Your sister Lucy ain't growed
right. Maybe she kin help it and maybe she can't,
but she'll leak every time there comes a twist. See
if she don't."
But Jane never lost faith nor wavered in her trust.
With the old-time love strong upon her she continued
to make excuses for this thoughtless, irresponsible
woman, so easily influenced. "It is Maria Collins
who has written the letter, and not Lucy," she kept
saying to herself. "Maria has been her bad angel
from her girlhood, and still dominates her. The
poor child's sufferings have hardened her heart and
destroyed for a time her sense of right and wrong--
that is all."
With this thought uppermost in her mind she
took the letter from her desk, and stirring the smouldering
embers, laid it upon the coals. The sheet blazed
and fell into ashes.
"No one will ever know," she said with a sigh.
CHAPTER XIII
SCOOTSY'S EPITHET
Lying on Barnegat Beach, within sight of the
House of Refuge and Fogarty's cabin, was the hull
of a sloop which had been whirled in one night in a
southeaster, with not a soul on board, riding the
breakers like a duck, and landing high and dry out
of the hungry clutch of the surf-dogs.
Pages:
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228