[Illustration: "I've a bad son, the day, Skipper Tommy, " said myMother. --Page 23. ]

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DOCTOR LUKE OF THE LABRADOR

BYNORMAN DUNCAN

GROSSET & DUNLAP

Publishers--New York

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Copyright, 1904, by FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY

New York: 158 Fifth AvenueChicago: 63 Washington StreetToronto: 27 Richmond Street, WLondon: 21 Paternoster SquareEdinburgh: 30 St. Mary Street

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ToMy Own Motherand toher granddaughterElspethmy niece

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To the Reader

However bleak the Labrador--however naked and desolate thatshore--flowers bloom upon it. However bitter the despoiling sea--howevercold and rude and merciless--the gentler virtues flourish in the heartsof the folk. . . . And the glory of the coast--and the glory of the wholeworld--is mother-love: which began in the beginning and has continuedunchanged to this present time--the conspicuous beauty of the fabric oflife: the great constant of the problem. 

 N. D. 

College Campus, Washington, Pennsylvania, October 15, 1904. 

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CONTENTS

I. Our Harbour 13II. The World from the Watchman 17III. In the Haven of Her Arms 29IV. The Shadow 35V. Mary 48VI. The Man on the Mail Boat 57VII. The Woman from Wolf Cove 70VIII. The Blind and the Blind 79IX. A Wreck on the Thirty Devils 89X. The Flight 102XI. The Women at the Gate 110XII. Doctor and I 115XIII. A Smiling Face 125XIV. In the Watches of the Night 133XV. The Wolf 138XVI. A Malady of the Heart 150XVII. Hard Practice 167XVIII. Skipper Tommy Gets a Letter 182XIX. The Fate of the Mail-Boat Doctor 191XX. Christmas Eve at Topmast Tickle 202XXI. Down North 219XXII. The Way from Heart's Delight 222XXIII. The Course of True Love 239XXIV. The Beginning of the End 258XXV. A Capital Crime 265XXVI. Decoyed 287XXVII. The Day of the Dog 305XXVIII. In Harbour 320

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[Illustration: SKETCH MAP of OUR HARBOR]

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DOCTOR LUKE of THE LABRADOR

I

OUR HARBOUR

A cluster of islands, lying off the cape, made the shelter of ourharbour. They were but great rocks, gray, ragged, wet with fog and surf, rising bleak and barren out of a sea that forever fretted a thousandmiles of rocky coast as barren and as sombre and as desolate as they;but they broke wave and wind unfailingly and with vast unconcern--theywere of old time, mighty, steadfast, remote from the rage of weather andthe changing mood of the sea, surely providing safe shelter for us folkof the coast--and we loved them, as true men, everywhere, love home. 

"'Tis the cleverest harbour on the Labrador!" said we. 

When the wind was in the northeast--when it broke, swift and vicious, from the sullen waste of water beyond, whipping up the grey sea, drivingin the vagrant ice, spreading clammy mist over the reefs and rockyheadlands of the long coast--our harbour lay unruffled in the lee ofGod's Warning. Skull Island and a shoulder of God's Warning broke thewinds from the north: the froth of the breakers, to be sure, camecreeping through the north tickle, when the sea was high; but no greatwave from the open ever disturbed the quiet water within. We were fendedfrom the southerly gales by the massive, beetling front of the Isle ofGood Promise, which, grandly unmoved by their fuming rage, turned themup into the black sky, where they went screaming northward, high overthe heads of the white houses huddled in the calm below; and the seasthey brought--gigantic, breaking seas--went to waste on Raven Rock andthe Reef of the Thirty Black Devils, ere, their strength spent, theygrowled over the jagged rocks at the base of the great cliffs of GoodPromise and came softly swelling through the broad south tickle to thebasin. The west wind came out of the wilderness, fragrant of the far-offforest, lying unknown and dread in the inland, from which the mountains, bold and blue and forbidding, lifted high their heads; and the mist wasthen driven back into the gloomy seas of the east, and the sun was out, shining warm and yellow, and the sea, lying in the lee of the land, wasall aripple and aflash. 

When the spring gales blew--the sea being yet white with drift-ice--theschooners of the Newfoundland fleet, bound north to the fishing, oftencame scurrying into our harbour for shelter. And when the skippers, still dripping the spray of the gale from beard and sou'wester, cameashore for a yarn and an hospitable glass with my father, the trader, many a tale of wind and wreck and far-away harbours I heard, while wesat by the roaring stove in my father's little shop: such as those whichbegan, "Well, 'twas the wonderfullest gale o' wind you everseed--snowin' an' blowin', with the sea in mountains, an' it as black asa wolf's throat--an' we was somewheres off Cape Mugford. She weredrivin' with a nor'east gale, with the shore somewheres handy t'le'ward. But, look! nar a one of us knowed where she were to, 'less'twas in the thick o' the Black Heart Reefs. . . . " Stout, hearty fellowsthey were who told yarns like these--thick and broad about the chest andlanky below, long-armed, hammer-fisted, with frowsy beards, bushy brows, and clear blue eyes, which were fearless and quick to look. 

"'Tis a fine harbour you got here, Skipper David Roth, " they would sayto my father, when it came time to go aboard, "an' here, zur, " raisingthe last glass, "is t' the rocks that make it!"

"T' the schooners they shelter!" my father would respond. 

When the weather turned civil, I would away to the summit of theWatchman--a scamper and a mad climb--to watch the doughty littleschooners on their way. And it made my heart swell and flutter to seethem dig their noses into the swelling seas--to watch them heel and leapand make the white dust fly--to feel the rush of the wet wind that drovethem--to know that the grey path of a thousand miles was every league ofthe way beset with peril. Brave craft! Stout hearts to sail them! Itthrilled me to watch them beating up the suddy coast, lying low andblack in the north, and through the leaden, ice-strewn seas, with themurky night creeping in from the open. I, too, would be the skipper of aschooner, and sail with the best of them!

"A schooner an' a wet deck for me!" thought I. 

And I loved our harbour all the more for that. 

 * * * * *

Thus, our harbour lay, a still, deep basin, in the shelter of threeislands and a cape of the mainland: and we loved it, drear as it was, because we were born there and knew no kinder land; and we boasted it, in all the harbours of the Labrador, because it was a safe place, whatever the gale that blew. 

II

The WORLD From The WATCHMAN

The Watchman was the outermost headland of our coast and a landmark fromafar--a great gray hill on the point of Good Promise by the Gate; ourcraft, running in from the Hook-an'-Line grounds off Raven Rock, roundedthe Watchman and sped thence through the Gate and past Frothy Point intoharbour. It was bold and bare--scoured by the weather--and dripping weton days when the fog hung thick and low. It fell sharply to the sea byway of a weather-beaten cliff, in whose high fissures the gulls, wary ofthe hands of the lads of the place, wisely nested; and within theharbour it rose from Trader's Cove, where, snug under a broken cliff, stood our house and the little shop and storehouse and the broaddrying-flakes and the wharf and fish-stages of my father's business. From the top there was a far, wide outlook--all sea and rock: along theragged, treeless coast, north and south, to the haze wherewith, indistances beyond the ken of lads, it melted; and upon the thirty weewhite houses of our folk, scattered haphazard about the harbour water, each in its own little cove and each with its own little stage and greatflake; and over the barren, swelling rock beyond, to the bluewilderness, lying infinitely far away. 

I shuddered when from the Watchman I looked upon the wilderness. 

"'Tis a dreadful place, " I had heard my father say. "Men starves inthere. "

This I knew to be true, for, once, I had seen the face of a man who camecrawling out. 

"The sea is kinder, " I thought. 

Whether so or not, I was to prove, at least, that the wilderness wascruel. 

 * * * * *

One blue day, when the furthest places on sea and land lay in a thin, still haze, my mother and I went to the Watchman to romp. There wasplace there for a merry gambol, place, even, led by a wiser hand, forroaming and childish adventure--and there were silence and sunlit spaceand sea and distant mists for the weaving of dreams--ay, and, upon raredays, the smoke of the great ships, bound down the Straits--and whendreams had worn the patience there were huge loose rocks handy forrolling over the brow of the cliff--and there was gray moss in thehollows, thick and dry and soft, to sprawl on and rest from the delightsof the day. So the Watchman was a playground for my mother and me--mysister, my elder by seven years, was all the day long tunefully busyabout my father's comfort and the little duties of the house--and, onthat blue day, we climbed the broken cliff behind our house and toiledup the slope beyond in high spirits, and we were very happy together;for my mother was a Boston maid, and, though she turned to rightheartily when there was work to do, she was not like the Labrador born, but thought it no sin to wander and laugh in the sunlight of the headswhen came the blessed opportunity. 

"I'm fair done out, " said I, at last, returning, flushed, from a race toBeacon Rock. 

"Lie here, Davy--ay, but closer yet--and rest, " said she. 

I flung myself at full length beside her, spreading abroad my sturdylittle arms and legs; and I caught her glance, glowing warm and proud, as it ran over me, from toe to crown, and, flashing prouder yet througha gathering mist of tears, returned again. 

"I knows why you're lookin' at me that way, " said I. 

"And why?" said she. 

"'Tis for sheer love o' me!"

She was strangely moved by this. Her hands, passionately clasped of asudden, she laid upon her heart; and she drew a sharp, quiveringbreath. 

"You're getting so--so--strong and--and--so _big_!" she cried. 

"Hut!" said I. "'Tis nothin' t' cry about!"

"Oh, " she sobbed, "I'm _proud_ t' be the mother of a son!"

I started up. 

"I'm that proud, " she went on, hovering now between great joy and pain, "that it--it--fair _hurts_ me!"

"I'll not have you cry!" I protested. 

She caught me in her arms and we broke into merry laughter. Then toplease her I said that I would gather flowers for her hair--and shewould be the stranded mermaid and I the fisherman whom she besought toput her back in the sea and rewarded with three wishes--and I soughtflowers everywhere in the hollows and crevices of the bald old Watchman, where, through years, some soil had gathered, but found only whisps ofwiry grass and one wretched blossom; whereupon I returned to her verywroth. 

"God made a botch o' the world!" I declared. 

She looked up in dismay. 

"Ay, " I repeated, with a stamp of the foot, "a wonderful botch o' theworld He's gone an' made. Why, they's but one flower on the Watchman!"

She looked over the barren land--the great gray waste of naked rock--andsighed. 

"But one?" she asked, softly. 

"An I was God, " I said, indignantly, "I'd have made _more_ flowers an'made un _bigger_. "

She smiled in the way of one dreaming. 

"Hut!" I went on, giving daring wing to my imagination. "I'd have made ahundred kinds an' soil enough t' grow un all--_every one o' the wholehundred!_ I'd have----"

She laid a soft hand on my lips. "'Tis a land, " she whispered, withshining eyes, "that grows rosy lads, and I'm well content!"

"'Tis a poor way, " I continued, disregarding her caress, "t' gather soilin buckets. _I'd_ have made enough t' gather it in _barrows_! I'd havemade lots of it--heaps of it. Why, " I boasted, growing yet morerecklessly prodigal, "I'd have made a _hill_ of it somewheres handy t'every harbour in the world--as big as the Watchman--ay, an' handy t' theharbours, so the folk could take so much as they wanted--t' makepotato-gardens--an'--an' t' make the grave-yards deep enough. 'Tis awonderful poor way, " I concluded with contempt, "t' have t' gather it inbuckets from the rocks!"

My mother was laughing heartily now. 

"'Twould not be a better world, thinks you?" said I. "Ay, but I coulddo better than that! Hut!" I cried, at last utterly abandoned to myimagination, "I'd have more things than potatoes grow in the ground an'more things than berries grow on bushes. _What_ would I have grow in theground, says you? Is you thinkin' I don't _know_? Oh, ay, mum, " Iprotested, somewhat at a loss, but very knowingly, "_I_ knows!" I wasnow getting rapidly beyond my depth; but I plunged bravely on, wonderinglike lightning, the while, what else _could_ grow in the ground and onbushes. "I'd have _flour_ grow in the ground, mum, " I cried, triumphantly, "an' I'd have sea-boots an' sou'westers grow on thebushes. An', ecod!" I continued, inspired, "I'd have fishes grow onbushes, already split an' cleaned!"

What other improvements I would have made on the good Lord's handiwork Ido not know. Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, being on the road to Trader's Covefrom the Rat Hole, where he lived alone with his twin lads, had spied usfrom Needle Rock, and now came puffing up the hill to wish my mothergood-day: which, indeed, all true men of the harbour never failed to do, whenever they came near. He was a short, marvellously broad, bow-leggedold man--but yet straight and full of strength and fine hope--all thewhile dressed in tight white moleskin (much soiled by the slime of theday's work), long skin boots, tied below the knees, and a ragged clothcap, which he kept pulled tight over his bushy grey hair. There was amild twinkle forever lying in the depths of his blue eyes, and thence, at times, overflowing upon his broad brown face, which then rippled withwrinkles, from the roots of his hair to the fringe of white beard underhis chin, in a way at once to make one laugh with him, though one couldnot quite tell why. We lads of the harbour loved him very much, for hisgood-humour and for his tenderness--never more so, however, than when, by night, in the glow of the fire, he told us long tales of the fairiesand wicked elves he had dealt with in his time, twinkling with everyword, so that we were sorely puzzled to know whether to take him in jestor earnest. 

"I've a very bad son, the day, Skipper Tommy, " said my mother, laying afond hand on my head. 

"Have you, now, mum!" cried the skipper, with a wink. "'Tis hard t'believe. He've been huntin' gulls' nests in parlous places on the cliffo' the Watchman, I'm thinkin'. "

"'Tis worse than that. "

"Dear man! Worse than that, says you? Then he've took the punt beyondthe Gate all by hisself. "

"'Tis even worse than that. He's not pleased with the dear Lord'sworld. "

Skipper Tommy stopped dead and stared me in the eye--but not coldly, youmust know; just in mild wonder, in which, it may be, was mixed someadmiration, as though he, too, deep in his guileless old heart, had hadsome doubt which he dared not entertain. 

"Ay, " said I, loftily, "He've not made flowers enough t' suit _my_taste. "

Skipper Tommy rubbed his nose in a meditative way. "Well, " he drawled, "He haven't made many, true enough. I'm not sayin' He mightn't have mademore. But He've done very well. They's enough--oh, ay, they's enough t'get along with. For, look you! lad, they's no real _need_ o' any more. 'Twas wonderful kind of Un, " he went on, swept away by a flood of goodfeeling, as often happened, "t' make even one little flower. Sure, Hedidn't _have_ t' do it. He just went an' done it for love of us. Ay, " herepeated, delighting himself with this new thought of his Lord'sgoodness, "'twas wonderful kind o' the Lard t' take so much trouble asthat!"

My mother was looking deep into Skipper Tommy's eyes as though she sawsome lovely thing therein. 

"Ay, " said I, "'twas fair kind; but I'm wishin' He'd been a bit morefree. "

My mother smiled at that. Then, "And my son, " she said, in the way ofone poking fun, "would have _flour_ grow out of the ground!"

"An' did he say that!" cried Skipper Tommy. 

My mother laughed, and Skipper Tommy laughed uproariously, and loudlyslapped his thick thigh; and I felt woefully foolish, and wondered muchwhat depth of ignorance I had betrayed, but I laughed, too, becauseSkipper Tommy laughed so heartily and opened his great mouth so wide;and we were all very merry for a time. At last, while I wondered, Ithought that, perhaps, flour _did_ grow, after all--though, for the lifeof me, I could not tell how--and that my mother and Skipper Tommy knewit well enough; whereupon I laughed the merrier. 

"Come, look you!" then said Skipper Tommy, gently taking the lobe of myear between his thick, hard thumb and forefinger. "Don't you go thinkin'you could make better worlds than the Lard. Why, lad, 'tis but _play_for _Him_! _He've_ no trouble makin' a world! I'm thinkin' He've mademore than one, " he added, his voice changing to a knowing whisper. "'Tismy own idea, but, " now sagely, "I'm thinkin' He did. 'Tis like that thiswas the first, an' He done better when He got His hand in. Oh, ay, nar adoubt He done better with the rest! But He done wonderful well with thisone. When you're so old as me, lad, you'll know that though the Lardmade few flowers He put a deal o' time an' labour on the harbours; an'when you're beatin' up t' the Gate, lad, in a gale o' wind--an' when youthinks o' the quiet place t'other side o' Frothy Point--you'll know theLard done well by all the folk o' this world when He made safe harboursinstead o' wastin' His time on flowers. Ay, lad, 'tis a wonderful wellbuilt world; an' you'll know it--then!"

We turned homeward--down the long road over the shoulder of theWatchman; for the evening was drawing near. 

"They's times, " said Skipper Tommy, giving his nose a puzzled tweak, "when I wonders how He done it. 'Tis fair beyond me! I wonders a deal, now, mum, " turning to my mother, his face lighting with interest, "aboutthey stars. Now, mum, " smiling wistfully, "I wonders . . . I wonders . . . How He stuck un up there in the sky. Ah, " with a long sigh, "I'd surelike t' know that! An' wouldn't you, mum? Ecod! but I _would_ like t'know that! 'Twould be worth while, I'm thinkin'. I'm wishin' I couldfind out. But, hut!" he cried, with a laugh which yet rang strangely sadin my ears, "'tis none o' my business. 'Twould be a queer thing, indeed, if men went pryin' into the Lard's secrets. He'd fix un, I 'low--He'dsnarl un all up--He'd let un think theirselves wise an' guesstheirselves mad! That's what He'd do. But, now, " falling again into awistful, dreaming whisper, "I wonders . . . Wonders . . . How He _does_stick them stars up there. I'm thinkin' I'll try t' think that out--someday--so people could know, an' wouldn't have t' wonder no more. I--wonders--if I could!"

We walked on in silence--down the last slope, and along the rocky pathto Trader's Cove; and never a word was spoken. When we came to the turnto our house we bade the skipper good-evening. 

"Don't you be forgettin', " he said, tipping up my face with a fingerunder my chin, "that you'll soon be thinkin' more o' harbours than o'flowers. "

I laughed. 

"But, ecod!" he broke out, violently rubbing his nose, until I wasfairly concerned for it, so red did it turn, "that was a wonderful goodidea about the flour!"

My mother looked at him sharply; then her eyes twinkled, and she hid asmile behind her hand. 

"_'Twould_ be a good thing t' have it grow, " the old man continued. "'Twould be far better than--than--well, now--makin' it the way theydoes. Ecod!" he concluded, letting his glance fall in bewilderment onthe ground, "I wonders how they _does_ make flour. I wonders . . . Wonders. . . Where they gets the stuff an'--an'--how they makes it!"

He went off, wondering still; and my mother and I went slowly home, andsat in the broad window of our house, which overlooked the harbour andfronted the flaring western sky; and then first she told me of the kindgreen world beyond. 

III

IN THE HAVEN of HER ARMS

There was a day not far distant--my father had told my mother with atouch of impatience that it _must_ come for all sons--when Skipper Tommytook me with one of the twin lads in the punt to the Hook-an'-Linegrounds to jig, for the traps were doing poorly with the fish, thesummer was wasting and there was nothing for it but to take to hook andline: which my father's dealers heartily did, being anxious to add whatfish they could to the catch, though in this slower way. And it was myfirst time beyond the Gate--and the sea seemed very vast and strange andsullen when we put out at dawn--and when the long day was near done thewind blew gray and angry from the north and spread a thickening mistover the far-off Watchman--and before night closed, all that SkipperTommy had said of harbours and flowers came true in my heart. 

"We'll be havin' t' beat up t' the Gate, " said he, as he hauled in thegrapnel. 

"With all the wind she can carry, " added little Jacky, bending to liftthe mast into the socket. 

In truth, yes--as it seemed to my unknowing mind: she had all the windshe could carry. The wind fretted the black sea until it broke allroundabout; and the punt heeled to the gusts and endlessly flung herbows up to the big waves; and the spray swept over us like driving rain, and was bitter cold; and the mist fell thick and swift upon the coastbeyond. Jacky, forward with the jib-sheet in his capable little fist andthe bail bucket handy, scowled darkly at the gale, being alert as a cat, the while; and the skipper, his mild smile unchanged by all the tumult, kept a hand on the mainsheet and tiller, and a keen, quiet eye on thecanvas and on the vanishing rocks whither we were bound. And forth andback she went, back and forth, again and again, without end--beating upto harbour. 

"Dear man!" said Skipper Tommy, with a glance at the vague black outlineof the Watchman, "but 'tis a fine harbour!"

"'Tis that, " sighed Jacky, wistfully, as a screaming little gust heeledthe punt over; "an'--an'--I wisht we was there!"

Skipper Tommy laughed at his son. 

"I does!" Jacky declared. 

