She sat on deck, well bundled up against the November wind, and thought happily how well she would now manage her life. No more morbid fancies or childish fear of the moss-hung landscape. No more lying on couches, or neglecting plantation duties. She would be the paragon of wives—and mothers. The darling baby—the thought of him melted her heart with love. He should be the most brilliant and famous man in the world. As a first step, Joseph must build a library at the Oaks. Even now in the hold were stacked a dozen books which Aaron had bought as a nucleus. Already at six months the baby was precocious, and though she did not quite share her father's opinion that the child should recite his letters at a year, yet it would not be long before she could begin teaching him. She smiled to herself, trying to picture him at two—at five.

The brig plowed steadily southward, rocking easily over the smooth Atlantic combers. A single yellow star sparkled in the eastern sky, hung trembling against the dark. How pretty it is, she thought idly, and then suddenly, as though it had been a bolt of lightning from out that gentle sky, her mind twisted with sharp pain.

Why? She asked it half aloud, and, bewildered, stared around the empty decks. How could one feel poignant sorrow and not know its source! The recognition lagged behind the fact, but it came gradually. In the fo'castle some sailor was playing on his flute. She had been hearing the music for some time without noticing it. The sailor had just now changed his tune, and it was this new soft strain that hurt her. Yet why? She still did not recognize it. It was something she had heard long ago, but where——

And then the words slipped quietly within the melody, and she heard again the rustling leaves in an enchanted garden, felt intolerable sweetness and yearning.

Water, parted from the sea, may increase the river's tide——

That song—but she had not heard it since, nor thought of the captain in many months. Why, then, should there be pain?

Heart of mine, away from thee, sever'd from its only rest,
Tosses as a troubled sea, bound within my aching breast.
Thou alone canst give release, sprayed my burning eyes with brine.
Swelling e'er with love's increase, let my heart find rest in thine.

She flung off the rug which wrapped her.

'Eleanore!' she called sharply.

The French nursemaid came running, her broad peasant face anxious, 'Oui, Madame?'

'I'm cold. I wish to go to my cabin. And tell that sailor who is playing the flute to stop it. He makes a hideous noise, it vexes me.'

CHAPTER THIRTEEN