did!

Lying flat in the bottom, he tore away fragments of the crumbling
bank to fill his frail craft, until he had sunk it to the gunwale,
and below the low level of the Marsh. Then, using his hands as
noiseless paddles, he propelled this rude imitation of a floating
log slowly past the line of vision, until the tongue of bushes had
hidden him from view. With a rapid glance at the darkening flat,
he then seized his gun, and springing to the spongy bank, half
crouching half crawling through reeds and tussocks, he made his way
to the brush. A foot and eye less experienced would have plunged
its owner helpless in the black quagmire. At one edge of the
thicket he heard hoofs trampling the dried twigs. Calvert's horse
was already there, tied to a skirting alder.

He ran to the house, but, instead of attracting attention by
ascending the creaking steps, made his way to the piles below the
rear gallery and climbed to it noiselessly. It was the spot where
the deserter had ascended a year ago, and, like him, he could see
and hear all that passed distinctly. Calvert stood near the open
door as if departing. Maggie stood between him and the window, her
face in shadow, her hands clasped tightly behind her. A profound
sadness, partly of the dying day and waning light, and partly of
some vague expiration of their own sorrow, seemed to encompass
them. Without knowing why, a strange trembling took the place of
James Culpepper's fierce determination, and a film of moisture
stole across his staring eyes.

"When I tell you that I believe all this will pass, and that you
will still win your brother back to you," said Calvert's sad but