"I--I--I'm not so sure, " I stammered, taking a tighter grip on thegunwale, "but I wisht we was--there--too. "

"You'll be wishin' that often, " said Skipper Tommy, pointedly, "if youlives t' be so old as me. "

We wished it often, indeed, that day--while the wind blustered yet morewildly out of the north and the waves tumbled aboard our staggeringlittle craft and the night came apace over the sea--and we have wishedit often since that old time, have Jacky and I, God knows! I had thecurious sensation of fear, I fancy--though I am loath to call itthat--for the first time in my life; and I was very much relieved when, at dusk, we rounded the looming Watchman, ran through the white watersand thunderous confusion of the Gate, with the breakers leaping high oneither hand, sharply turned Frothy Point and came at last into theripples of Trader's Cove. Glad I was, you may be sure, to find my motherwaiting on my father's wharf, and to be taken by the hand, and to be ledup the path to the house, where there was spread a grand supper of fishand bread, which my sister had long kept waiting; and, after all, to berocked in the broad window, safe in the haven of my mother's arms, whilethe last of the sullen light of day fled into the wilderness and all theworld turned black. 

"You'll be singin' for me, mum, will you not?" I whispered. 

"And what shall I sing, lad?" said she. 

"You knows, mum. "

"I'm not so sure, " said she. "Come, tell me!"

What should she sing? I knew well, at that moment, the assurance myheart wanted: we are a God-fearing people, and I was a child of thatcoast; and I had then first come in from a stormy sea. There is asong----

"'Tis, 'Jesus Saviour Pilot Me, '" I answered. 

"I knew it all the time, " said she; and, "'Jesus, Saviour, pilot me, Over life's tempestuous sea, '"

she sang, very softly--and for me alone--like a sweet whisper in my ear. 

 "'Unknown waves before me roll, Hiding rock and treacherous shoal; Chart and compass came from Thee: Jesus, Saviour, pilot me!'"

"I was thinkin' o' that, mum, when we come through the Gate, " said I. "Sure, I thought Skipper Tommy might miss the Way, an' get t'other sideo' the Tooth, an' get in the Trap, an' go t' wreck on the Murderers, an'----"

"Hush, dear!" she whispered. "Sure, you've no cause to fear when thepilot knows the way. "

The feeling of harbour--of escape and of shelter and brooding peace--wasstrong upon me while we sat rocking in the failing light. I have neversince made harbour--never since come of a sudden from the toil and thefrothy rage of the sea by night or day, but my heart has felt again thepeace of that quiet hour--never once but blessed memory has given meonce again the vision of myself, a little child, lying on my mother'sdear breast, gathered close in her arms, while she rocked and softlysang of the tempestuous sea and a Pilot for the sons of men, stillrocking, rocking, in the broad window of my father's house. I protestthat I love my land, and have from that hour, barren as it is and asbitter the sea that breaks upon it; for I then learned--and stillknow--that it is as though the dear God Himself made harbours with wise, kind hands for such as have business in the wild waters of that coast. And I love my life--and go glad to the day's work--for I have learned, in the course of it and by the life of the man who came to us, thatwhatever the stress and fear of the work to be done there is yet for usall a refuge, which, by way of the heart, they find who seek. 

 * * * * *

And I fell asleep in my mother's arms, and by and by my big father camein and laughed tenderly to find me lying there; and then, as I have beentold, laughing softly still they carried me up and flung me on my bed, flushed and wet and limp with sound slumber, where I lay like a smallsack of flour, while together they pulled off my shoes and stockings andjacket and trousers and little shirt, and bundled me into mynight-dress, and rolled me under the blanket, and tucked me in, andkissed me good-night. 

When my mother's lips touched my cheek I awoke. "Is it you, mama?" Iasked. 

"Ay, " said she; "'tis your mother, lad. "

Her hand went swiftly to my brow, and smoothed back the tousled, wethair. 

"Is you kissed me yet?"

"Oh, ay!" said she. 

"Kiss me again, please, mum, " said I, "for I wants--t' make sure--youdone it. "

She kissed me again, very tenderly; and I sighed and fell asleep, content. 

IV

THE SHADOW

When the mail-boat left our coast to the long isolation of that wintermy mother was even more tender with the scrawny plants in the five redpots on the window-shelf. On gray days, when our house and all the worldlay in the soggy shadow of the fog, she fretted sadly for their health;and she kept feverish watch for a rift in the low, sad sky, and sighedand wished for sunlight. It mystified me to perceive the wistful regardshe bestowed upon the stalks and leaves that thrived the illest--thesoft touches for the yellowing leaves, and, at last, the tear that fell, when, withered beyond hope, they were plucked and cast away--and I askedher why she loved the sick leaves so; and she answered that she knew butwould not tell me why. Many a time, too, at twilight, I surprised hersitting downcast by the window, staring out--and far--not upon the rockand sea of our harbour, but as though through the thickening shadowsinto some other place. 

"What you lookin' at, mum?" I asked her, once. 

"A glory, " she answered. 

"Glory!" said I. "They's no glory out there. The night falls. 'Tis allblack an' cold on the hills. Sure, _I_ sees no glory. "

"'Tis not a glory, but a shadow, " she whispered, "for you!"

Nor was I now ever permitted to see her in disarray, but always, as itseemed to me, fresh from my sister's clever hands, her hair laid smoothand shining, her simple gown starched crisp and sweetly smelling of theironing board; and when I asked her why she was never but thus lovely, she answered, with a smile, that surely it pleased her son to find heralways so: which, indeed, it did. I felt, hence, in some puzzled way, that this display was a design upon me, but to what end I could nottell. And there was an air of sad unquiet in the house: it occurred tomy childish fancy that my mother was like one bound alone upon a longjourney; and once, deep in the night, when I had long lain ill at easein the shadow of this fear, I crept to her door to listen, lest she bealready fled, and I heard her sigh and faintly complain; and then I wentback to bed, very sad that my mother should be ailing, but now sure thatshe would not leave me. 

Next morning my father leaned over our breakfast table and laid hisbroad hand upon my mother's shoulder; whereupon she looked up smiling, as ever she did when that big man caressed her. 

"I'll be havin' the doctor for you, " he said. 

She gave him a swift glance of warning--then turned her wide eyes uponme. 

"Oh, " said my father, "the lad knows you is sick. 'Tis no use tryin' t'keep it from un any more. "

"Ay, " I sobbed, pushing my plate away, for I was of a sudden no longerhungry, "I heared you cryin' las' night. "

My sister came quickly to my side, and wound a soft arm about my neck, and drew my head close to her heart, and kissed me many times; and whenshe had soothed me I looked up and found my mother gloriously glad thatI had cried. 

"'Tis nothing, " then she said, with a rush of tenderness for my grief. "'Tis not hard to bear. 'Tis----"

"Ay, but, " said my father, "I'll be havin' the doctor t' see you. "

My mother pooh-poohed it all. The doctor? For her? Not she! She was notsick enough for _that_!

"I'm bent, " said my father, doggedly, "on havin' that man. "

"David, " cried my mother, "I'll not have you do it!"

"I'll have my way of it, " said my father. "I'm bent on it, an' I'll beput off no longer. 'Tis no use, m'am--nar a bit! The doctor's comin' t'see you. "

"Ah, well!" sighed my mother. 

"Ay, " said my father, "I'll have that man ashore when the mail-boatcomes in the spring. 'Tis well on t' December now, " he went on, "an' itmay be we'll have an early break-up. Sure, if they's westerly winds inthe spring, an' the ice clears away in good season, we'll be havin' themail-boat north in May. Come, now! 'twill not be later than June, I'low. An' I'll have that doctor ashore in a hurry, mark my words, whenthe anchor's down. That I will!"

"'Tis a long time, " said my mother. 

Every morning, thereafter, she said that she was better--alwaysbetter--much, much better. 'Twas wonderful, she said, 'twas fair pastmaking out, indeed, that she should so soon grow into a fine, heartywoman again; and 'twould be an easy matter, said she, for the mail-boatdoctor to cure _her_--when he came. And she was now more discreet withher moods; not once did I catch her brooding alone, though more thanonce I lay in wait in dark corners or peered through the crack in thedoor; and she went smiling about the house, as of old--but yet not as ofold; and I puzzled over the difference, but could not discover it. Moreoften, now, at twilight, she lured me to her lap, where I was neverloath to go, great lad of nine years though I was; and she sat silentwith me, rocking, rocking, while the deeper night came down--and shekissed me so often that I wondered she did not tire of it--and shestroked my brow and cheeks, and touched my eyes, and ran her finger-tipsover my eyebrows and nose and lips, ay, and softly played with mylips--and at times she strained me so hard to her breast that I nearcomplained of the embrace--and I was no more driven off to bed when myeyes grew heavy, but let lie in her arms, while we sat silent, rocking, rocking, until long, long after I had fallen asleep. And once, at theend of a sweet, strange hour, making believe to play, she gently priedmy eyes wide open and looked far into their depths--so deep, so long, sosearchingly, so strangely, that I waxed uneasy under the glance. 

"Wh-wh-what--what you----" I began, inarticulately. 

"What am I looking for?" she interrupted, speaking quickly. 

"Ay, " I whimpered, for I was deeply agitated; "what you lookin' for?"

"For your heart, " said she. 

I did not know what she meant; and I wondered concerning the fancy shehad, but did not ask, for there was that in her voice and eyes that mademe very solemn. 

"'Tis but a child's heart, " she sighed, turning away. "'Tis but like thehearts, " she whispered, "of all children. I cannot tell--I cannot tell, "she sobbed, "and I want--oh, I want so much--to know!"

"Don't cry!" I pleaded, thrown into an agony by her tears, in the way ofall children. 

She sat me back in her lap. "Look in your mother's eyes, lad, " said she, "and say after me this: 'My mother----'"

"'My mother----'" I repeated, very soberly. 

"'Looked upon my heart----'"

"'Looked upon my heart----'" said I. 

"'And found it brave----'"

"'An' found it brave----'"

"'And sweet----'"

"'An' sweet----'"

"'Willing for the day's work----'" said she. 

"'Willing for the day's work----'" I repeated. 

"'And harbouring no shameful hope. '"

"'An' harbouring--no shameful--hope. '"

Again and again she had me say it--until I knew it every word by heart. 

"Ah, " said she, at last, "but you'll forget!"

"No, no!" I cried. "I'll not forget. 'My mother looked upon my heart, '"I rattled, "'an' found it brave an' sweet, willing for the day's workan' harbouring no shameful hope. ' I've not forgot! I've _not_ forgot!"

"He'll forget, " she whispered, but not to me, "like all children. "

But I have not forgotten--I have not forgotten--I have neverforgotten--that when I was a child my mother looked upon my heart andfound it brave and sweet, willing for the day's work and harbouring noshameful hope. 

 * * * * *

The winter fell early and with ominous severity. Our bleak coast wassoon too bitter with wind and frost and snow for the folk to continue intheir poor habitations. They were driven in haste to the snugger inlandtilts, which lay in a huddle at the Lodge, far up Twisted Arm, in theblessed proximity of fire-wood--there to trap and sleep in hardlymitigated misery until the kindlier spring days should once again invitethem to the coast. My father, the only trader on forty miles of ourcoast, as always dealt them salt beef and flour and tea with a freehand, until, at last, the storehouses were swept clean of food, savesufficient for our own wants: his great heart hopeful that the catch ofnext season, and the honest hearts of the folk, and the mysterious favorof the Lord, would all conspire to repay him. And so they departed, bagand baggage, youngsters and dogs; and the waste of our harbour and ofthe infinite roundabout was left white and silent, as of death itself. But we dwelt on in our house under the sheltering Watchman; for myfather, being a small trader, was better off than they--though I wouldnot have you think him of consequence elsewhere--and had builded a stouthouse, double-windowed, lined with felt and wainscotted with canvas, sothat but little frost formed on the walls of the living rooms, and thatonly in the coldest weather. 

"'Tis cozy enough, " said my father, chucking my mother under the chin, "even for a maid a man might cotch up Boston way!"

Presently came Skipper Tommy Lovejoy by rollicking dog-team from theLodge to inquire after my mother's health--to cheer us, it may be, I'mthinking, with his hearty way, his vast hope, his odd fancies, hisruddy, twinkling face. Most we laughed when he described his plan (howseriously conceived there was no knowing) for training whales to serveas tugboats in calms and adverse winds. It appeared, too, that a similarrecital had been trying to the composure of old Tom Tot, of our harbour, who had searched the Bible for seven years to discover therein a goodman of whom it was said that he laughed, and, failing utterly, hadthereupon vowed never again to commit the sin of levity. 

"Sure, I near fetched un, " said Skipper Tommy, gleefully, "with mewhales. I come near makin' Tom Tot break that scandalous vow, zur, indeed I did! He got wonderful purple in the face, an' choked in afearsome way, when I showed un my steerin' gear for the beast's tail, but, as I'm sad t' say, zur, he managed t' keep it in without bustin'. But I'll get un yet, zur--oh, ay, zur--just leave un t' me! Ecod! zur, I'm thinkin' he'll capsize with all hands when I tells un I'm t' have awheel-house on the forward deck o' that wha-a-ale!"

But the old man soon forgot all about his whales, as he had forgotten tomake out the strange way the Lord had discovered to fasten His stars tothe sky; moved by a long contemplation of my mother's frailty, he had anobler inspiration. 

"'Tis sad, lass, " he said, his face aquiver with sympathy, "t' thinkthat we've but one doctor t' cure the sick, an' him on the mail-boat. 'Tis _wonderful_ sad t' think o' that! 'Tis a hard case, " he went on, "but if a man only thunk hard enough he'd find a way t' mend it. Sure, what _ought_ t' be mended _can_ be mended. 'Tis the way o' the world. Ifa man only thinks hard an' thinks sensible, he'll find a way, zur, everytime. 'Tis easy t' think hard, but 'tis sometimes hard, " he added, "t'think t' the point. "

We were silent while he continued lost in deep and puzzled thought. 

"Ecod!" he burst out. "I got it!"

"Have you, now?" cried my father, half amused, half amazed. 

"Just this minute, zur, " said the skipper, in a glow of delightedastonishment. "It come t' me all t' oncet. "

"An' what is it?"

"'Tis a sort o' book, zur!"

"A book?"

"Ay, 'tis just a book. Find out all the cures in the world an' put un ina book. Get the doctor-women's, an' the healers', an' the real doctor's, an' put un right in a book. Has you got the dip-theria? Ask the bookwhat t' do. 'Dip-theria?' says the book t' you. 'Well, that's sad. Tie asplit herring round your neck. ' S'pose you got the salt-water sores. What do you do, then? Why, turn t' the book. 'Oh, 'tis nothin' t' cure_that_, ' says the book. 'Wear a brass chain on your wrist, lad, an'you'll be troubled no more. ' Take it, now, when you got blood-poison inthe hand. What is you t' do, you wants t' know? 'Blood-poison in thehand?' says the book. 'Good gracious, that's awful! Cut off your hand. ''Twould be a wonderful good work, " the skipper concluded, "t' make abook like that!" It appeared to me that it would. 

"I wonder, " the skipper went on, staring at the fire, a little smileplaying upon his face, "if _I_ couldn't do that! 'Twould surely be athing worth doin'. I wonder--I wonder--if I couldn't manage--somehow--t'do it!"

We said nothing; for he was not thinking of us, any more, as weknew--but only dreaming of the new and beneficent work which had of asudden appeared to him. 

"But I isn't able t' write, " he muttered, at last. "I--I--_wisht Icould_!"

"'Twould be a wonderful fine work for a man t' do, " said my father. 

"'Tis a wonder, now, " said Skipper Tommy, looking up with a bright face, "that no one ever thought o' doin' that afore. T' my mind, " he added, much puzzled, "'tis very queer, indeed, that they's nar a man in all theworld t' think o' that--but _me_!"

My mother smiled. 

"I'm thinkin' I'll just _have_ t' try, " Skipper Tommy went on, frowninganxiously. "But, ecod!" he cried, "maybe the Lard wouldn't like it. Now, maybe, He wants us men t' mind our business. Maybe, He'd say, 'You keepyour finger out o' My pie. Don't you go makin' no books about cures. 'But, oh, no!" with the overflow of fine feeling which so often cameupon him. "Why, _He_ wouldn't mind a little thing like that. Sure, Iwouldn't mind it, meself! 'You go right ahead, lad, ' He'd say, 'an' tryt' work your cures. Don't you be afeared o' Me. _I'll_ not mind. But, lad, ' He'd say, 'when I wants my way I just got t' _have_ it. Don't youforget that. Don't you go thinkin' you can have _your_ way afore I has_Mine_. You just trust Me t' do what's right. I know My business. I'm_used_ t' running worlds. I'm wonderful sorry, ' He'd say, 't' have t'make you feel bad; but they's times, b'y, ' He'd say, 'when I really_got_ t' have My way. ' Oh, no, " Skipper Tommy concluded, "the Lardwouldn't mind a poor man's tryin' t' make a book like that! An' I thinksI'll just _have_ t' try. "

"Sure, Skipper Tommy, " said I, "I'll help you. "

Skipper Tommy stared at me in great amaze. 

"Ay, " said my mother, "Davy has learned to write. "

"That I have, " I boasted; "an' I'll help you make that book. "

"'Tis the same, " cried Skipper Tommy, slapping his thigh "as if 'twaswrit already!"

 * * * * *

After a long time, my mother spoke. "You're always wanting to do somegood thing, Skipper Tommy, are you not?" said she. 

"Well, " he admitted, his face falling, "I thinks and wonders a deal, 'tis true, but somehow I don't seem t'----"

"Ay?" my father asked. 

"Get--nowhere--much!"

Very true: but, even then, there was a man on the way to help him. 

V

MARY

In the dead of winter, great storms of wind and snow raged for daystogether, so that it was unsafe to venture ten fathoms from the door, and the glass fell to fifty degrees (and more) below zero, where theliquid behaved in a fashion so sluggish that 'twould not have surprisedus had it withdrawn into the bulb altogether, never to reappear in asphere of agreeable activity. By night and day we kept the fires roaring(my father and Skipper Tommy standing watch and watch in the night) andmight have gone at ease, cold as it was, had we not been haunted by thefear that a conflagration, despite our watchfulness, would of a suddenput us at the mercy of the weather, which would have made an end of us, every one, in a night. But when the skipper had wrought us into acheerful mood, the wild, white days sped swift enough--so fast, indeed, that it was quite beyond me to keep count of them: for he was marvellousat devising adventures out-of-doors and pastimes within. At length, however, he said that he must be off to the Lodge, else Jacky andTimmie, the twins, who had been left to fend for themselves, wouldexpire of longing for his return. 

"An' I'll be takin' Davy back with me, mum, " said he to my mother, notdaring, however, to meet her eye to eye with the proposal, "for thetwins is wantin' him sore. "

"Davy!" cried my mother. "Surely, Skipper Tommy, you're not thinking tohave Davy back with you!"

Skipper Tommy ventured to maintain that I would be the better of a runin the woods, which would (as he ingeniously intimated) restore theblood to my cheeks: whereupon my mother came at once to his way ofthinking, and would hear of no delay, but said--and that in a fever ofanxiety--that I must be off in the morning, for she would not rest untilI was put in the way of having healthful sport with lads of my age. So, that night, my sister made up three weeks' rations for me from our store(with something extra in the way of tinned beef and a pot of jam as agift from me to the twins); also, she mended my sleeping-bag, in whichmy sprouting legs had kicked a hole, and got out the big black wolfskin, for bed covering in case of need. And by the first light of the next daywe loaded the komatik, harnessed the joyful dogs and set out with arush, the skipper's long whip cracking a jolly farewell as we wentswinging over the frozen harbour to the Arm. 

"Hi, hi, b'y!" the skipper shouted to the dogs. 

Crack! went the whip, high over the heads of the pack. The dogs yelped. "Hi, hi!" screamed I. And on we sped, raising a dust of crisp snow inour wake. It was a famous pack. Fox, the new leader, was a mighty, indomitable fellow, and old Wolf, in the rear, had a sharp eye forlagging heels, which he snapped, in a flash, whenever a trace was letslack. What with Fox and Wolf and the skipper's long whip and my criesof encouragement there was no let up. On we went, coursing over thelevel stretches, bumping over rough places, swerving 'round the turns. It was a glorious ride. The day was clear, the air frosty, the paceexhilarating. The blood tingled in every part of me. I was sorry when werounded Pipestem Point, and the huddled tilts of the Lodge, half buriedin snow, came into view. But, half an hour later, in Skipper Tommy'stilt, I was glad that the distance had been no greater, for then thetwins were helping me thaw out my cheeks and the tip of my nose, whichhad been frozen on the way. 

