night, with bitter words on your lips to me, Cousin Dick, I thought I
should never feel the same again. You did not know it, but I was bearing
the misery of your trouble and of another's also, and of my own as well;
and so I said over and over again, Oh, why will men be hard on women? Why
do they look for them to be iron like themselves, bearing double burdens
as most women do? But afterwards I settled to a quietness which I would
not have you think was happiness, for I have given up thought of that.
Nor would I have you think me bearing trouble sweetly, for sometimes I
was most hard and stubborn. But I lived on in a sort of stillness till
that morning when, sitting by my window, I read all you had written to
me. And first of all I must tell you how my heart was touched at your
words about our childhood together. I had not thought it lay so deep in
your mind, Cousin Dick. It always stays in mine; but then, women have
more memories than men. The story of that night I knew; but never fully
as you have told it to me in your letter. Of what happened after Lancy
Doane left the inn, of which you have not written, but promised the
writing in your next letter, I think I know as well as yourself. Nay,
more, Cousin Dick. There are some matters concerning what followed that
night and after, which I know, and you do not know. But you have guessed
there was something which I did not tell you, and so there was. And I
will tell you of them now. But I will take up the thread of the story
where you dropped it, and reel it out.

"You left the inn soon after Lancy Doane, and James Faddo went then too,
riding hard for Theddlethorpe, for he knew that in less than an hour the
coast-guards would be rifling the hiding places of his smuggled stuff.
You did not take a horse, but, getting a musket, you walked the sands
hard to Theddlethorpe.

"I know it all, though you did not tell me, Cousin Dick. You had no