misery and desolation.

Pain and indignation struggled for mastery in Alan’s stormy soul as he walked homeward. So this was Captain Anthony’s doings! He had sacrificed his daughter to some crime of his dubious past. Alan never dreamed of blaming Lynde for having kept her marriage a secret; he put the blame where it belonged–on the Captain’s shoulders. Captain Anthony had never warned him by so much as a hint that Lynde was not free to be won. It had all probably seemed a good joke to him. Alan thought the furtive amusement he had so often detected in the Captain’s eyes was explained now.

He found Elder Trewin in his study when he got home. The good Elder’s face was stern and anxious; he had called on a distasteful errand–to tell the young minister of the scandal his intimacy with the Four Winds people was making in the congregation and remonstrate with him concerning it. Alan listened absently, with none of the resentment he would have felt at the interference a day previously. A man does not mind a pin-prick when a limb is being wrenched away.

“I can promise you that my objectionable calls at Four Winds will cease,” he said sarcastically, when the Elder had finished. Elder Trewin got himself away, feeling snubbed but relieved.

“Took it purty quiet,” he reflected. “Don’t believe there was much in the yarns after all. Isabel King started them and probably she exaggerated a lot. I suppose he’s had some notion like as not of bringing the Captain over to the church. But that’s foolish, for he’d never manage it, and meanwhile was giving occasion for gossip. It’s just as well to stop it. He’s a good pastor and he works hard–too hard, mebbe. He looked real careworn and worried today.”