That night the twins and I slept together in the cock-loft like a litterof puppies. 

"Beef!" sighed Jacky, the last thing before falling asleep. "Think o'that, Timmie!"

"An' jam!" said Timmie. 

They gave me a nudge to waken me. "Thanks, Davy, " said they both. 

Then I fell asleep. 

 * * * * *

Our folk slept a great deal at the Lodge. They seemed to want to havethe winter pass without knowing more than they could help of the variouspangs of it--like the bears. But, when the weather permitted them tostir without, they trapped for fox and lynx, and hunted (to smallpurpose) with antiquated guns, and cut wood, if they were in the humour;and whatever necessity compelled them to do, and whatever they had toeat (since there was at least enough of it), they managed to have arollicking time of it, as you would not suppose, without being told. Thetilts were built of slim logs, caulked with moss; and there was but oneroom--and that a bare one--with bunks at one end for the women and acock-loft above for the men. The stove was kept at red heat, day andnight, but, notwithstanding, there was half an inch of frost on thewalls and great icicles under the bunks: extremes of temperature werethus to be found within a very narrow compass. In the evening, when wewere all gathered close about the stove, we passed the jolliest hours;for it was then that the folk came in, and tales were told, and (whatwas even more to our taste) the "spurts at religion" occurred. 

When the argument concerned the pains of hell, Mary, Tom Tot's daughter, who was already bound out to service to the new manager of the store atWayfarer's Tickle (expected by the first mail-boat), would slip softlyin to listen. 

"What you thinkin' about?" I whispered, once. 

She sat remote from the company, biting her finger nails, staring, meanwhile, from speaker to speaker, with eyes that were pitifully eager. 

"Hell, " she answered. 

I was taken aback by that. "Hell, Mary?" I exclaimed. 

"Ay, Davy, " she said, with a shudder, "I'm thinkin' about hell. "

"What for?" said I. "Sure, 'twill do you no good to think about hell. "

"I got to, " said she. "I'm goin' there!"

Skipper Tommy explained, when the folk had gone, that Mary, being oncein a south port of our coast, had chanced to hear a travelling parsonpreach a sermon. "An', " said he, "'tis too bad that young man preachedabout damnation, for 'tis the only sermon she ever heared, an' she isn'tseemin' t' get over it. " After that I tried to persuade Mary that shewould not go to hell, but quite dismally failed--and not only failed, but was soon thinking that I, too, was bound that way. When I expressedthis fear, Mary took a great fancy to me, and set me to getting fromSkipper Tommy a description of the particular tortures, as he conceivedthey were to be inflicted; for, said she, he was a holy man, and couldtell what she so much wished to know. Skipper Tommy took me on his knee, and spoke long and tenderly to me, so that I have never since feareddeath or hell; but his words, being repeated, had no effect upon Mary, who continued still to believe that the unhappy fate awaited her, because of some sin she was predestined to commit, or, if not that, because of her weight of original sin. 

"Oh, Davy, I got t' go!" she moaned, tearing one of her nails to thequick. 

"No, no!" I cried. "The Lard 'll never be so mean t' you. "

"You don't know Him, " she said, mysteriously. "You don't know what He'sup to. "

"Bother Him!" I exclaimed, angered that mortals should thus be mademiserable by interference. "I wisht He'd leave us be!"

"Hush!" she said, horrified. 

"What's He gone an' done, now?" I demanded. 

"He've not elected me, " she whispered, solemnly. "He've left _me_ withthe goats. "

And so, happily, I accumulated another grudge against this misconceptionof the dear Lord, which Skipper Tommy's sweet philosophy and the jollycompanionship of the twins could not eliminate for many days. Buteventually the fresh air and laughter and tenderness restored mycomplacency. I forgot all about hell; 'twas more interesting to don myracquets and make the round of the fox traps with the twins, or to playpranks on the neighbours, or to fashion curious masques and go mummeringfrom tilt to tilt. In the end, I emerged from the unfortunate mood withone firm conviction, founded largely, I fear, upon a picture which hungby my bed at home: that portraying a rising from the dead, the gravebelow, a golden, cloudy heaven above, wherefrom a winged angel haddescended to take the hand of the free, enraptured soul. And myconviction was this, that, come what might to the souls of the wicked, the souls of the good were upon death robed in white and borne aloft tosome great bliss, yet lingered, by the way, to throw back a tenderglance. 

I had never seen death come. 

 * * * * *

In three weeks my rations were exhausted, and, since it would have beenungenerous in me to consume Skipper Tommy's food, I had the old manharness the dogs and take me home. My only regret was that my food didnot last until Skipper Tommy had managed to make Tom Tot laugh. Many anight the old man had tried to no purpose, for Tom Tot would stare himstolidly in the eye, however preposterous the tale to be told. The twinsand I had waited in vain--ready to explode at the right moment: butnever having the opportunity. The last assault on Tom Tot's composurehad been disastrous to the skipper. When, with highly elaborate detail, he had once more described his plan for training whales, disclosing, atlast, his intention of having a wheel-house on what he called theforward deck----

"What about the fo'c's'le?" Tom Tot solemnly asked. 

"Eh?" gasped the skipper. "Fo'c's'le?"

"Ay, " said Tom Tot, in a melancholy drawl. "Isn't you give a thought t'the crew?"

Skipper Tommy was nonplussed. 

"Well, " sighed Tom, "I s'pose you'll be havin' t' fit up Jonah'squarters for them poor men!"

 * * * * *

At home, in the evening, while my mother and father and sister and Iwere together in the glow of the fire, we delighted to plan theentertainment of the doctor who was coming to cure my mother. He musthave the armchair from the best room below, my mother said, that hemight sit in comfort, as all doctors should, while he felt her pulse; hemust have a refreshing nip from the famous bottle of Jamaica rum, whichhad lain in untroubled seclusion since before I was born, waiting someoccasion of vast importance; and he must surely not take her unaware ina slatternly moment, but must find her lying on the pillows, wearing herprettiest nightgown, which was thereupon newly washed and ironed andstowed away in the bottom drawer of the bureau against his unexpectedcoming. But while the snow melted from the hills, and the folk returnedto the coast for the seal fishing, and the west winds carried the ice tosea, and we waited day by day for the mail-boat, our spirits fell, formy mother was then fast failing. And I discovered this strangecircumstance: that while her strength withered, her hope grew large, andshe loved to dwell upon the things she would do when the doctor had madeher well; and I wondered why that was, but puzzled to no purpose. 

VI

The MAN on The MAIL-BOAT

It was in the dusk of a wet night of early June, with the sea in atumble and the wind blowing fretfully from the west of north, that themail-boat made our harbour. For three weeks we had kept watch for her, but in the end we were caught unready--the lookouts in from theWatchman, my father's crew gone home, ourselves at evening prayer in theroom where my mother lay abed. My father stopped dead in his petitionwhen the first hoarse, muffled blast of the whistle came uncertain fromthe sea, and my own heart fluttered and stood still, until, rising abovethe rush of the wind and the noise of the rain upon the panes, thesecond blast broke the silence within. Then with a shaking cry of "LordGod, 'tis she!" my father leaped from his knees, ran for his sea-bootsand oilskins, and shouted from below for my sister to make ready hislantern. But, indeed, he had to get his lantern for himself; for mymother, who was now in a flush of excitement, speaking high andincoherently, would have my sister stay with her to make ready for thecoming of the doctor--to dress her hair, and tidy the room, and lay outthe best coverlet, and help on with the dainty nightgown. 

"Ay, mother, " my sister said, laughing, to quiet her, "I'll not leaveyou. Sure, my father's old enough t' get his own lantern ready. "

"The doctor's come!" I shouted, contributing a lad's share to theexcitement. "He've come! Hooray! He've come!"

"Quick, Bessie!" cried my mother. "He'll be here before we know it. Andmy hair is in a fearful tangle. The looking-glass, lassie----"

I left them in the thick of this housewifely agitation. Donning my smalloilskins, as best as I could without my kind sister's help--and I shedimpatient tears over the stiff button-holes, which my fingers would notmanage--I stumbled down the path to the wharf, my exuberant joyescaping, the while, in loud halloos. There I learned that the mail-boatlay at anchor off the Gate, and, as it appeared, would not come in fromthe sea, but would presently be off to Wayfarer's Tickle, to the north, where she would harbour for the night. The lanterns were shiningcheerily in the dark of the wharf; and my father was speeding the menwho were to take the great skiff out for the spring freight--barrels offlour and pork and the like--and roundly berating them, every one, in away which surprised them into unwonted activity. Perceiving that myfather's temper and this mad bustle were to be kept clear of by wiselads, I slipped into my father's punt, which lay waiting by thewharf-stairs; and there, when the skiff was at last got underway, I wasfound by my father and Skipper Tommy Lovejoy. 

"Ashore with you, Davy, lad!" said my father. "There'll be no room forthe doctor. He'll be wantin' the stern seat for hisself. "

"Leave the boy bide where he is, " Skipper Tommy put in. "Sure, he'll dono harm, an'--an'--why, zur, " as if that were sufficient, "he's_wantin_' t' go!"

I kept silent--knowing well enough that Skipper Tommy was the man tohelp a lad to his desire. 

"Ay, " said my father, "but I'm wantin' the doctor t' be comfortable whenhe comes ashore. "

"He'll be comfortable enough, zur. The lad'll sit in the bow an' trimthe boat. Pass the lantern t' Davy, zur, an' come aboard. "

My father continued to grumble his concern for the doctor's comfort; buthe leaned over to pat my shoulder while Skipper Tommy pushed off: for heloved his little son, did my big father--oh, ay, indeed, he did! We weresoon past the lumbering skiff--and beyond Frothy Point--and out of theGate--and in the open sea, where the wind was blowing smartly and therain was flying in gusts. My father hailed the steamer's small-boat, inbound with the mail, to know if the doctor was in verity aboard; andthe answer, though but half caught, was such that they bent heartily tothe oars, and the punt gave a great leap and went staggering through thebig waves in a way to delight one's very soul. Thus, in haste, we drewnear the steamer, which lay tossing ponderously in the ground-swell, herengines panting, her lamps bright, her many lights shining fromport-hole and deck--all so cozy and secure in the dirty night: sostrange to our bleak coast!

At the head of the ladder the purser stood waiting to know about landingthe freight. 

"Is you goin' on?" my father asked. 

"Ay--t' Wayfarer's Tickle, when we load your skiff. "

"'Twill be alongside in a trice. But my wife's sick. I'm wantin' t' takethe doctor ashore. "

"He's aft in the smokin'-room. You'd best speak t' the captain first. Hold her? Oh, sure, _he'll_ hold her all night, for sickness!"

They moved off forward. Then Skipper Tommy took my hand--or, rather, Itook his; for I was made ill at ease by the great, wet sweep of thedeck, glistening with reflections of bright lights, and by the throngof strange men, and by the hiss of steam and the clank of iron comingfrom the mysterious depths below. He would show me the cabin, said he, where there was unexampled splendour to delight in; but when we came toa little house on the after deck, where men were lounging in a thick fogof tobacco smoke, I would go no further (though Skipper Tommy said thatwords were spoken not meet for the ears of lads to hear); for myinterest was caught by a giant pup, which was not like the pups of ourharbour but a lean, long-limbed, short-haired dog, with heavy jaws andsagging, blood-red eyelids. At a round table, whereon there lay a shortdog-whip, his master sat at cards with a stout little man in apea-jacket--a loose-lipped, blear-eyed, flabby little fellow, but, withal, hearty in his own way--and himself cut a curious figure, beinggrotesquely ill-featured and ill-fashioned, so that one rebelled againstthe sight of him. 

A gust of rain beat viciously upon the windows and the wind ran swishingpast. 

"'Tis a dirty night, " said the dog's master, shuffling nervously in hisseat. 

At this the dog lifted his head with a sharp snarl: whereupon, in aflash, the man struck him on the snout with the butt of the whip. 

"That's for you!" he growled. 

The dog regarded him sullenly--his upper lip still lifted from histeeth. 

"Eh?" the man taunted. "Will you have another?"

The dog's head subsided upon his paws; but his eyes never once left hismaster's face--and the eyes were alert, steady, hard as steel. 

"You're l'arnin', " the man drawled. 

But the dog had learned no submission, but, if anything, only craft, aseven I, a child, could perceive; and I marvelled that the man couldconceive himself to be winning the mastery of that splendid brute. 'Twasno way to treat a dog of that disposition. It had been a wantonblow--taken with not so much as a whimper. Mastery? Hut! The beast wasbut biding his time. And I wished him well in the issue. "Ecod!" thoughtI, with heat. "I hopes he gets a good grip o' the throat!" Whether ornot, at the last, it was the throat, I do not know; but I do know thebrutal tragedy of that man's end, for, soon, he came rough-shod into ourquiet life, and there came a time when I was hot on his trail, andrejoiced, deep in the wilderness, to see the snow all trampled and gory. But the telling of that is for a later page; the man had small part inthe scene immediately approaching: it was another. When the wind andrain again beat angrily upon the ship, his look of triumph at once gaveplace to cowardly concern; and he repeated:

"'Tis a dirty night. "

"Ay, " said the other, and, frowning, spread his cards before him. "Whatdo you make, Jagger?"

My father came in--and with him a breath of wet, cool air, which Icaught with delight. 

"Ha!" he cried, heartily, advancing upon the flabby little man, "we beenwaitin' a long time for _you_, doctor. Thank God, you've come, at last!"

"Fifteen, two----" said the doctor. 

My father started. "I'm wantin' you t' take a look at my poor wife, " hewent on, renewing his heartiness with an effort. "She've been wonderfulsick all winter, an' we been waitin'----"

"Fifteen, four, " said the doctor; "fifteen, six----"

"Doctor, " my father said, touching the man on the shoulder, while Jaggersmiled some faint amusement, "does you hear?"

It was suddenly very quiet in the cabin. 

"Fifteen, eight----" said the doctor. 

My father's voice changed ominously. "Is you listenin', zur?" he asked. 

"Sick, is she?" said the doctor. "Fifteen, ten. I've got you, Jagger, sure . . . 'Tis no fit night for a man to go ashore . . . Fifteen, ten, didI say? and one for his nibs . . . Go fetch her aboard, man . . . And twofor his heels----"

My father laid his hand over the doctor's cards. "Was you sayin', " heasked, "t' fetch her aboard?"

"The doctor struck the hand away. 

"Was you sayin', " my father quietly persisted, "t' fetch her aboard?"

I knew my father for a man of temper; and, now, I wondered that hispatience lasted. 

"Damme!" the doctor burst out. "Think I'm going ashore in this weather?If you want me to see her now, go fetch her aboard. "

My father coughed--then fingered the neck-band of his shirt. 

"I wants t' get this here clear in my mind, " he said, slowly. "Is youaskin' me t' fetch that sick woman aboard this here ship?"

The doctor leaned over the table to spit. 

"Has I got it right, zur?"

In the pause the spectators softly withdrew to the further end of thecabin. 

"If he won't fetch her aboard, Jagger, " said the doctor, turning to thedog's master, "she'll do very well, I'll be bound, till we get back fromthe north. Eh, Jagger? If he cared very much, he'd fetch her aboard, wouldn't he?"

Jagger laughed. 

"Ay, she'll do very well, " the doctor repeated, now addressing myfather, "till we get back. I'll take a look at her then. "

I saw the color rush into my father's face. Skipper Tommy laid arestraining hand on his shoulder. 

"Easy, now, Skipper David!" he muttered. 

"Is I right, " said my father, bending close to the doctor's face, "inthinkin' you says you _won't_ come ashore?"

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. 

"Is I right, " pursued my father, his voice rising, "in thinkin' thegov'ment pays you t' tend the sick o' this coast?"

"That's my business, " flashed the doctor. "That's my business, sir!"

Jagger looked upon my father's angry face and smiled. 

"Is we right, doctor, " said Skipper Tommy, "in thinkin' you knows shelies desperate sick?"

"Damme!" cried the doctor. "I've heard that tale before. You're a prettyset, you are, to try to play on a man's feelings like that. But youcan't take _me_ in. No, you can't, " he repeated, his loose under-liptrembling. "You're a pretty set, you are. But you can't come it over me. Don't you go blustering, now! You can't come your bluster on me. Understand? You try any bluster on me, and, by heaven! I'll let everyman of your harbour die in his tracks. I'm the doctor, here, I want youto know. And I'll not go ashore in weather like this. "

My father deliberately turned to wave Skipper Tommy and me out of theway: then laid a heavy hand on the doctor's shoulder. 

"You'll not come?"

"Damned if I will!"

"By God!" roared my father. "I'll take you!"

At once, the doctor sought to evade my father's grasp, but could not, and, being unwise, struck him on the breast. My father felled him. Theman lay in a flabby heap under the table, roaring lustily that he wasbeing murdered; but so little sympathy did his plight extract, that, onthe contrary, every man within happy reach, save Jagger and SkipperTommy, gave him a hearty kick, taking no pains, it appeared, to choosethe spot with mercy. As for Jagger, he had snatched up his whip, and wasnow raining blows on the muzzle of the dog, which had taken advantage ofthe uproar to fly at his legs. In this confusion, the Captain flung openthe door and strode in. He was in a fuming rage; but, being no man totake sides in a quarrel, sought no explanation, but took my father bythe arm and hurried him without, promising him redress, the while, atanother time. Thus presently we found ourselves once more in myfather's punt, pushing out from the side of the steamer, which wasalready underway, chugging noisily. 

"Hush, zur!" said Skipper Tommy to my father. "Curse him no more, zur. The good Lard, who made us, made him, also. "

My father cursed the harder. 

"Stop, " cried the skipper, "or I'll be cursin' him, too, zur. God madethat man, I tells you. He _must_ have gone an' made that man. "

"I hopes He'll damn him, then, " said I. 

"God knowed what He was doin' when he made that man, " the skipperpersisted, continuing in faith against his will. "I tells you I'll _not_doubt His wisdom. He made that man . . . He made that man . . . He made thatman. . . . "

To this refrain we rowed into harbour. 

 * * * * *

We found my mother's room made very neat, and very grand, too, Ithought, with the shaded lamp and the great armchair from the best-roombelow; and my mother, now composed, but yet flushed with expectation, was raised on many snow-white pillows, lovely in the fine gown, with onethin hand, wherein she held a red geranium, lying placid on thecoverlet. 

"I am ready, David, " she said to my father. 

There was the sound of footsteps in the hall below. It was SkipperTommy, as I knew. 

"Is that he?" asked my mother. "Bring him up, David. I am quite ready. "

My father still stood silent and awkward by the door of the room. 

"David, " said my poor mother, her voice breaking with sudden alarm, "have you been talking much with him? What has he told you, David? I'mnot so very sick, am I?"

"Well, lass, " said my father, "'tis a great season for all sorts o'sickness--an' the doctor is sick abed hisself--an' he--couldn't--come. "

"Poor man!" sighed my mother. "But he'll come ashore on the south'ardtrip. "

"No, lass--no; I fear he'll not. "

"Poor man!"

My mother turned her face from us. She trembled, once, and sighed, andthen lay very quiet. I knew in my childish way that her hope had fledwith ours--that, now, remote from our love and comfort-alone--allalone--she had been brought face to face with the last dread prospect. There was the noise of rain on the panes and wind without, and the heavytread of Skipper Tommy's feet, coming up the stair, but no other sound. But Skipper Tommy, entering now, moved a chair to my mother's bedside, and laid a hand on hers, his old face illumined by his unfailing faithin the glory and wisdom of his God. 

"Hush!" he said. "Don't you go gettin' scared lass. Don't you go gettin'scared at--the thing that's comin'--t' you. 'Tis nothin' t' fear, " hewent on, gloriously confident. "'Tis not hard, I'm sure--the Lard's tookind for that. He just lets us think it is, so He can give us a lovelysurprise, when the time comes. Oh, no, 'tis not _hard_! 'Tis but likewakin' up from a troubled dream. 'Tis like wakin' t' the sunlight of anew, clear day. Ah, 'tis a pity us all can't wake with you t' the beautyo' the morning! But the dear Lard is kind. There comes an end t' all thedreamin'. He takes our hand. 'The day is broke, ' says He. 'Dream nomore, but rise, child o' Mine, an' come into the sunshine with Me. ' 'Tisonly that that's comin' t' you--only His gentle touch--an' the waking. Hush! Don't you go gettin' scared. 'Tis a lovely thing--that's comin' t'you!"

"I'm not afraid, " my mother whispered, turning. "I'm not afraid, SkipperTommy. But I'm sad--oh I'm sad--to have to leave----"

She looked tenderly upon me. 

VII

The WOMAN from WOLF COVE

My mother lay thus abandoned for seven days. It was very still andsolemn in the room--and there was a hush in all the house; and there wasa mystery, which even the break of day could not dissolve, and a shadow, which the streaming sunlight could not drive away. Beyond the broadwindow of her room, the hills of Skull Island and God's Warning stoodyellow in the spring sunshine, rivulets dripping from the ragged patchesof snow which yet lingered in the hollows; and the harbour water rippledunder balmy, fragrant winds from the wilderness; and workaday voices, strangely unchanged by the solemn change upon our days, came drifting upthe hill from my father's wharves; and, ay, indeed, all the world of seaand land was warm and wakeful and light of heart, just as it used to be. But within, where were the shadow and the mystery, we walked on tiptoeand spoke in whispers, lest we offend the spirit which had entered in. 

 * * * * *

By day my father was occupied with the men of the place, who were thenanxiously fitting out for the fishing season, which had come of a suddenwith the news of a fine sign at Battle Harbour. But my mother did notmind, but, rather, smiled, and was content to know that he was about hisbusiness--as men must be, whatever may come to pass in the house--andthat he was useful to the folk of our harbour, whom she loved. And mydear sister--whose heart and hands God fashioned with kind purpose--gavefull measure of tenderness for both; and my mother was grateful forthat, as she ever was for my sister's loving kindness to her and to meand to us all. 

One night, being overwrought by sorrow, it may be, my father said thathe would have the doctor-woman from Wolf Cove to help my mother. 

"For, " said he, "I been thinkin' a deal about she, o' late, an' they'sno tellin' that she wouldn't do you good. "

My mother raised her eyebrows. "The doctor-woman!" cried she. "Why, David!"

"Ay, " said my father, looking away, "I s'pose 'tis great folly in me t'think it. But they isn't no one else t' turn to. "

And that was unanswerable. 

"There seems to be no one else, " my mother admitted. "But, David--thedoctor-woman?"

"They _does_ work cures, " my father pursued. "I'm not knowin' _how_they does; but they does, an' that's all I'm sayin'. Tim Budderly o' theArm told me--an' 'twas but an hour ago--that she charmed un free o'fits. "

"I have heard, " my mother mused, "that they work cures. And if----"

"They's no knowin' what she can do, " my father broke in, my mother nowlistening eagerly. "An' I just wish you'd leave me go fetch her. Won'tyou, lass? Come, now!"

"'Tis no use, David, " said my mother. "She couldn't do anything--forme. "

"Ay, but, " my father persisted, "you're forgettin' that she've workedcures afore this. I'm fair believin', " he added with conviction, "thatthey's virtue in some o' they charms. Not in many, maybe, but in some. An' she might work a cure on you. I'm not sayin' she will. I'm onlysayin' she might. "

My mother stared long at the white washed rafters overhead. "Oh, " shesighed, plucking at the coverlet, "if only she could!"

"She might, " said my father. "They's no tellin' till you've tried. "

"'Tis true, David, " my mother whispered, still fingering the coverlet. "God works in strange ways--and we've no one else in this land to helpus--and, perhaps, He might----"

My father was quick to press his advantage. "Ay, " he cried, "'tis very_likely_ she'll cure you. "

"David, " said my mother, tearing at the coverlet, "let us have her overto see me. She might do me good, " she ran on, eagerly. "She might atleast tell me what I'm ailing of. She might stop the pain. She mighteven----"

"Hush!" my father interrupted, softly. "Don't build on it, dear, " saidhe, who had himself, but a moment gone, been so eager and confident. "But we'll try what she can do. "

"Ay, dear, " my mother whispered, in a voice grown very weak, "we'lltry. "

 * * * * *

Skipper Tommy Lovejoy would have my father leave _him_ fetch the womanfrom Wolf Cove, nor, to my father's impatient surprise, would hear ofany other; and he tipped me a happy wink--which had also a glint ofmystery in it--when my father said that he might: whereby I knew thatthe old fellow was about the business of the book. And three days later, being on the lookout at the window of my mother's room, I beheld thepunt come back by way of North Tickle, Skipper Tommy labouring heavilyat the oars, and the woman, squatted in the stern, serenely managing thesail to make the best of a capful of wind. I marvelled that the puntshould make headway so poor in the quiet water--and that she should beso much by the stern--and that Skipper Tommy should be bent neardouble--until, by and by, the doctor-woman came waddling up the path, the skipper at her heels: whereupon I marvelled no more, for the reasonwas quite plain. 

"Ecod! lad, " the skipper whispered, taking me aside, the while wipingthe sweat from his red face with his hand; "but she'll weigh fivequintal if a pound! She's e-_nar_-mous! 'Twould break your heart t' pull_that_ cargo from Wolf Cove. But I managed it, lad, " with a solemn wink, "for the good o' the cause. Hist! now; but I found out a wonderfullot--about cures!"

Indeed, she was of a bulk most extraordinary; and she was rolling infat, above and below, though it was springtime! 'Twas a wonder to me, with our folk not yet fattened by the more generous diet of the season, that she had managed to preserve her great double chin through thewinter. It may be that this unfathomable circumstance first put me inawe of her; but I am inclined to think, after all, that it was her eyes, which were not like the eyes of our folk, but were brown--dog's eyes, wecall them on our coast, for we are a blue-eyed race--and upon occasionflashed like lightning. So much weight did she carry forward, too, thatI fancied (and still believe) she would have toppled over had she notlong ago learned to outwit nature in the matter of maintaining abalance. And an odd figure she cut, as you may be sure! For she wasdressed somewhat in the fashion of men, with a cloth cap, rustypea-jacket and sea-boots (the last, for some mysterious reason, beingslit up the sides, as a brief skirt disclosed); and her grizzled hairwas cut short, in the manner of men, but yet with some of the coquetryof women. In truth, as we soon found it was her boast that she was theequal of men, her complaint that the foolish way of the world (which shesaid had gone all askew) would not let her skipper a schooner, which, asshe maintained in a deep bass voice, she was more capable of doing thanmost men. 

"I make no doubt o' that, mum, " said Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, to whom, inthe kitchen, that night, she propounded her strange philosophy; "but yousee, mum, '_tis_ the way o' the world, an' folks just _will_ stick t'their idees, an', mum, " he went on, with a propitiating smile, "as youis only a woman, why----"

"_Only_ a woman!" she roared, sitting up with a jerk. "Does you say----"

"Why, ay, mum!" Skipper Tommy put in, mildly. "You _isn't_ a man, isyou?"

She sat dumb and transfixed. 

"Well, then, " said Skipper Tommy, in a mildly argumentative way, "'tisas I says. You must do as the women does, an' not as a man might wantto----"

"Mm-a-an!" she mocked, in a way that withered the poor skipper. "No, Iisn't a man! Was you hearin' me _say_ I was? Oh, you _wasn't_, wasn'tyou? An' is you thinkin' I'd _be_ a man an I could? What!" she roared. "You isn't _sure_ about that, isn't you? Oh, my! Isn't you! Well, well!He isn't _sure_, " appealing to me, with a shaking under lip. "Oh, my!There's a man--_he's_ a man for you--there's a _man_--puttin' a poorwoman t' scorn! Oh, my!" she wailed, bursting into tears, as all womenwill, when put to the need of it. "Oh, dear!"

Skipper Tommy was vastly concerned for her. "My poor woman, " he began, "don't you be cryin', now. Come, now----"

"Oh, his _poor_ woman, " she interrupted, bitingly. "_His_ poor woman!Oh, my! An' I s'pose you thinks 'tis the poor woman's place t' work inthe splittin' stage an' not on the deck of a fore-an'-after. You does, does you? Ay, 'tis what I _s'posed_!" she said, with scorn. "An' if_you_ married _me_, " she continued, transfixing the terrified skipperwith a fat forefinger, "I s'pose you'd be wantin' me t' split the fishyou cotched. Oh, you would, would you? Oh, my! But I'll have you t'know, Skipper Thomas Lovejoy, " with a sudden and alarming change ofvoice, "that I've the makin's of a better ship's-master than _you_. An'by the Lord Harry! I'm a better _man_, " saying which, she leaped fromher chair with surprising agility, and began to roll up her sleeves, "an' I'll prove it on your wisage! Come on with you!" she cried, striking a belligerent attitude, her fists waving in a fashion mostterrifying. "Come on an you dare!"

Skipper Tommy dodged behind the table in great haste and horror. 

"Oh, dear!" cried she. "He won't! Oh, my! _There's_ a man for you. An'I'm but a woman, is I. His poor woman. Oh, _his_ woman! Look you here, Skipper Thomas Lovejoy, you been stickin' wonderful close alongside o'me since you come t' Wolf Cove, an' I'm not quite knowin' what tricksyou've in mind. But I'm thinkin' you're like all the men, an' I'll haveyou t' know this, that if 'tis marriage with me you're thinkin' on----"

But Skipper Tommy gasped and wildly fled. 

"Ha!" she snorted, triumphantly. "I was _thinkin_' I was a better manthan he!"

"'Tis a shame, " said I, "t' scare un so!"

Whereat, without uttering a sound, she laughed until the china clinkedand rattled on the shelves, and I thought the pots and pans would comeclattering from their places. And then she strutted the floor for allthe world like a rooster once I saw in the South. 

VIII

THE BLIND and The BLIND

Ah, well! at once she set about the cure of my mother. And she wenttripping about the house--and tripping she went, believe me, stout asshe was, as lightsome as one of Skipper Tommy's fairies--with a mannerso large and confident, a glance so compelling, that 'twas beyond us todoubt her power or slight her commands. First of all she told my mother, repeating it with patience and persuasive insistence, that she would bewell in six days, and must believe the words true, else she would neverbe well, at all. And when my mother had brightened with this new hope, the woman, muttering words without meaning, hung a curious brown objectabout her neck, which she said had come from a holy place and possesseda strange and powerful virtue for healing. My mother fondled it, withglistening eyes and very tenderly, and, when the doctor-woman had goneout, whispered to me that it was a horse-chestnut, and put her in mindof the days when she dwelt in Boston, a little maid. 

"But 'tis not healin' you, " I protested, touching a tear which hadsettled in the deep hollow of her cheek. "'Tis makin' you sad. "

"Oh, no!" said she. "'Tis making me very happy. "

"But you is cryin', " said I. "An' I'm thinkin' 'tis because you wishtyou was in Boston. "

"No, no!" she cried, her lip trembling. "I'm not wishing that. I've_never_ wished _that_! I'm glad your father found me and took me wherehe wished. Oh, I'm glad of that--glad he found and loved me--glad I gavemyself to his dear care! Why, were I in Boston, to-day, I would not havemy dear, big David, your father, lad, and I would not have your sister, and I would not have----"

"Me?" I put in, archly. 

"Ay, " she said, with infinite tenderness, "_you, _ Davy, dear!"

For many days, thereafter, the doctor-woman possessed our house, andI've no doubt she was happy in her new estate--at table, at any rate, for there she was garrulent and active, and astoundingly active, withless of garrulence, on feast days, when my father had pork provided. Andshe had a way with the maids in the kitchen that kept the young men fromthe door (which my sister never could manage); and I have since been ledto think 'twas because she sought to work her will on Skipper TommyLovejoy, undisturbed by the clatter and quick eyes of young folk. ForSkipper Tommy, to my increasing alarm and to the panic of the twins, whowished for no second mother, still frequented the kitchen, when theday's work was done, and was all the while in a mood so downcast, of amanner so furtive, that it made me sad to talk with him. But by day ourkitchen was intolerable with smells--intolerable to him and to us all(save to my sister, who is, and ever has been, brave)--while thedoctor-woman hung over the stove, working with things the sight of whichmy stomach would not brook, but which my mother took in ignorance, hoping they would cure her. God knows what medicines were mixed! I wouldnot name the things I saw. And the doctor-woman would not even have usask what use she made of them: nor have I since sought to know; 'tisbest, I think, forgotten. 

But my mother got no better. 

"Skipper David, " said the doctor-woman, at last, "I'm wantin' fourlump-fish. "

"Four lump-fish!" my father wondered. "Is you?"

"Oh, my!" she answered, tartly. "Is I? Yes, I is. An' I'll thank you t'get un an' ask no questions. For _I'm_ mindin' _my_ business, an' I'llthank _you_ t' mind _yours_. An' if _you_ thinks _you_ can do thedoctorin'----"

"I'm not seekin' t' hinder you, " said my father, flushing. "You go onwith your work. I'll pay; but----"

"Oh, will you?" she cried, shrilly. "He'll pay, says he. Oh, my! He'll_pay_! Oh, dear!"

"Come, now, woman!" said my father, indignantly. "I've had you come, an'I'll stand by what you does. I'll get the lump-fish; but 'tis the lastcure you'll try. If it fails, back you go t' Wolf Cove. "

"Oh, my!" said she, taken aback. "Back I goes, does I! An' t' Wolf Cove?Oh, dear!"

My father sent word to the masters of the cod-traps, which were then setoff the heads, that such sculpin as got in the nets by chance must besaved for him. He was overwrought, as I have said, by sorrow, overcome, it may be, by the way this woman had. And soon he had for her fourgreen, prickly-skinned, jelly-like, big-bellied lump-fish, which werenot appetizing to look upon, though I've heard tell that starving folk, being driven to it, have eaten them. My sister would not be driven fromthe kitchen, though the woman was vehement in anger, but held to it thatshe must know the character of the dose my mother was to take. So theyworked together--the doctor-woman scowling darkly--until the medicinewas ready: which was in the late evening of that day. Then they went tomy mother's room to administer the first of it. 

"'Tis a new medicine, " my mother said, with a smile, when she held theglass in her hand. 

"Ay, " crooned the doctor-woman, "drink it, now, my dear. "

My mother raised the glass to her lips. "And what is it?" she asked, withdrawing the glass with a shudder. 

"Tut, tut!" the doctor-woman exclaimed. "'Tis but a soup. 'Twill do yougood. "

"I'm sure it will, " my mother gently said. "But I wonder what it is. "

Again she raised the glass with a wry face. But my sister stayed herhand. 

"I'll not have you take it, " said she, firmly, "without knowin' what itis. "

The doctor-woman struck her arm away. "Leave the woman drink it!" shescreamed, now in a gust of passion. 

"What's--this you're--giving me?" my mother stammered, looking upon theglass in alarm and new disgust. 

"'Tis the eyes o' four lump-fish, " said my sister. 

My mother dropped the glass, so that the contents were spilled over thecoverlet, and fell back on the pillows, where she lay white and still. 

"Out with you!" said my sister to the doctor-woman. "I'll have no moreo' your cures!"

"Oh, my!" shrilled the woman, dropping into her most biting manner. "_She_ won't have no more o' my cures! Oh, dear, she----"

"Out with you!" cried my sister, as she smartly clapped her hands underthe woman's nose. "Out o' the house with you!"

"Oh, 'tis _out_ with me, is it? Out o' the _house_ with me! Oh, dear!Out o' the house with _me_! I'll have you t' know----"

My sister ignored the ponderous fist raised against her. She stamped hersmall foot, her eyes flashing, the blood flushing her cheeks and brow. 

"Out you go!" she cried. "_I'm_ not afeared o' you!"

I stood aghast while the doctor-woman backed through the door. Neverbefore had I known my gentle sister to flash and flush with angrypassion. Nor have I since. 

 * * * * *

Next morning, my father paid the woman from Wolf Cove a barrel of flour, with which she was ill content, and traded her two barrels more for thehorse-chestnut, which my mother wished to keep lying on her breast, because it comforted her. To Skipper Tommy Lovejoy fell the lot oftaking the woman back in the punt; for, as my father said, 'twas he thatbrought her safely, and, surely, the one who could manage that could betrusted to get her back without accident. 

"An' 'tis parlous work, lad, " said the skipper, with an anxious shrug, while we waited on the wharf for the woman to come. "I'm very muchafeared. Ay, " he added, frowning, "I is that!"

"I'm not knowin' why, " said I, "for the wind's blowin' fair from thesou'west, an' you'll have a fine time t' Wolf Cove. "

"'Tis not that, " said he, quietly. "Hist!" jerking his head towards ourhouse, where the woman yet was. "'Tis _she_!"

"I'd not be afeared o' _she_, " said I. "'Twas but last night, " I added, proudly, "my sister gave her her tea in a mug. "

"Oh, ay, " said he, "I heared tell o' that. But 'tis not t' the point. Davy, lad, " in an undertone which betrayed great agitation, "she've hercap set for a man, an' she's desperate. "

"Ay?" said I. 

He bent close to my ear. "An' she've her eye on _me_!" he whispered. 

"Skipper Tommy, " I earnestly pleaded, "don't you go an' do it. "

"Well, lad, " he answered, pulling at his nose, "the good Lard made mewhat I is. I'm not complainin' o' the taste He showed. No, no! I wouldnot think o' doin' that. But----"

"He made you kind, " I broke in, hotly, "an' such as good folk love. "

"I'm not knowin' much about that, Davy. The good Lard made me as Hewilled. But I'm an obligin' man. I've turned out, Davy, most wonderfulobligin'. I'm always doin' what folks wants me to. Such men as me, lad, "he went on, precisely indicating the weakness of his tender character, "is made that way. An' if she tells me she's a lone woman, and if shebegins t' cry, what is I to do? An' if I has t' pass me word, Davy, t'stop her tears! Eh, lad? Will you tell me, David Roth, _what_ is I t'do?"

"Turn the punt over, " said I, quickly. "They's wind enough for that, man! An' 'tis your only chance, Skipper Tommy--'tis the only chance_you_ got--if she begins t' cry. "

He was dispirited. "I wisht, " he said, sadly, "that the Lard hadn't mademe _quite_ so obligin'!"

"'Tis too bad!"

"Ay, " he sighed, "'tis too bad I can't trust meself in the company o'folk that's givin' t' weepin'. "

"I'll have the twins pray for you, " I ventured. 

"Do!" he cried, brightening. "'Tis a grand thought! An' do you tell themtwo dear lads that I'll never give in--no, lad, their father'll nevergive in t' that woman--till he's just _got_ to. "

"But, Skipper Tommy, " said I, now much alarmed, so hopeless was histone, stout as his words were, "tell my father you're not wantin' t' go. Sure, he can send Elisha Turr in your stead. "

"Ay, " said he, "but I _is_ wantin' t' go. That's it. I'm thinkin' allthe time o' the book, lad. I'm wantin' t' make that book a good book. I'm wantin' t' learn more about cures. "

"I'm thinkin' _her_ cures isn't worth much, " said I. 

He patted me on the head. "You is but a lad, " said he, indulgent with myyouth, "an' your judgment isn't well growed yet. Some o' they cures isbad, no doubt, " he added, "an' some is good. I wants no bad cures in mybook. I'll not _have_ them there. But does you think I can't _try_ unall on _meself_ afore I has un _put_ in the book?"

 * * * * *

When the punt was well through North Tickle, on a free, freshening wind, I sped to the Rat Hole to apprise the twins of their father's unhappysituation, and to beg of them to be constant and importunate in prayerthat he might be saved from the perils of that voyage. Then, stillrunning as fast as my legs would go, I returned to our house, where, again, I found the shadow and the mystery, and the hush in all therooms. 

"Davy!"

"Ay, Bessie, " I answered. "'Tis I. "

"Our mother's wantin' you, dear. "

I tiptoed up the stair, and to the bed where my mother lay, and, verysoftly, I laid my cheek against her lips. 

"My sister sent me, mum, " I whispered. 

"Yes, " she sighed. "I'm--just wanting you. "

Her arm, languid and light, stole round my waist. 

IX

A WRECK on The THIRTY DEVILS

Fog--thick, stifling, clammy! A vast bank of it lay stranded on therocks of our coast: muffling voices, making men gasp. In a murky cloudit pressed against my mother's windows. Wharves, cottages, harbourwater, great hills beyond--the whole world--had vanished. There wasnothing left but a patch of smoking rock beneath. It had come--a greycloud, drifting low and languidly--with a lazy draught of wind from theeast, which had dragged it upon the coast, spread it broadcast andexpired of the effort to carry it into the wilderness. 

"Wonderful thick, b'y!" was the salutation for the day. 

"'S mud, " was the response. 

Down went the barometer--down, down, slowly, uncompromisingly down!'Twas shocking to the nerves to consult it. 

"An' I'm tellin' you this, lads, " said a man on my father's wharf, tugging uneasily at his sou'wester, "that afore midnight you'll beneedin' t' glue your hair on!"

This feeling of apprehension was everywhere--on the roads, in thestages, in the very air. No man of our harbour put to sea. With the bigwind coming, 'twas no place for punt, schooner or steamer. The watersoff shore were set with traps for the unwary and the unknowing--thebluffs veiled by mist, the drift ice hidden, the reefs covered up. In agale of wind from the east there would be no escape. 

 * * * * *

Through the dragging day my mother had been restless and in pain. In theevening she turned to us. 

"I'm tired, " she whispered. 

Tired? Oh, ay! She was tired--very, very tired! It was near time for herto rest. She was sadly needing that. 

"An' will you try t' sleep, now?" my sister asked. 

"Ay, " she answered, wanly, "I'll sleep a bit, now, if I can. Where'sDavy?"

"Sure, mama, " said I, in surprise, "I'm sittin' right by the bed!"

"Ah, Davy!" she whispered, happily, stretching out a hand to touch me. "My little son!"

"An' I been sittin' here all the time!" said I. 

"All the time?" she said. "But I've been so sick, dear, I haven'tnoticed much. And 'tis so dark. "

"No, mum; 'tis not so very. 'Tis thick, but 'tis not so very dark. 'Tisnot lamp-lightin' time yet. "

"How strange!" she muttered. "It seems so very dark. Ah, well! Do you goout for a run in the air, dear, while your mother sleeps. I'm thinkingI'll be better--when I've had a little sleep. "

My sister busied herself with the pillows and coverlet; and she made allsoft and neat, that my mother might rest the better for it. 

"You're so tender with me, dear, " said my mother "Every day I bless Godfor my dear daughter. "

My sister kissed my mother. "Hush!" she said. "Do you go t' sleep, now, little mother. Twill do you good. "

"Yes, " my mother sighed, "for I'm--so very--tired. "

 * * * * *

When she had fallen asleep, I slung my lantern over my arm and scamperedoff to the Rat Hole to yarn with the twins, making what speed I could inthe fog and untimely dusk, and happy, for the moment, to be free of thebrooding shadow in our house. The day was not yet fled; but the lightabroad--a sullen greyness, splashed with angry red in the west, wherethe mist was thinning--was fading fast and fearfully. And there was anominous stirring of wind in the east: at intervals, storm puffs cameswirling over the hills from the sea; and they ran off inland like mad, leaving the air of a sudden once more stagnant. Fresh and cool theywere--grateful enough, indeed, blowing through the thick, dead dusk--butsure warning, too, of great gusts to come. We were to have weather--agale from the northeast, by all the lore of the coast--and it would be awild night, with the breakers of Raven Rock and the Thirty Black Devilsleaping high and merrily in the morning. As I ran down the last hill, with an eye on the light glowing in the kitchen window of Skipper TommyLovejoy's cottage, I made shift to hope that the old man had madeharbour from Wolf Cove, but thought it most unlikely. 

He had. 

"You got home, Skipper Tommy, " I cried, shouldering the door shutagainst a gust of wind, "an' I'm glad o' that! 'Tis goin' t' blow mostawful, I'm thinkin'. "

My welcome was of the gloomiest description. I observed that the twins, who lay feet to feet on the corner-seat, did not spring to meet me, butwere cast down; and that Skipper Tommy, himself, sitting over the firewith a cup of tea on the table at his elbow, was glum as a deacon. 

"Oh, " said he, looking up with the ghost of a laugh, "I got in. Youwasn't frettin' about _me_, was you, Davy? Oh, don't you ever gofrettin' about me, lad, when--ah, well!--when they's nothin' but fog t'fear. Sure, 'twasn't no trouble for _me_ t' find North Tickle in thefog. Ah, me! If 'twas only that! Sure, I bumped her nose agin the pointo' God's Warning, an' rattled her bones a bit, but, lad, me an' the puntis used t' little things like that. Oh, ay, " he repeated, dismally, "Igot _in_. "

Evidently the worst had happened. "Did you?" said I, blankly. "An' wasyou--was you--_cotched_?"

"Is you thinkin' o' _she_, Davy?" he answered. "Well, " in a melancholydrawl, smoothing his stubble of grey beard, his forehead deeplyfurrowed, "I'm not admittin' I is. But, Davy, " he added, "she cast ahook, an'--well, I--I nibbled. Yes, I did, lad! I went an' nibbled!"

One of the twins started up in alarm. "Hark!" he whispered. 

We listened--but heard nothing. A gust of wind rattled the window, and, crying hoarsely, swept under the house. There was nothing more thanthat. 

"Hist!" said the twin. 

We heard only the ominous mutter and sigh of the gust departing. 

"Jacky, " said the skipper, anxiously, "what was you thinkin' you heared, b'y?"

Jacky fidgetted in his seat. "'Twas like the mail-boat's whistle, zur, "he answered, "but 'twas sort o' hoarser. "

"Why, lad, " said the skipper, "the mail-boat's not handy by two hundredmiles! 'Twas but the wind. "

But he scratched his head in a puzzled way. 

"Ay, maybe, zur, " Jacky replied, still alert for a sound from the sea, "but 'twas not _like_ the wind. "

Skipper Tommy held up his hand. "Ay, " said he, when we had listened along time, "'twas but the wind. "

"Ay, " said we all, "'twas but the wind. "

"Ah, well, Davy, " the skipper resumed, "she cast a hook, as I wassayin', an' I nibbled. "

The twins groaned in concert. 

"But the good Lard, Davy, " the skipper went on, "had sent a switch o'wind from the sou'west. So they was a bit o' lop on the sea, an' 'twast' that I turned, when the case got desperate. An' desperate it soongot, lad. Ah, indeed! 'long about Herring Head it got fair desperate. 'Skipper Thomas, ' says she, 'we're gettin' old, you an' me, ' says she. 'Sure, mum, ' says I, 'not _you_, mum! I'll never give in t' that, ' saysI. "

Our faces fell. 

"'Twas what I done, " the skipper persisted, with an air of guilt andremorse. "I just, felt like doin' it, an' so I done it. 'I'll never givein to it, mum, ' says I, 'that _you're_ gettin' old. '"

I groaned with the twins--and Skipper Tommy made a dismal quartette ofit--and the wind, rising sharply at that moment, contributed a chorus ofheartrending noises. 

"Ay, " the skipper continued, "'twas a sad mistake. 'Twas floutin'Providence t' say a word like that to a woman like she. But I just feltlike it. Then, 'Oh, dear, ' says she, ''tis barb'rous lonely t' WolfCove, ' says she. ''Tis too bad, mum, ' says I. An' I throwed the bow o'the punt plump into a wave, Davy, lad, an' shipped a bucket o' water. 'An', ' says she, 'it must be lonely for you, Skipper Thomas, ' says she, 'livin' there at the Rat Hole. '"

Skipper Tommy paused to sigh and tweak his nose; and he tweaked so oftenand sighed so long that I lost patience. 

"An' what did you do then?" I demanded. 

"Took in more water, Davy, " he groaned, "for they wasn't nothin' else Icould think of. 'An', ' says she, 'is it not lonely, Skipper Thomas, 'says she, 'at the Rat Hole?' 'No, mum, ' says I, takin' aboard anotherbucket or two, 'for I've the twins, ' says I. With that she put herkerchief to her eyes, Davy, an' begun t' sniffle. An' t' relieve mefeelin's, lad, for I was drove desperate, I just _had_ t' let the top ofa wave fall over the bow: which I done, Davy, an' may the Lard forgiveme! An' I'm not denyin' that 'twas a sizable wave she took. "

He stared despondently at the floor. 

"She gathered up her skirts, " he went on. "An', 'Ah, Skipper Thomas, 'says she, 'twins, ' says she, 'is nothin'. 'Sure, ' says she, 'twins is nogood on a cold winter's night. ' I'm not denyin', Davy, " said theskipper, solemnly, looking me straight in the eye, "that she scared mewith that. I'm not denyin' that me hand slipped. I'm not denyin' that Iput the tiller over a _wee bit_ too far--maybe a foot--maybe a foot an'a half, in the excitement o' the moment--I isn't quite sure. No, no! I'mfar, lad, from denyin' that I near swamped the boat. ''Tis gettin'rough, ' says she. 'Ay, ' says I, 'an' we'll be gettin' along a dealbetter, mum, ' says I, 'if you bail. ' So I kep' her bailin', Davy, " theskipper concluded, with a long sigh and a sad wag of the head, "fromHerring Head t' Wolf Cove. An', well, lad, she didn't quite cotch me, for she hadn't no time t' waste, but, as I was sayin', she cast a hook. "

"You're well rid o' she, " said I. 

Timmie rose to look out of the window. "Hear the wind!" said he, turningin awe, while the cottage trembled under the rush of a gust. "My! but'twill blow, the night!"

"Ah, Timmie, " sighed the skipper, "what's a gale o' wind t' the snareso' women!"

"Women!" cried I. "Sure, she'll trouble you no more. You're well rid o'she. "

"But I _isn't_ rid o' she, Davy, " he groaned, "an' that's what'stroublin' the twins an' me. I isn't rid o' she, for I've heared tellshe've some l'arnin' an' can write a letter. "

"Write!" cried I. "She won't write. "

"Ah, Davy, " sighed the skipper, his head falling over his breast, "you've no knowledge o' women. They never gives in, lad, that they'rebeat. They never _knows_ they're beat. An' that one, lad, wouldn't knowit if she was told!"

"Leave her write so much as she wants, " said I. "'Twill do you no harm. "

"No harm?" said he, looking up. "No harm in writin'?"

"No, " said I. "Sure, you can't read!"

The twins leaped from the corner-seat and emitted a shrill and joyfulwhoop. Skipper Tommy threw back his head, opened his great mouth insilent laughter, and slapped his thigh with such violence that the noisewas like a pistol shot. 

"No more I can, " he roared, "an' I'm too old t' l'arn!"

Laughter--a fit of it--seized him. It exploded like a thunder-clap, andcontinued, uproariously, interrupted by gasps, when he lost his breath, and by groans, when a stitch made him wince. There was no resisting it. The twins doubled up in the corner-seat, miserably screaming, theirheels waving in the air; and Davy Roth collapsed on the floor, grippinghis sides, his eyes staring, his mouth wide open, venting his mirth, thewhile, in painful shrieks. Skipper Tommy was himself again--freed o' thenets o' women--restored to us and to his own good humour--once againboon comrade of the twins and me! He jumped from his chair; and with a"Tra-la-la!" and a merry "Hi-tum-ti-iddle-dee-um!" he fell into afantastic dance, thumping the boards with his stockinged feet, advancingand retreating with a flourish, bowing and balancing to an imaginarypartner, all in a fashion so excruciatingly exaggerated that the twinsscreamed, "Don't, father!" and Davy Roth moaned, "Oh, stop, zur, please, zur!" while the crimson, perspiring, light-footed, ridiculouslybow-legged old fellow still went cavorting over the kitchen floor. 

 * * * * *

But I was a child--only a child--living in the shadow of some greatsorrow, which, though I did not know it, had pressed close upon us. There flashed before me a vision of my mother lying wan and white onthe pillows. And I turned on my face and began to cry. 

"Davy, lad!" said the skipper, tenderly, seeking to lift my head. "Hush, lad! Don't cry!"

But I sobbed the harder. 

"Ah, Davy, " the twins pleaded, "stop cryin'! Do, now!"

Skipper Tommy took me on his knee; and I hid my face on his breast, andlay sobbing hopelessly, while he sought to sooth me with many a pat and"Hush!" and "Never mind!"

"I'm wantin' t' go home, " I moaned. 

He gathered me closer in his arms. "Do you stay your grief, Davy, " hewhispered, "afore you goes. "

"I'm wantin' t' go home, " I sobbed, "t' my mother!"

Timmie and Jacky came near, and the one patted my hand, and the otherput an arm around me. 

"Sure, the twins 'll take you home, Davy, " said the skipper, softly, "when you stops cryin'. Hush, lad! Hush, now!"

They were tender with me, and I was comforted; my sobs soon ceased, butstill I kept my head against the skipper's breast. And while there Ilay, there came from the sea--from the southwest in a lull of thewind--breaking into the tender silence--the blast of a steam whistle, deep, full-throated, prolonged. 

"Hist!" whispered Jacky. "Does you not hear?"

Skipper Tommy stood me on my feet, and himself slowly rose, listeningintently. 

"Lads, " he asked, his voice shaking, "was it the mail-boat?"

"No, zur!" the twins gasped. 

"Is you sure?"

"'Tis not the way she blows, zur!"

"'Tis surely not she, " the skipper mused. "In the sou'west she'd be outof her course. Hark!"

Once more the long, hoarse roar broke the silence, but now rising againand again, agonized, like a cry for help. 

"Dear Lard!" skipper Tommy cried, putting his hands to his face. "'Tis abig steamer on the Thirty Black Devils!"

"A wreck!" shouted Jacky, leaping for his jacket. "A wreck! A wreck!"

Distraction seized the skipper. "'Tis a wreck!" he roared. "My boots, lads! Wreck! Wreck!"

We lads went mad. No steamer had been wrecked on the coast in our time. There were deeds to do! There was salvage to win!

"Wreck!" we screamed. "Wreck! Wreck! Wreck!"

Then out we four ran. It was after dark. The vault was black. But thewind had turned the fog to thin mist. The surrounding hills stooddisclosed--solid shadows in the night. Half a gale was blowing from thesea: it broke over the hills; it swooped from the inky sky; it sweptpast in long, clinging gusts. We breasted it heads down. The twinsraised the alarm. Wreck! Wreck! Folk joined us as we ran. They were inanxious haste to save life. They were gleeful with the hope of salvage. What the sea casts up the Lord provides! Wreck! Wreck! Far-off criesanswered us. The cottage windows were aglow. Lanterns danced over theflakes. Lights moved over the harbour water. Wreck! Wreck! On westumbled. Our feet struck the road with thud and scrape. Our lanternsclattered and buzzed and fluttered. Wreck! Wreck! We plunged down thelast hill and came gasping to my father's wharf. 

Most of our folk were already vigorously underway towards South Tickle. 

"Lives afore salvage, lads!" my father shouted from his punt. 

My sister caught my arm. 

"'Tis a big steamer, Bessie!" I cried, turning. 

"Ay, " she said, hurriedly. "But do you go stay with mother, Davy. She'vesent me t' Tom Turr's by the path. They're t' fetch the wrecked folkthere. Make haste, lad! She've been left alone. "

I ran up the path to our house. 

X

THE FLIGHT

It was late in the night. My mother and I sat alone in her dim-lit room. We were waiting--both waiting. And I was waiting for the lights of thereturning punts. 

"Davy!" my mother called. "You are still there?"

"Ay, mother, " I answered. "I'm still sittin' by the window, lookin'out. "

"I am glad, dear, " she sighed, "that you are here--with me--to-night. "

She craved love, my love; and my heart responded, as the knowing heartsof children will. 

"Ah, mother, " I said, "'tis lovely t' be sittin' here--all alone withyou!"

"Don't, Davy!" she cried, catching her breath. "I'm not able to bear thejoy of it. My heart----"

"'Tis so, " I persisted, "'cause I loves you so!"

"But, oh, I'm glad, Davy!" she whispered. "I'm glad you love yourmother. And I'm glad, " she added, softly, "that you've told meso--to-night. "

By and by I grew drowsy. My eyes would not stay open. And I fell asleepwith my head on the window-sill. I do not know how long I slept. 

"Davy!" my mother called. 

"Ay?" I answered, waking. "Sure, I been asleep!"

"But you're not wanting to go to bed?" she asked, anxiously. "You'll notleave your mother all alone, will you?"

"No, no, mama!"

"No, " she said. "Do not leave your mother, now. "

Again I fell asleep. It may be that I wasted a long, long time in sleep. 

"Davy!" she called. 

I answered. And, "I cannot stay awake, " I said. "Sure, 'tis quite pastme t' do it, for I'm so wonderful sleepy. "

"Come closer, " she said. "Tired lad!" she went on, when she had my handin hers. "Sleepy head! Lie down beside me, dear, and go to sleep. I'mnot afraid--not afraid, at all--to be left alone. Oh, you're so tired, little lad! Lie down and sleep. For your mother is very brave--to-night. And tell your father, Davy--when he comes and wakes you--and tell yoursister, too--that your mother was happy, oh, very happy and brave, when. . . . "

"When you fell asleep?" I asked. 

"Yes, " she answered, in a voice so low I could but hear it. "That I washappy when--I fell asleep. "

I pulled off my jacket. 

"I'm wanting to hear you say your prayers, Davy, " she said, "before yougo to sleep. I'm wanting once again--just once again--to hear you sayyour prayers. "

I knelt beside the bed. 

"My little son!" my mother said. "My--little--son!"

"My mother!" I responded, looking up. 

She lifted my right hand. "Dear Jesus, lover of children, " she prayed, "take, oh, take this little hand!"

And I began to say my prayers, while my mother's fingers wanderedtenderly through my curls, but I was a tired child, and fell asleep as Iprayed. And when I awoke, my mother's hand lay still and strangely heavyon my head. 

 * * * * *

Then the child that was I knew that his mother was dead. He leaped fromhis knees with a broken cry, and stood expectant, but yet in awe, searching the dim, breathless room for a beatified figure, white-robed, winged, radiant, like the angel of the picture by his bed, for hebelieved that souls thus took their flight; but he saw only shadows. 

"Mama, " he whispered, "where is you?"

There was no answer to the child's question. The risen wind blew wildlyin the black night without. But it was still dim and breathless in theroom. 

"Mama, " said the child, "is your soul hidin' from me?"

Still the child was left unanswered. He waited, listening--but was notanswered. 

"Don't hide, " he pleaded. "Oh, don't hide, for I'm not wantin' to play!Oh, mother, I'm wantin' you sore!"

And, now, he knew that she would come, for, "I'm wantin' you, mother!"he had been used to crying in the night, and she had never failed toanswer, but had come swiftly and with comfort. He waited for a voice andfor a vision, surely expecting them in answer to his cry; but he sawonly shadows, heard only the scream of the wind, and a sudden, angrypatter of rain on the roof. Then the child that was I fancied that hismother's soul had fled while yet he slept, and, being persuaded that itscourse was heavenward, ran out, seeking it. And he forgets what then hedid, save that he climbed the broken cliff behind the house, crying, "Wait, oh, wait!" and that he came, at last, to the summit of theWatchman, where there was a tumult of wind and rain. 

"Mama!" he screamed, lifting his hands in appeal to the wide, blacksky. "You forgot t' kiss me good-bye! Oh, come back!"

He flung himself prone on the naked rock, for the soul of his mother didnot come, though patiently he had watched for the glory of its returningflight. 

"She've forgot me!" he moaned. "Oh, she've forgot me!"

 * * * * *

When, trembling and bedraggled, I came again to the room where mymother's body lay, my sister was kneeling by the bed, and my father wasin converse with a stranger, who was not like the men of our coast. "Notnecessarily mortal, " this man was saying. "An operation--just a simpleoperation--easily performed with what you have at hand--would have savedthe woman. "

"Saved her, Doctor?" said my father passionately. "Is you sayin'_that_?"

"I have said so. It would have saved her. Had we been wrecked five daysago she would have been alive. "

A torrent of rain beat on the house. 

"Alive?" my father muttered, staring at the floor. "She would have beenalive!"

The stranger looked upon my father in pity. "I'm sorry for you, my man, "he said. 

"'Tis strange, " my father muttered, still staring at the floor. "'Tisstrange--how things--comes about. Five days--just five. . . . "

He muttered on. 

"Yes, " the stranger broke in, stirring nervously. "Had I come but fivedays ago. "

A sudden rising of the gale--the breaking of its fury--filled the roomwith a dreadful confusion. 

"Indeed--I'm--sorry--very sorry, " the stranger stammered; his lips weredrawn; in his eyes was the flare of some tragedy of feeling. 

My father did not move--but continued vacantly to stare at the floor. 

"Really--you know--I am!"

"Is you?" then my father asked, looking up. "Is you sorry for me an'Davy an' the lass?" The stranger dared not meet my father's eyes. "An'you could have saved her, " my father went on. "_You_ could have savedher! She didn't have t' go. She died--for want o' you! God Almighty, " hecried, raising his clenched hand, "this man come too late GodAlmighty--does you hear me, God Almighty?--the man you sent come toolate! An' you, " he flashed, turning on the stranger, "could have savedher? Oh, my dear lass! An' she would have been here the night? Here likeshe used t' be? Here in her dear body? Here?" he cried, striking hisbreast. "She would have lain here the night had you come afore? Oh, whydidn't you come?" he moaned. "You hold life an' death in your hands, zur, t' give or withhold. Why didn't you come--t' give the gift o' lifet' she?"

The stranger shrank away. "Stop!" he cried, in agony. "How was I toknow?"

"Hush, father!" my sister pleaded. 

In a flash of passion my father advanced upon the man. "How was you t'know?" he burst out. "Where you been? What you been doin'? Does you hearme?" he demanded, his voice rising with the noise of wind and rain. "What you been doin'?"

"Stop it, man! You touch me to the quick! You don't know--you don'tknow--"

"What you been doin'? We're dyin' here for want o' such as you. What youbeen doin'?"

There was no answer. The stranger had covered his face with his hands. 

"O God, " my father cried, again appealing to Heaven, "judge this man!"

"Stop!"

It was a bitter cry--the agony sounding clear and poignant above themanifold voices of the storm--but it won no heed. 

"O God, judge this man!"

"Will no one stop him?" the stranger moaned. "For God's sake--stophim--some one!"

"O God, judge this man!"

The stranger fled. . . . 

 * * * * *

"Oh, my dear wife!" my father sobbed, at last, sinking into the greatarmchair, wherein the mail-boat doctor had not sat. "Oh, my dear wife!"

"Father!" my dear sister whispered, flinging her soft arms about hisneck and pressing her cheek against his brow. "Dear father!"

And while the great gale raged, she sought to comfort my father and me, but could not. 

XI

The WOMEN at The GATE

By and by my sister put me in dry clothes, and bidding me be a good lad, sat me in the best room below, where the maids had laid a fire. AndSkipper Tommy Lovejoy, finding me there disconsolate, took me to theseaward hills to watch the break of day: for the rain had ceased, thewind fallen away; and the gray light of dawn was in the eastern sky. 

"I'm wantin' t' tell you, Davy, " he said, in a confidential way, as wetrudged along, "about the gate o' heaven. "

I took his hand. 

"An' I _been_ wantin' t' tell you, " he added, giving his nose a littletweak, "for a long, long time. "

"Is you?"

"Ay, lad; an' about the women at the gate. "

"Women, Skipper Tommy?" said I, puzzled. "An', pray, who is they?"

"Mothers, " he answered. "Just mothers. "

"What they doin' at the gate? No, no! They're not _there_. Sure, they'replayin' harps at the foot o' the throne. "

"No, " said he, positively; "they're at the gate. "

"What they doin' there?"

"Waitin'. "

We were now come to the crest of a hill; and the sea was spread beforeus--breaking angrily under the low, black sky. 

"What's they waitin' for?" I asked. 

"Davy, lad, " he answered, impressively, "they're waitin' for them theybore. _That's_ what they're waitin' for. "

"For their sons?"

"Ay; an' for their daughters, too. "

While I watched the big seas break on the rocks below--and the cloudsdrift up from the edge of the world--I pondered upon this strangeteaching. My mother had never told me of the women waiting at the gate. 

"Ah, but, " I said, at last, "I'm thinkin' God would never allow it t' goon. He'd want un all t' sing His praises. Sure, they'd just be wastin'His time--waitin' there at the gate. "

Skipper Tommy shook his head--and smiled, and softly patted my shoulder. 

"An' He'd gather un there, at the foot o' the throne, " I went on, "an'tell un t' waste no more, but strike up their golden harps. "

"No, no!"

"Why not?"

"They wouldn't go. "

"But He'd _make_ un go. "

"He couldn't. "

"Not _make_ un!" I cried, amazed. 

"Look you, lad, " he explained, in a sage whisper, "they're all mothers, an' they'd be _wantin_' t' stay where they was, an', ecod! they'd find away. "

"Ah, well, " I sighed, "'tis wearisome work--this waitin'. "

"I'm thinkin' not, " he answered, soberly, speaking rather to himselfthan to me. "'Tis not wearisome for such as know the good Lard's plan. "

"'Tis wonderful hard, " said I, "on the mothers o' wicked sons. "

The old man smiled. "Who knows, " he asked, "that 'tis wonderful hard onthey?"

"But then, " I mused, "the Lord would find a way t' comfort the mother o'such. "

"Oh, ay!"

"I'm thinkin', maybe, " I went on, "that He'd send an angel t' tell herthey wasn't worth the waitin' for. 'Mind un not, ' He'd say. 'They'renothin' but bad, wicked boys. Leave un go t' hell an' burn. '"

"An', now, what, lad, " he inquired with deep interest, "is you thinkin'the mother would do?"

"She'd take the angel's hand, " I sighed. 

"Ay?"

"An' go up t' the throne--forgettin' them she'd left. "

"An' then?"

"She'd praise the Lard, " I sobbed. 

"Never!" the skipper cried. 

I looked hopefully in his face. 

"Never!" he repeated. "'Lard, ' she'd say, 'I loves un all the more fortheir sins. Leave me wait--oh, leave me wait--here at the gate. Maybe--sometime--they'll come!'"

"But some, " said I, in awe, "would wait forever--an' ever--an' ever----"

"Not one!"

"Not one?"

"Not one! 'Twould break the dear Lard's heart t' see un waitin' there. "

I looked away to the furthest clouds, fast changing, now, from gray tosilver; and for a long time I watched them thin and brighten. 

"Skipper Tommy, " I asked, at last, "is _my_ mother at the gate?"

"Ay, " said he confidently. 

"Waitin'?"

"Ay. "

"An' for me?"

He gave me an odd look--searching my very soul with his mild old eyes. "Doesn't you think she is?" he asked. 

"I knows it!" I cried. 

 * * * * *

Far off, at the horizon, the sky broke--and the rift broadened--and theclouds lifted--and the east flamed with colour--and all at once therosy, hopeful light of dawn flushed the frowning sea. 

"Look!" the skipper whispered. 

"Ay, " said I, "the day is broke. "

"A new day!" said he. 

XII

DOCTOR AND I

How the _St. Lawrence_ came to stray from her course down the Strait Ido not remember. As concerns such trivial things, the days that followedmy mother's death are all misty in my mind; but I do recall (for whenSkipper Tommy had made my mother's coffin he took me to the heads ofGood Promise to see the sight) that the big seas of that day pounded thevessel to a shapeless wreck on the jagged rocks of the Reef of theThirty Black Devils: where she lay desolate for many a day thereafter. But the sea was not quick enough to balk our folk of their salvage: allday long--even while the ship was going to pieces--they swarmed uponher; and they loaded their punts again and again, fearlessly boarding, and with infinite patience and courage managed to get their heavensentplunder ashore. 'Twas diverting to watch them; and when the twins, whohad been among the most active at the wreck, came at last to theirfather, I laughed to know that, as Timmie said, they had food enoughashore to keep the wrinkles out of their stomachs all winter. 

 * * * * *

Our harbour was for many days crowded with wrecked folk--strange ofspeech, of dress, of manners--who went about in flocks, prying into ourinnermost concerns, so that we were soon wearied of their perverse andinsatiable curiosity, though we did not let them know it. They weresorry for my father and sister and me, I know, for, one and all, whenthey came to see my mother lying dead, they _said_ they were. And theystood soberly by her shallow grave, when we laid her dear body away, andthey wept when old Tom Tot spoke of the dust and ashes, which we are, and the stony earth rattled hopelessly on the coffin. Doubtless theywere well-intentioned towards us all, and towards me, a motherless lad, more than any other, and doubtless they should be forgiven much, forthey were but ignorant folk, from strange parts of the world; but I tookit hard that they should laugh on the roads, as though no great thinghad happened, and when, at last, the women folk took to praising my hairand eyes, as my mother used to do, and, moreover, to kissing me inpublic places, which had been my mother's privilege, I was speedilyscandalized and fled their proximity with great cunning and agility. 

My father, however, sought them out, at all times and places, that hemight tell them the tragic circumstances of my mother's death, andseemed not to remember that he had told them all before. 

"But five days!" he would whisper, excitedly, when he had buttonholed astranger in the shop. "Eh, man? Have you heared tell o' my poor wife?"

"Five days?"

"Ay; had you folk been wrecked five days afore--just five, markyou--she would have been alive, the day. "

"How sad!"

"Five days!" my father would suddenly cry, wringing his hands. "My God!_Only five days_!"

A new expression of sympathy--and a glance of the sharpestsuspicion--would escape the stranger. 

"Five days!" my father would repeat, as though communicating some factwhich made him peculiarly important to all the world. "That, now, " witha knowing glance, "is what I calls wonderful queer. "

My father was not the same as he had been. He was like a man become achild again--interested in little things, dreaming much, wondering more:conceiving himself, like a child, an object of deepest interest to usall. No longer, now, did he command us, but, rather, sought to know frommy sister (to whom he constantly turned) what he should do from hour tohour; and I thought it strange that he should do our bidding as thoughhe had never been used to bidding us. But so it was; and, moreover(which I thought a great pity), he forgot that he was to kill themail-boat doctor when the steamer put into our harbour on the southwardtrip--a purpose from which, a week before, Skipper Tommy Lovejoy couldnot dissuade him, though he tried for hours together. Ay, with his barehands, my father was to have killed that man--to have wrung his neck andflung him overboard--but now there was no word of the deed: my fatherbut puttered about, mildly muttering that the great ship had beenwrecked five days too late. 

I have said that my father loved my mother; it may be that he loved herovermuch--and, perhaps, that accounts for what came upon him when helost her. I have since thought it sad that our hearts may contain a loveso great that all the world seems empty when chance plucks it out; butthe thought, no doubt, is not a wise one. 

 * * * * *

The doctor whom I had found with my father in my mother's room was notamong the folk who babbled on the roads and came prying into the stageswith tiresome exclamations of "Really!" and "How in-tres-ting!" He keptaloof from them and from us all. All day long he wandered on the headsand hills of our harbour--a melancholy figure, conspicuous against theblue sky of those days: far off, solitary, bowed. Sometimes he sat forhours on the Watchman, staring out to sea, so still that it would havebeen small blame to the gulls had they mistaken him for a new boulder, mysteriously come to the hill; sometimes he lay sprawling on the highpoint of Skull Island, staring at the sky, lost to knowledge of theworld around; sometimes he clambered down the cliffs of Good Promise tothe water's edge, and stood staring, forever staring, at the breakers(which no man should do). Often I was not content with watching him fromafar, but softly followed close, and peered at him from the shelter of aboulder or peeped over the shoulder of a hill; and so sad did heseem--so full of sighs and melancholy attitudes--that invariably I wenthome pitying: for at that time my heart was tender, and the sight ofsorrow hurt it. 

Once I crept closer and closer, and, at last, taking courage (though hisclean-shaven face and soft gray hat abashed me), ran to him and slippedmy hand in his. 

He started; then, perceiving who it was, he withdrew his hand with awrench, and turned away: which hurt me. 

"You are the son, " said he, "of the woman who died, are you not?"

I was more abashed than ever--and wished I had not been so bold. 

"I'm Davy Roth, zur, " I whispered, for I was much afraid. "My mother'sdead an' buried, zur. "

"I saw you, " said he, "in the room--that night. "

There was a long pause. Then, "What's _your_ name, zur?" I asked him. 

"Mine?"

"Ay. "

"Mine, " said he, "is Luke--"

He stopped--and thoughtfully frowned. I waited; but he said no more. 

"Doctor Luke?" I ventured. 

"Well, " he drawled, "that will serve. "

Then I thought I must tell him what was in my heart to say. Why not? Thewish was good, and his soft, melancholy voice irresistibly appealed tomy raw and childish sympathies. 

"I wisht, zur, " I whispered, looking down at my boots, through sheerembarrassment, "that you----"

My tongue failed me. I was left in a sad lurch. He was not like ourfolk--not like our folk, at all--and I could not freely speak my mind. 

"Yes?" he said, to encourage me. 

"That you wasn't so sad, " I blurted, with a rush, looking swift and deepinto his gray eyes. 

"Why not?" said he, taking my hand. 

"I'm not wantin' you t' be. "

He put his arm over my shoulder. "Why not?" he asked. "Tell me why not, won't you?"

The corners of my mouth fell. It may have been in sympathetic responseto the tremolo of feeling in his voice. I was in peril of unmanly tears(as often chanced in those days)--and only women, as I knew, should seelads weep. I hid my face against him. 

"Because, zur, " I said, "it makes me sad, too!"

He sat down and drew me to his knee. "This is very strange, " he said, "and very kind. You would not have me sad?" I shook my head. "I do notunderstand, " he muttered. "It is very strange. " (But it was not strangeon our coast, where all men are neighbours, and each may without shameor offense seek to comfort the other. ) Then he had me tell him tales ofour folk, to which he listened with interest so eager that I quicklywarmed to the diversion and chattered as fast as my tongue would wag. Helaughed at me for saying "nar" for not (and the like) and I at him forsaying "cawm" for calm; and soon we were very merry, and not only merry, but as intimate as friends of a lifetime. By and by I took him to seethe Soldier's Ear, which is an odd rock near the Rat Hole, and, afterthat, to listen to the sea coughing and gurgling at the bottom ofSatan's Well. And in all this he forgot that he was sad--and I that mymother was dead. 

"Will you walk with me to-morrow, Davy?" he asked, when I said that Imust be off home. 

"That I will, zur, " said I. 

"After breakfast. "

"Ay, zur; a quarter of five. "

"Well, no, " he drawled. "Half after nine. "

"'Tis a sheer waste o' time, " I protested. "But 'twill suit me, zur, anit pleases you. My sister will tell _me_ the hour. "

"Your sister?" he asked, quickly. 

"Bessie, " said I. 

"Ah, " he exclaimed, "she was your sister. I saw her there--that night. And she is your sister?"

"You got it right, " cried I, proudly. "_That's_ my sister!"

He slapped me on the back (which shocked me, for our folk are not thatplayful); and, laughing heartily as he went, he took the road to TomTot's, where he had found food and housing for a time. I watched himfrom the turn in the road, as he went lightly down the slope towardsSouth Tickle--his trim-clad, straight, graceful figure, broad-shouldered, clean-cut, lithe in action, as compared with ourlumbering gait; inefficient, 'tis true, but potentially strong. As Iwalked home, I straightened my own shoulders, held my head high, liftedmy feet from the ground, flung bold glances to right and left, as I hadseen him do: for, even then, I loved him very much. All the while I wasexultantly conscious that a new duty and a new delight had come to me:some great thing, given of God--a work to do, a happiness to cherish. And that night he came and went in my dreams--but glorified: his smilenot mirthless, his grave, gray eyes not overcast, his face not flabbyand flushed, his voice not slow and sad, but vibrant with fine, livepurpose. My waking thought was the wish that the man of the hills mightbe the man of my vision; and in my simple morning petition it became aprayer. 

"Dear mama, " I prayed, "there's something wrong along o' the man whocome the night you died. He've managed somehow t' get wonderful sick. I'm not knowin' what ails un, or where he cotched it; but I sees itplain in his face: an' 'tis a woeful sickness. Do you make haste t' thethrone o' God, please, mum, an' tell Un I been askin' you t' have uncured. You'd want un well, too, an you was here; an' the Lard 'll surelylisten t' you, an' take your word for 't. Oh, do you pray the Lard, with all your might an' main, dear mama, t' heal that man!"

 * * * * *

In our land the works of the Lord are not obscured by what the hands ofmen have made. The twofold vision ranges free and far. Here are no brickwalls, no unnatural need or circumstance, no confusing inventions, nogasping haste, no specious distractions, no clamour of wheel andheartless voices, to blind the soul, to pervert its pure desires, todeaden its fears, to deafen its ears to the sweeter calls--to shut itin, to shrivel it: to sicken it in every part. Rock and waste of sea andthe high sweep of the sky--winds and rain and sunlight and flyingclouds--great hills, mysterious distances, flaming sunsets, the still, vast darkness of night! These are the mighty works of the Lord, and ofnone other--unspoiled and unobscured. In them He proclaims Himself. Theywho have not known before that the heavens and the earth are thehandiwork of God, here discover it: and perceive the Presence and thePower, and are ashamed and overawed. Thus our land works its marvel inthe sensitive soul. I have sometimes thought that in the waste issounded the great keynote of life--with which true hearts ever seek tovibrate in tune. 

XIII

A SMILING FACE

"Doctor Luke, zur, " I said, as we walked that day, "I dreamed o' you, last night. "

"Pleasantly, I hope?"

I sighed. 

"What, " said he, gravely, "did you dream of me?"

'Twas hard to frame a reply. "I been thinkin', since, " I faltered, floundering in search of a simile, "that you're like a--like a----"

"Like what?" he demanded. 

I did not know. My eye sought everywhere, but found no happy suggestion. Then, through an opening in the hills, I caught sight of the melancholywreck on the Reef of the Thirty Black Devils. 

"I fear t' tell, " said I. 

He stopped. "But I wish to know, " he persisted. "You'll tell me, Davy, will you not? It means so much. "

"Like a wrecked ship, " said I. 

"Good God!" he exclaimed, starting from me. 

At once he sent me home; nor would he have me walk with him thatafternoon, because, as he said, my sister would not allow me to bear himcompany, did she know as much as I had in some strange way divined. 

 * * * * *

Next day, armed with my sister's express permission, I overcame hisscruples; and off we went to Red Indian Cave. Everywhere, indeed, wewent together, while the wrecked folk waited the mail-boat tocome--Doctor Luke and I--hand in hand--happy (for the agony of my losscame most in the night, when I lay wakeful and alone in my little bed)as the long, blue days. We roamed the hills, climbed the cliffs, clambered along shore; and once, to my unbounded astonishment and alarm, he stripped to the skin and went head first into the sea from the baseof the Good Promise cliffs. Then nothing would content him but that I, too, should strip and plunge in: which I did (though you may think itextraordinary), lest he think me afraid to trust his power to save me. Thus the invigourating air, the yellow sunlight, the smiling sea beyondthe rocks, the blue sky overhead, were separate delights in which ourfriendship ripened: so that at times I wondered what loneliness wouldovertake me when he had gone. I told him I wished he would not go awayon the mail-boat, but would stay and live with us, that, being adoctor, as he had said, he might heal our folk when they fell sick, andno one would die, any more. He laughed at that--but not because ofmerriment--and gripped my hand tighter, and I began to hope that, perhaps, he would not go away; but he did not tell me whether he wouldor not. 

 * * * * *

When the mail-boat was near due, my sister said that I must have thedoctor to tea; for it would never do, said she, to accept his kindnessesand show no hospitality in return. In reply to this Doctor Luke saidthat I must present his compliments to my sister (which I thought acurious way of putting it), and say that he accepted the invitation withgreat pleasure; and, as though it were a matter of grave moment, he hadme repeat the form until I knew it perfectly. That evening my sisterwore a long skirt, fashioned in haste from one of my mother's gowns, andthis, with my mother's keys, which she kept hanging from her girdle, asmy mother used to do, made her very sweetly staid. The doctor camespeckless, wearing his only shirt, which (as Tom Tot's wife made knownto all the harbour) he had paid one dollar to have washed and ironed inthree hours for the occasion, spending the interval (it was averred) inhis room. While we waited for the maids to lay the table, my sistermoved in and out, directing them; and the doctor gazed at her in a wayso marked that I made sure she had forgotten a hook or a button, andfollowed her to the kitchen to discover the omission. 

"Sure, Bessie, dear, " I began, very gingerly, "I'm fair dreadin' thatyou're--you're----"

She was humming, in happy unconsciousness of her state; and I waschagrined by the necessity of disclosing it: but resolutely continued, for it must be done. 

"Loose, " I concluded. 

She gave a little jump--a full inch, it may be--from the floor. 

"Davy!" she cried, in mixed horror and distress. "Oh, dear!Whereabouts?"

"Do you turn around, " said I, "an' I'll soon find out. "

She whirled like a top. But I could find nothing awry. She was shipshapefrom head to toe. 

"'Tis very queer, " said I. "Sure, I thought you'd missed a button, forthe doctor is lookin' at you all the time. "

"At _me_!" she cried. 

"Ay, at you. "

She was then convinced with me that there was something amiss, andcalled the maids to our help, for, as she said, I was only a boy(though a dear one), and ill schooled in such matters. But it turned outthat their eyes were no sharper than mine. They pronounced her hookedand buttoned and pinned to the Queen's taste. 

"'Tis queer, then, " I persisted, when the maids had gone, "that he looksat you so hard. "

"Is you sure he does?" she asked, much puzzled, "for, " she added, with alittle frown, "I'm not knowin' why he should. "

"Nor I, " said I. 

At table we were very quiet, but none the less happy for that; for itseemed to me that my mother's gentle spirit hovered near, content withwhat we did. And after tea my father sat with the doctor on ourplatform, talking of disease and healing, until, in obedience to mysister's glance, I took our guest away to the harbour, to see (as Isaid) the greatest glories of the sunset: for, as I knew, my sisterwished to take my father within, and change the current of his thought. Then I rowed the doctor to North Tickle, and let the punt lie in theswell of the open sea, where it was very solemn and quiet. The sky washeavy with drifting masses of cloud, aflare with red and gold and allthe sunset colours, from the black line of coast, lying in the west, farinto the east, where sea and sky were turning gray. Indeed, it was verystill, very solemn, lying in the long, crimson swell of the great deep, while the dusk came creeping over the sea. 

"I do not wonder, " the doctor muttered, with a shudder, "that the peoplewho dwell here fear God. "

There was something familiar to me in that feeling; but for the moment Icould not make it out. 

"Zur?" I said. 

His eyes ranged timidly over the sombre waste--the vasty, splendidheavens, the coast, dark and unfeeling, the infinite, sullen sea, whichominously darkened as he looked--and he covered his face with his hands. 

"No, " he whispered, looking up, "I do not wonder that you believe inGod--and fear Him!"

Then I knew that roundabout he felt the presence of an offended God. 

"And fear Him!" he repeated. 

I levelled my finger at him. "You been wicked!" I said, knowing that myaccusation was true. 

"Yes, " he answered, "I have been wicked. "

"Is you goin' t' be good?"

"I am going to try to be good--now. "

"You isn't goin' away, is you?" I wailed. 

"I am going to stay here, " he said, gravely, "and treat the people, whoneed me, and try, in that way, to be good. "

"I'd die t' see it!" cried I. 

He laughed--and the tension vanished--and we went happily back toharbour. I had no thought that the resolution to which he had come wasin any way extraordinary. 

 * * * * *

I ran to the Rat Hole, that night, to give the great news to SkipperTommy Lovejoy and the twins. "Ecod!" the old man cried, vastlyastounded. "Is he t' stay, now? Well, well! Then they's no need goin' onwith the book. Ecod! now think o' that! An' 'tis all because your motherdied, says you, when he might have saved her! Ah, Davy, the ways o' Godis strange. He manages somehow t' work a blessin' with death an' wreck. 'I'm awful sorry for they poor children, ' says He, 'an' for the ownerso' that there fine ship; but I got t' have My way, ' says He, 'or theworld would never come t' much; so down goes the ship, ' says He, 'an' upcomes that dear mother t' my bosom. 'Tis no use tellin' them why, ' saysHe, 'for they wouldn't understand. An', ecod!' says He, 'while I'm aboutit I'll just put it in the mind o' that doctor-man t' stay right therean' do a day's work or two for Me. ' I'm sure He meant it--I'm sure Hemeant t' do just that--I'm sure 'twas all done o' purpose. We thinksHe's hard an' a bit free an' careless. Ecod! they's times when wethinks He fair bungles His job. He kills us, an' He cripples us, an' Hestarves us, an' He hurts our hearts; an' then, Davy, we says He's adunderhead at runnin' a world, which, says we, we could run a sightbetter, if we was able t' make one. But the Lard, Davy, does His day'swork in a seamanlike way, usin' no more crooked backs an' empty stomachsan' children's tears an' broken hearts than He can help. 'Tis little weknows about what _He's_ up to. An' 'tis wise, I'm thinkin', not t'bother about tryin' t' find out. 'Tis better t' let Him steer His owncourse an' ask no questions. I just _knowed_ He was up t' somethinggrand. I said so, Davy! 'Tis just like the hymn, lad, about His hidin' asmilin' face behind a frownin' providence. Ah, Davy, _He'll_ take careo' _we_!"

All of which, as you know, was quite characteristic of Skipper TommyLovejoy. 

XIV

In The WATCHES of The NIGHT

At once we established the doctor in our house, that he might be morecomfortably disposed; and this was by my sister's wish, who hoped to behis helper in the sweet labour of healing. And soon a strange thinghappened: once in the night--'twas late of a clear, still night--Iawoke, of no reason; nor could I fall asleep again, but lay high on thepillow, watching the stars, which peeped in at my window, companionablywinking. Then I heard the fall of feet in the house--a restless pacing:which brought me out of bed, in a twinkling, and took me tiptoeing tothe doctor's room, whence the unusual sound. But first I listened at thedoor; and when I had done that, I dared not enter, because of what Iheard, but, crouching in the darkness, must continue to listen . . . Andlisten. . . . 

 * * * * *

By and by I crept away to my sister's room, unable longer to bear theawe and sorrow in my heart. 

"Bessie!" I called, in a low whisper. 

"Ay, Davy?"

"Is you awake?"

"Ay, I'm wakeful. "

I closed the door after me--then went swiftly to her bedside, treadingwith great caution. 

"Listenin'?" I asked. 

"T' the doctor, " she answered, "walkin' the floor. "

"Is you afraid?" I whispered. 

"No. "

"I is. "

She sat up in bed--and drew me closer. "An' why, dear?" she asked, stroking my cheek. 

"Along o' what I heared in the dark, Bessie--at his door. "

"You've not been eavesdroppin', Davy?" she chided. 

"Oh, I wisht I hadn't!"

"'Twas not well done. "

The moon was up, broadly shining behind the Watchman: my sister's whitelittle room--kept sweet and dainty in the way she had--was full of softgray light; and I saw that her eyes were wide and moist. 

"He's wonderful restless, the night, " she mused. 

"He've a great grief. "

"A grief? Oh, Davy!"

"Ay, a great, great grief! He've been talkin' to hisself, Bessie. But'tis not words; 'tis mostly only sounds. "

"Naught else?"

"Oh, ay! He've said----"

"Hush!" she interrupted. "'Tis not right for me t' know. I would nothave you tell----"

I would not be stopped. "He've said, Bessie, " I continued, catchingsomething, it may be, of his agony, "he've said, 'I pay! Oh, God, Ipay!' he've said. 'Merciful Christ, hear me--oh, I pay!'"

She trembled. 

"'Tis some great grief, " said I. 

"Do you haste to his comfort, Davy, " she whispered, quickly. "'Twould bea kind thing t' do. "

"Is you sure he's wantin' me?"

"Were it me I would. "

When I had got to the doctor's door again, I hesitated, as before, fearing to go in; and once more I withdrew to my sister's room. 

"I'm not able t' go in, " I faltered. "'Tis awful, Bessie, t' hear mengoin' on--like that. "

"Like what?"

"Cryin'. "

A little while longer I sat silent with my sister--until, indeed, therestless footfalls ceased, and the blessed quiet of night fell onceagain. 

"An', Bessie, " said I, "he said a queer thing. "

She glanced a question. 

"He said your name!"

She was much interested--but hopelessly puzzled. For a moment she gazedintently at the stars. Then she sighed. 

"He've a great grief, " I repeated, sighing, "an' he've been wicked. "

"Oh, no--not wicked!"

"Ay, " I persisted, gently, "wicked; for he've told me so with his owntongue. "

"Not wicked!"

"But he've _said_ so, " I insisted, nettled, on the instant, by mysister's perversity. 

"I'm thinkin' he couldn't be, " she said. 

"Sure, why not?" I demanded. 

She looked away for a moment--through the window, into the far, starlitsky, which the light of the moon was fast paling; and I thought myquestion forgot. 

"Why not, sister?"

"I--don't know--why not!" she whispered. 

 * * * * *

I kissed my sister good-night, while yet she puzzled over this, andslipped off to my own room, lifting my night-dress, as I tiptoed along, lest I trip and by some clumsy commotion awake my friend to hisbitterness. Once back in my bed--once again lying alone in the tranquilnight--I found the stars still peeping in at my window, still twinklingcompanionably, as I had left them. And I thought, as my mother hadtaught me, of these little watchmen, serene, constant, wise in theirgreat remoteness--and of him who lay in unquiet sleep near by--and, then, understanding nothing of the mystery, nor caring to know, but nowsecure in the unquestioning faith of childhood, I closed my eyes tosleep: for the stars still shone on, flashing each its little message ofserenity to the troubled world. 

XV

THE WOLF

In course of time, the mail-boat cleared our harbour of wrecked folk;and within three weeks of that day my father was cast away on Ill WindHead: being alone on the way to Preaching Cove with the skiff, at themoment, for fish to fill out the bulk of our first shipment to themarket at St. John's, our own catch having disappointed the expectationof us every one. My sister and I were then left to manage my father'sbusiness as best we could: which we must determine to do, come weal orwoe, for we knew no other way. My sister said, moreover, that, whetherwe grew rich or poor, 'twas wise and kind to do our best, lest ourfather's folk, who had ever been loyal to his trade, come upon eviltimes at the hands of traders less careful of their welfare. Largeproblems of management we did not perceive, but only the simple, immediate labour, to which we turned with naively willing heads andhands, sure that, because of the love abroad in all the world, no evilwould befall us. 

"'Twill be fortune, " my sister said, in her sweet and hopeful way; "forthe big world is good, Davy, " said she, "to such as are bereft. "

"I'm not so sure o' that. "

"Ay, " she repeated, unshaken, "the world is kind. "

"You is but a girl, Bessie, " said I, "an' not well acquaint with the wayo' the world. Still an' all, " I mused, "Skipper Tommy says 'tis kind, an' he've growed wonderful used t' livin'. "

"We'll not fear the world. "

"No, no! We'll not fear it. I'll be a man, sister, for your sake. "

"An' I a true woman, " said she, "for yours. "

To Tom Tot we gave the handling of the fish and stores, resolving, also, to stand upon his judgment in the matter of dealing supplies to thethriftless and the unfortunate, whether generously or with a sparinghand, for the men of our harbour were known to him, every one, instrength and conscience and will for toil. As for the shop, said we, wewould mind it ourselves, for 'twas but play to do it; and thus, indeed, it turned out: so hearty was the sport it provided that my sister and Iwould hilariously race for the big key (which hung on a high nail in thedining-room) whenever a customer came. I would not have you think usunfeeling. God knows, we were not that! 'Twas this way with us: each hidthe pain, and thus thought to deceive the other into a happier mood. Wedid well enough in the shop; but we could make neither head nor tail ofthe books in my father's safe; and when our bewilderment and heartachecame to ears of the doctor he said that he would himself manage theletters and keep the books in the intervals of healing the sick: which, with a medicine chest they had brought ashore from the wreck, he hadalready begun to practice. 

It seemed, then, to my sister and me, that the current of our life oncemore ran smooth. 

 * * * * *

And Jagger of Wayfarer's Tickle--the same who sat at cards with themail-boat doctor and beat his dog with the butt of a whip--having gotnews of my father's death, came presently to our harbour, with that inmind which jumped ill with our plans. We had dispiriting weather: a rawwind bowled in from the northeast, whipping the fog apace; and the sea, as though worried out of patience, broke in a short, white-capped lop, running at cross purposes with the ground swell. 'Twas evil sailing forsmall craft: so whence came this man's courage for the passage 'tis pastme even now to fathom; for he had no liking to be at sea, but, rather, cursed the need of putting out, without fail, and lay prone below atsuch unhappy times as the sloop chanced to toss in rough waters, praying all the time with amazing ferocity. Howbeit, across the bay hecame, his lee rail smothered; and when he had landed, he shook hisgigantic fist at the sea and burst into a triumphant bellow ofblasphemy, most thrilling (as we were told) to hear: whereafter, with alarge air (as of prospective ownership), he inspected the flakes andstorehouses, heartily condemned them, wished our gaping crew toperdition, and, out of breath at last, moved up the path to our house, his great dog hanging like a shadow at his heels--having come and goneon the wharves, as Tom Tot said, like a gale o' wind. 

My sister and I sat dreaming in the evening light--wherein, of softshadows and western glory, fine futures may by any one be fashioned. 

"'Tis rich, " said I, "that _I'm_ wantin' t' be. "

"Not I, " said she. 

"Not you?"

"Not rich, " she answered, "but helpful t' such as do the work o' theworld. "

"T' me, Bessie?"

"Ay, " with a smile and half a sigh, "t' you. "

"An' only me? I'd not be selfish with you. Is you wishin' t' behelpful--only t' me?"

"No. "

"T' him?"

"An it please you, " she softly answered. 

"An' we t' you, Bessie!" I cried, in a rapture, kissing her plump littlehand, which lay over my shoulder, convenient to my lips. "Ay, for yourloving-kindness, my sister!"

"'Tis t' you, first of all, Davy, " she protested, quickly, "that I'mwishin' t' be helpful; an' then t' him, an' then t'----"

"T' who?" I demanded, frowning. 

"All the world, " said she. 

"Very well, " said I, much relieved to find that the interloper was nomore to be dreaded. "I'll not mind _that_. 'Tis as you like. You'll helpwhomso you please--an' as many. For I'm t' be rich. Rich--look you! I'llhave seven schooners t' sail the northern Labrador, as the doctor says. I'll never be content with less. Seven I'll have, my dear, t' fish fromthe Straits t' Chidley. I'll have the twins t' be masters o' two; butI'll sail the big one--the swift one--the hundred-tonner--ay, lass, I'llsail she, with me own hands. An', ecod! Bessie, _I'll_ crack it on!"

"You'll not be rash, dear?" said she, anxiously. 

"Rash!" laughed I. "I'll cut off the reef points! Rash? There won't be askipper can carry sail with me! I'll get the fish--an' I'll see to itthat my masters does. Then I'll push our trade north an' south. Ay, Iwill! Oh, I knows what I'll do, Bessie, for I been talkin' with thedoctor, an' we got it split an' dried. Hard work an' fair dealing, mum;that's what's t' do it. Our father's way, mum: honest scales on thewharf an' full weight at the counter. 'Twill be that or bust----"

"Why, Davy, " she exclaimed, her eyes flashing, "you're talkin' like agrowed man!"

"Ay, ecod!" I boasted, flattered by the inference, "'twill not be manyyears afore we does more trade in our harbour than they does at the bigstores o' Wayfarer's Tickle. "

A low growl, coming from the shadows in the hall, brought me to a fullstop; and upon the heels of that a fantastic ejaculation:

"Scuttle me!"

So sudden and savage the outburst, so raucous the voice, so charged withangry chagrin--the whole so incongruous with soft dreams and eveninglight--that 'twas in a shiver of terror my sister and I turned todiscover whose presence had disturbed us. 

 * * * * *

The intruder stood in the door--a stubby, grossly stout man, thin-legged, thick-necked, all body and beard: clad below in tighttrousers, falling loose, however, over the boots; swathed above in anabsurdly inadequate pea-jacket, short in the sleeves and buttoned tightover a monstrous paunch, which laboured (and that right sturdily) toburst the bonds of its confinement, but succeeded only in creating avast confusion of wrinkles. His attitude was that of a man for themoment amazed beyond utterance: his head was thrown back, so that of hisface nothing was to be seen but a short, ragged growth of iron-graybeard and a ridge of bushy eyebrow; his hands were plunged deep in histrousers pockets, which the fists distended; his legs, the left deformed(being bent inward at the knee), were spread wide. In the shadows beyondlurked a huge dog--a mighty, sullen beast, which came stepping up, withlowered head, to peer at us from between his master's legs. 

"I'll be scuttled, " said the man, bringing his head forward with a jerk, "if the little cock wouldn't cut into the trade o' Wayfarer's Tickle!"

Having thus in a measure mastered his amazement (and not waiting to bebidden), he emerged from the obscurity of the doorway, advanced, limpingheavily, and sat himself in my father's chair, from which, his bandylegs comfortably hanging from the table, where he had disposed his feet, he regarded me in a way so sinister--with a glance so fixed andill-intentioned--that his great, hairy face, malformed and mottled, isclear to me to this day, to its last pimple and wrinkle, its bulbous, flaming nose and bloodshot eyes, as though 'twere yesterday I saw it. And there he sat, puffing angrily, blowing his nose like a whale, scowling, ejaculating, until (as I've no doubt) he conceived us to havebeen reduced to a condition of trepidation wherein he might most easilyovermaster us. 

"Scuttled!" he repeated, fetching his paunch a resounding thwack. "Bored!"

Thereupon he drew from the depths of his trousers pocket a disreputableclay pipe, filled it, got it alight, noisily puffed it, darting littleglances at my sister and me the while, in the way of one outraged--nowof reproach, now of righteous indignation, now betraying uttermostdisappointment--for all the world as though he had been pained tosurprise us in the thick of a conspiracy to wrong him, but, being of ameek and most forgiving disposition, would overlook the offense, though'twas beyond his power, however willing the spirit, to hide the woundour guilt had dealt him. Whatever the object of this display, it gave mea great itching to retreat behind my sister's skirts, for fear andshame. And, as it appeared, he was quick to conjecture my feeling: forat once he dropped the fantastic manner and proceeded to a quiet andappallingly lucid statement of his business. 

"I'm Jagger o' Wayfarer's Tickle, " said he, "an' I'm come t' take overthis trade. "

"'Tis not for sale, " my sister answered. 

"I wants the trade o' this harbour, " said he, ignoring her, "on mybooks. An' I got t' have it. "

"We're wantin' my father's business, " my sister persisted, but faintlynow, "for Davy, when he's growed. "

"I'm able t' buy you out, " Jagger pursued, addressing the ceiling, "orrun you out. 'Tis cheaper an' quicker t' buy you out. Now, " dropping hiseyes suddenly to my sister's, "how much are you askin' for this heretrade?"

"'Tis not for sale. "

"Not for sale?" roared he, jumping up. 

"No, zur, " she gasped. 

"If I can't buy it, " he cried, in a rage, driving the threat home withan oath peculiarly unfit for the ears of women, "I'll break it!"

Which brought tears to my tender sister's eyes; whereupon, with a goodround oath to match his own, I flew at him, in a red passion, and, beingat all times agile and now moved to extraordinary effort, managed toinflict some damage on his shins before he was well aware of myintention--and that so painful that he yelped like a hurt cur. But hecaught me by the arms, which he jammed against my ribs, lifted me high, cruelly shaking me, and sat me on the edge of the table in a fashion sosudden and violent that my teeth came together with a snap: having donewhich, he trapped my legs with his paunch, and thus held me in duranceimpotent and humiliating, so that I felt mean, indeed, to come to sucha pass after an attack impetuously undertaken and executed with nolittle gallantry and effect. And he brought his face close to mine, hiseyes flaring and winking with rage, his lips lifted from his yellow, broken teeth; and 'twas in his mind, as I perceived, to beat me as I hadnever been beaten before. 

"Ye crab!" he began. "Ye little----"

"The dog!" my sister screamed. 

'Twas timely warning: for the dog was crouched in the hall, his musclestaut for the spring, his king-hairs bristling, his fangs exposed. 

"Down!" shrieks Jagger. 

The diversion released me. Jagger sprang away; and I saw, in a flash, that his concern was not for me, but for himself, upon whom the dog'sbaleful glance was fastened. There was now no ring of mastery in hisvoice, as there had been on the mail-boat, but the shiver of panic; andthis, it may be, the dog detected, for he settled more alertly, pawingthe floor with his forefeet, as though seeking firmer foothold fromwhich to leap. As once before, I wished the beast well in the issue;indeed, I hoped 'twould be the throat and a fair grip! But Jagger caughta billet of wood from the box, and, with a hoarse, stifledcry--frightful to hear--drew back to throw. Then the doctor's lightstep sounded in the hall, and in he came, brushing past the dog, whichslunk away into the shadows. For a moment he regarded us curiously, andthen, his brows falling in a quick frown, he laid his medicine case onmy sister's sewing-machine, with never a word, and went to the window, where he stood idle, gazing out over the darkening prospect of sea androck and upon great clouds flushed with lurid colour. 

There was silence in the room--which none of us who waited found thewill to break. 

"Jagger"--said the doctor. 

The voice was low--almost a drawl--but mightily authoritative: beingwithout trace of feeling, but superior to passion, majestic. 

"Ay, sir?"

"Go!"

The doctor still stood with his back to us, still gazed, continuingtranquil, through the broad window to the world without. And Jagger, overmastered by this confident assumption of authority, went away, as hewas bidden, casting backward glances, ominous of machinations to come. 

 * * * * *

What Jagger uttered on my father's wharf--what on the deck of the sloopwhile he moored his dog to the windlass for a beating--what he flungback while she gathered way--strangely moved Tom Tot, who hearkened, spellbound, until the last words of it (and the last yelp of the dog)were lost in the distance of North Tickle: it impelled the old man (ashe has said many a time) to go wash his hands. But 'tis of small momentbeside what the doctor said when informed of the occurrences in ourhouse: being this, that he must have a partnership in our firm, because, first, it was in his heart to help my sister and me, who had been kindto him and were now like sheep fallen in with a wolf-pack, and second, because by thus establishing himself on the coast he might avert thesuspicion of the folk from such good works as he had in contemplation. 

"More than that, " said he, "we will prove fair dealing possible here aselsewhere. It needs but courage and--money. "

"I'm thinkin', " my sister said, "that Davy has the courage. "

"And I, " said he, "have the money. "

I was very glad to hear it. 

XVI

A MALADY of The HEART

In the firelight of that evening--when the maids had cleared the cozyroom and carried away the lamp and we three sat alone together in myfather's house--was planned our simple partnership in good works and thefish business. 'Tis wonderful what magic is abroad at such times--whatdreams, what sure hopes, lie in the flickering blaze, the warm, redglow, the dancing shadows; what fine aspirations unfold in hearts thatare brave and hopeful and kind. Presently, we had set a fleet of newschooners afloat, put a score of new traps in the water, provedfair-dealing and prosperity the selfsame thing, visited the sick of fivehundred miles, established a hospital--transformed our wretched coast, indeed, into a place no longer ignorant of jollity and thrift andhealing. The doctor projected all with lively confidence--his eyesaflash, his lean, white hand eloquent, his tongue amazingly active andpersuasive--and with an insight so sagacious and well-informed, apurpose so pure and wise, that he revealed himself (though we did notthink of it then) not only as a man of heart but of conspicuous sense. It did not enter our minds to distrust him: because our folk are notsophisticated in polite overreaching, not given to the vice ofsuspicion, and because--well, he was what he was. 

My sister's face was aglow--most divinely radiant--with responsive faithand enthusiasm; and as for me----

"Leave me get down, " I gasped, at last, to the doctor, "or I'll bustwith delight, by heaven!"

He laughed, but unclasped his hands and let me slip from his knee; andthen I began to strut the floor, my chest puffed out to twice itsnatural extent. 

"By heaven!" I began. "If that Jagger----"

The clock struck ten. "David Roth, " my sister exclaimed, lifting herhands in mock horror, "'tis fair scandalous for a lad o' your years t'be up 't this hour!"

"Off to bed with you, you rascal!" roared the doctor. 

"I'll not go, " I protested. 

"Off with you!"

"Not I. "

"Catch un, doctor!" cried my sister. 

"An you can, zur!" I taunted. 

If he could? Ecod! He snatched at me, quick as a cat; but I dodged hishand, laughed in his face and put the table between us. With an agilitybeyond compare--with a flow of spirits like a gale of wind--he vaultedthe broad board. The great, grave fellow appeared of a sudden to mystartled vision in midair--his arms and legs at sixes and sevens--hiscoat-tails flapping like a loose sail--his mouth wide open in ademoniacal whoop--and I dropped to the floor but in the bare nick oftime to elude him. Uproarious pursuit ensued: it made my sister limp andpain-stricken and powerless with laughter; it brought our two maids fromthe kitchen and kept them hysterically screaming in the doorway, thelamp at a fearsome angle; it tumbled the furniture about with rollickingdisregard, led the doctor a staggering, scrambling, leaping course inthe midst of upturned tables and chairs, and, at last, ran the gaspingquarry to earth under the sofa. I was taken out by the heels, shouldered, carried aloft and flung sprawling on my bed--while the wholehouse rang again with peal upon peal of hearty laughter. 

"Oh, zur, " I groaned, "I never knowed you was so jolly!"

"Not so?"

"On my word, zur!"

He sighed. 

"I fancied you was never but sad. "

"Ah, well, " said he, "the Labrador, Davy, is evidently working a cure. "

"God be thanked for that!" said I, devoutly. 

He rumpled my hair and went out. And I bade him send my sister with thecandle; and while I lay waiting in the dark a glow of content came uponme--because of this: that whereas I had before felt woefully inadequateto my sister's protection, however boastfully I had undertaken it, I wasnow sure that in our new partnership her welfare and peace of heart wereto be accomplished. Then she came in and sat with me while I got readyfor bed. She had me say my prayers at her knee, as a matter of course, but this night hinted that an additional petition for the doctor'swell-doing and happiness might not be out of place. She chided me, afterthat, for the temper I had shown against Jagger and for the oath I hadflung at his head, as I knew she would--but did not chide me heartily, because, as she said, she was for the moment too gratefully happy toremember my short-comings against me. I thanked her, then, for thisindulgence, and told her that she might go to bed, for I was safely andcomfortably bestowed, as she could see, and ready for sleep; but shewould not go, and there sat, with the candle in her hand, her faceflushed and her great blue eyes soulfully glowing, while she continuedto chatter in an incoherent and strangely irrelevant fashion: so that, astonished into broad wakefulness by this extraordinary behaviour, I satbolt upright in bed, determined to discover the cause. 

"Bessie Roth, " said I, severely, "what's come upon you?"

"I'm not knowin', Davy, " she answered, softly, looking away. 

"'Tis somewhat awful, then, " said I, in alarm, "for you're not lookin'me in the eye. "

She looked then in her lap--and did not raise her eyes, though I waited:which was very strange. 

"You isn't sick, is you?"

"No-o, " she answered, doubtfully. 

"Oh, you _mustn't_ get sick, " I protested. "'Twould _never_ do. I'd fairdie--if _you_ got sick!"

"'Tisn't sickness; 'tis--I'm not knowin' what. "

"Ah, come, " I pleaded; "what is it, dear?"

"Davy, lad, " she faltered, "I'm just--dreadful--happy. "

"Happy?" cried I, scornfully. "'Tis not happiness! Why, sure, your lipis curlin' with grief!"

"But I _was_ happy. "

"You isn't happy now, my girl. "

"No, " she sobbed, "I'm wonderful miserable--now. "

I kicked off the covers. "You've the fever, that's what!" I exclaimed, jumping out of bed. 

"'Tis not that, Davy. "

"Then--oh, for pity's sake, Bessie, tell your brother what's gone wrongalong o' you!"

"I'm thinkin', Davy, " she whispered, despairingly, "that I'm nothin' buta sinful woman. "

"A--what! Why, Bessie----"

"Nothin', " she repeated, positively, "but a sinful, wicked person. "

"Who told you that?" said I, dancing about in a rage. 

"My own heart. "

"Your heart!" cried I, blind angry. "'Tis a liar an it says so. "

"What words!" she exclaimed, changed in a twinkling. "An' to yoursister! Do you get back in bed this instant, David Roth, an' tell herthat you're sorry. "

I was loath to do it, but did, to pacify her; and when she had carriedaway the candle I chuckled, for I had cured her of her indisposition forthat night, at any rate: as I knew, for when she kissed me 'twas plainthat she was more concerned for her wayward brother than for herself. 

 * * * * *

Past midnight I was awakened by the clang of the bell on my father'swharf. 'Twas an unpleasant sound. Half a gale--no less--could do it. Ithen knew that the wind had freshened and veered to the southeast; andI listened to determine how wild the night. Wild enough! The bellclanged frequently, sharply, jangling in the gusts--like an anxiouswarning. My window was black; there was no light in the sky--no starshining. Rain pattered on the roof. I heard the rush of wind. 'Twasinevitable that I should contrast the quiet of the room, the security ofmy place, the comfort of my couch and blankets, with a rain-swept, heaving deck and a tumultuous sea. A gusty night, I thought--thick, wet, with the wind rising. The sea would be in a turmoil on the grounds bydawn: there would be no fishing; and I was regretting this--betweensleep and waking--when the bell again clanged dolefully. Roused, in ameasure, I got ear of men stumbling up the path. I was into my breechesbefore they had trampled half the length of the platform--well on my waydown the dark stair when they knocked on the door--standing scared inthe light of their lantern, the door open, before they found time tohail. 

I was addressed by a gray old man in ragged oilskins. "We heared tell, "said he, mildly, wiping his dripping beard, "that you got a doctorhere. "

I said that we had. 

"Well, " he observed, in a dull, slow voice, "we got a sick man overthere t' Wreck Cove. "

"Ay?" said I. 

"An' we was sort o' wonderin', wasn't we, Skipper Tom, " another put in, "how much this doctor would be askin' t' go over an' cure un?"

"Well, ay, " the skipper admitted, taking off his sou'wester to scratchhis head, "we _did_ kind o' have that idea. "

"'Tis a wild night, " said I: in my heart doubting--and that withshame--that the doctor would venture out upon the open sea in a gale ofwind. 

"'Tis _not_ very civil, " said the skipper frankly. "I'm free t' say, " ina drawl, "that 'tis--well--rather--dirty. "

"An' he isn't got used t' sailin' yet. But----"

"No?" in mild wonder. "Isn't he, now? Well, we got a stout little skiff. Once she gets past the Thirty Devils, she'll maybe make Wreck Cove, allright--if she's handled proper. Oh, she'll maybe make it if----"

"Davy!" my sister called from above. "Do you take the men through t' thekitchen. I'll rouse the doctor an' send the maids down t' make tea. "

"Well, now, thank you kindly, miss, " Skipper Tom called up to thelanding. "That's wonderful kind. "

It was a familiar story--told while the sleepy maids put the kettle onthe fire and the fury of the gale increased. 'Twas the schooner _LuckyFisherman_, thirty tons, Tom Lisson master, hailing from Burnt Harbourof the Newfoundland Green Bay, and fishing the Labrador at Wreck Cove, with a tidy catch in the hold and four traps in the water. There hadbeen a fine run o' fish o' late; an' Bill Sparks, the splitter--with abrood of ten children to grow fat or go hungry on the venture--labouringwithout sleep and by the light of a flaring torch, had stabbed his righthand with a fish bone. The old, old story--now so sadly threadbare tome--of ignorance and uncleanliness! The hand was swollen to a wonderfulsize and grown wonderful angry--the man gone mad of pain--the crewcontemplating forcible amputation with an axe. Wonderful sad themail-boat doctor wasn't nowhere near! Wonderful sad if Bill Sparks mustlose his hand! Bill Sparks was a wonderful clever hand with thesplittin'-knife--able t' split a wonderful sight o' fish a minute. Wonderful sad if Bill Sparks's family was to be throwed on the gov'mentall along o' Bill losin' his right hand! Wonderful sad if poor BillSparks----

The doctor entered at that moment. "Who is asking for me?" he demanded, sharply. 

"Well, " Skipper Tom drawled, rising, "we was thinkin' we'd sort o' liket' see the doctor. "

"I am he, " the doctor snapped. "Yes?" inquiringly. 

"We was wonderin', doctor, " Skipper Tom answered, abashed, "what you'dcharge t' go t' Wreck Cove an'--an'--well, use the knife on a man'shand. "

"Charge? Nonsense!"

"We'd like wonderful well, " said the skipper, earnestly, "t' haveyou----"

"But--_to-night_!"

"You see, zur, " said the skipper, gently, "he've wonderful pain, an'he've broke everything breakable that we got, an' we've got un locked inthe fo'c's'le, an'----"

"Where's Wreck Cove?"

"'Tis t' the s'uth'ard, zur, " one of the men put in. "Some twelve milesbeyond the Thirty Devils. "

The doctor opened the kitchen door and stepped out. There was no doubtabout the weather. A dirty gale was blowing. Wind and rain drove in fromthe black night; and, under all the near and petty noises, sounded thegreat, deep roar of breakers. 

"Hear that?" he asked, excitedly, closing the door against the wind. 

"Ay, " the skipper admitted; "as I was tellin' the young feller, it_isn't_ so _very_ civil. "

"Civil!" cried the doctor. 

"No; not so civil that it mightn't be a bit civiller; but, now----"

"And twelve miles of open sea!"

"No, zur--no; not accordin' t' my judgment. Eleven an' a half, zur, would cover it. "

The doctor laughed. 

"An', as I was sayin', zur, " the skipper concluded, pointedly, "we justcome through it. "

My sister and I exchanged anxious glances: then turned again to thedoctor--who continued to stare at the floor. 

"Just, " one of the crew repeated, blankly, for the silence was painful, "come through it. "

The doctor looked up. "Of course, you know, " he began, quietly, with aformal smile, "I am not--accustomed to this sort of--professional call. It--rather--takes my breath away. When do we start?"

Skipper Tom took a look at the weather. "Blowin' up wonderful, " heobserved, quietly, smoothing his long hair, which the wind had put awry. "Gets real dirty long about the Thirty Devils in the dark. Don't it, Will?"

Will said that it did--indeed, it did--no doubt about that, _what_ever. 

"I s'pose, " the skipper drawled, in conclusion, "we'd as lief getunderway at dawn. "

"Very good, " said the doctor. "And--you were asking about my fee--wereyou not? You'll have to pay, you know--if you can--for I believein--that sort of thing. Could you manage three dollars?"

"We was 'lowin', " the skipper answered, "t' pay about seven when we soldthe v'y'ge in the fall. 'Tis a wonderful bad hand Bill Sparks has got. "

"Let it be seven, " said the doctor, quickly. "The balance may go, youknow, to help some poor devil who hasn't a penny. Send it to me in thefall if----"

The skipper looked up in mild inquiry. 

"Well, " said the doctor, with a nervous smile, "if we're all here, youknow. "

"Oh, " said the skipper, with a large wave of the hand, "_that's God's_business. "

They put out at dawn--into a sea as wild as ever I knew an open boat tobrave. The doctor bade us a merry good-bye; and he waved his hand, shouting that which the wind swept away, as the boat darted off towardsSouth Tickle. My sister and I went to the heads of Good Promise to watchthe little craft on her way. The clouds were low and black--torn by thewind--driving up from the southwest like mad: threatening still heavierweather. We followed the skiff with my father's glass--saw her beatbravely on, reeling through the seas, smothered in spray--until she wasbut a black speck on the vast, angry waste, and, at last, vanishedaltogether in the spume and thickening fog. Then we went back to myfather's house, prayerfully wishing the doctor safe voyage to WreckCove; and all that day, and all the next, while the gale still blew, mysister was nervous and downcast, often at the window, often on theheads, forever sighing as she went about the work of the house. And whenI saw her thus distraught and colourless--no warm light in her eyes--nobloom on her dimpled cheeks--no merry smile lurking about the corners ofher sweet mouth--I was fretted beyond description; and I determinedthis: that when the doctor got back from Wreck Cove I should report hercase to him, whether she liked it or not, with every symptom I hadobserved, and entreat him, by the love and admiration in which I heldhim, to cure her of her malady, whatever the cost. 

 * * * * *

On the evening of the third day, when the sea was gone down and the windwas blowing fair and mild from the south, I sat with my sister at thebroad window, where was the outlook upon great hills, and upon sombrewater, and upon high, glowing sky--she in my mother's rocker, placidlysewing, as my mother used to do, and I pitifully lost in my father'sarmchair, covertly gazing at her, in my father's way. 

"Is you better, this even, sister, dear?" I asked. 

"Oh, ay, " she answered, vehemently, as my mother used to do. "Muchbetter. "

"You're wonderful poorly. "

"'Tis true, " she said, putting the thread between her white littleteeth. "But, " the strand now broken, "though you'd not believe it, Davy, dear, I'm feeling--almost--nay, quite--well. "

I doubted it. "'Tis a strange sickness, " I observed, with a sigh. 

"Yes, Davy, " she said, her voice falling, her lips pursed, her browsdrawn down. "I'm not able t' make it out, at all. I'm feelin'--sowonderful--queer. "

"Is you, dear?"

"Davy Roth, " she averred, with a wag of the head so earnest that strandsof flaxen hair fell over her eyes, and she had to brush them back again, "I never felt so queer in all my life afore!"

"I'm dreadful worried about you, Bessie. "

"Hut! as for that, " said she, brightly, "I'm not thinkin' I'm goin' t'_die_, Davy. "

"Sure, you never can tell about sickness, " I sagely observed. 

"Oh, no!" said she. "I isn't got that--kind o'--sickness. "

"Well, " I insisted, triumphantly, "you're wonderful shy o' eatin' pork. "

She shuddered. 

"I wished I knowed what you had, " I exclaimed impatiently. 

"I wished you did, " she agreed, frankly, if somewhat faintly. "For, then, Davy, you'd give me a potion t' cure me. "

She drew back the curtain--for the hundredth time, I vow--and peeredtowards South Tickle. 

"What you lookin' for?" I asked. 

"I was thinkin', Davy, " she said, still gazing through the window, "thatSkipper Zach Tupper might be comin' in from the Last Chance grounds witha fish for breakfast. "

The Last Chance grounds? 'Twas ignorance beyond belief! "Bessie, " Isaid, with heat, "is you gone mad? Doesn't you know that no man in hisseven senses would fish the Last Chance grounds in a light southerlywind? Why----"

"Well, " she interrupted, with a pretty pout, "you knows so well as methat Zach Tupper haven't _got_ his seven senses. "

"Bessie!"

She peeked towards South Tickle again; and then--what a wonder-workerthe divine malady is!--she leaned eagerly forward, her sewing fallingunheeded to the floor; and her soft breast rose and fell to a rush ofsweet emotion, and her lips parted in delicious wonderment, and theblood came back to her cheeks, and her dimples were no longer pathetic, but eloquent of sweetness and innocence, and her eyes turned moist andbrilliant, glowing with the glory of womanhood first recognized, tenderand pure. Ah, my sister--lovely in person but lovelier far in heart andmind--adorably innocent--troubled and destined to infinitely deeperdistress before the end--brave and true and hopeful through all thechequered course of love! You had not known, dear heart, but thendiscovered, all in a heavenly flash, what sickness you suffered of. 

"Davy!" she whispered. 

"Ay, dear?"

"I'm knowin'--now--what ails me. "

I sat gazing at her in love and great awe. "'Tis not a wickedness, Bessie, " I declared. 

"No, no!"

"'Tis not that. No, no! I knows 'tis not a sin. "

"'Tis a holy thing, " she said, turning, her eyes wide and solemn. 

"A holy thing?"

"Ay--holy!"

I chanced to look out of the window. "Ecod!" I cried. "The Wreck Coveskiff is in with Doctor Luke!"

Unfeeling, like all lads--in love with things seen--I ran out. 

 * * * * *

The doctor came ashore at the wharf in a state of wild elation. He madea rush for me, caught me up, called to the crew of the skiff to come tothe house for tea--then shouldered me, against my laughing protest, andstarted up the path. 

"I'm back, safe and sound, " cried he. "Davy, I have been to Wreck Coveand back. "

"An' you're wonderful happy, " cried I, from the uncertain situation ofhis shoulder. 

"Happy? That's the word, Davy. I'm happy! And why?"

"Tell me. "

"I've done a good deed. I've saved a man's right hand. I've done a gooddeed for once, " he repeated, between his teeth, "by God!"

There was something contagious in all this; and (I say it by way ofapology) I was ever the lad to catch at a rousing phrase. 

"A good deed!" I exclaimed. "By God, you'll do----"

He thrashed me soundly on the spot. 

XVII

HARD PRACTICE

I bore him no grudge--the chastisement had been fairly deserved: forthen, being loosed from parental restraint, I was by half too fond ofaping the ways and words of full-grown men; and I was not unaware of thefailing. However, the prediction on the tip of my tongue--that he wouldlive to do many another good deed--would have found rich fulfillment hadit been spoken. It was soon noised the length of the coast that a doctordwelt in our harbour--one of good heart and skill and courage: to whomthe sick of every station might go for healing. In short space theinevitable came upon us: punts put in for the doctor at unseasonablehours, desperately reckless of weather; schooners beat up with men lyingill or injured in the forecastles; the folk of the neighbouring portsbrought their afflicted to be miraculously restored, and ingenuouslyquartered their dying upon us. A wretched multitude emerged from thehovels--crying, "Heal us!" And to every varied demand the doctor freelyresponded, smiling heartily, God bless him! spite of wind and weather:ready, active, merry, untiring--sad but when the only gift he bore wasthat of tender consolation. 

 * * * * *

One night there came a maid from Punch Bowl Harbour. My sister sent herto the shop, where the doctor was occupied with the accounts of ourbusiness, myself to keep him company. 'Twas a raw, black night; and sheentered with a gust of wind, which fluttered the doctor's papers, setthe lamp flaring, and, at last, escaped by way of the stove to the galefrom which it had strayed. 

"Is you the doctor?" she gasped. 

She stood with her back against the door, one hand still on the knob andthe other shading her eyes--a slender slip of a girl, her head coveredwith a shawl, now dripping. Whisps of wet black hair clung to herforehead, and rain-drops lay in the flushed hollows of her cheeks. 

"I am, " the doctor answered, cheerily, rising from his work. 

"Well, zur, " said she, "I'm Tim Hodd's maid, zur, an' I'm just come fromthe Punch Bowl in the bait-skiff, zur--for healin'. "

"And what, my child, " asked the doctor, sympathetically, "may be thematter with you?"

Looking back--with the added knowledge that I have--it seems to me thathe had no need to ask the question. The flush and gasp told the storywell enough, quite well enough: the maid was dying of consumption. 

"Me lights is floatin', zur, " she answered. 

"Your lights?"

"Ay, zur, " laying a hand on her chest. "They're floatin' wonderful high. I been tryin' t' kape un down; but, zur, 'tis no use, at all. "

With raised eyebrows the doctor turned to me. "What does she mean, Davy, " he inquired, "by her 'lights'?"

"I'm not well knowin', " said I; "but if 'tis what _we_ calls 'lights, ''tis what _you_ calls 'lungs. '"

The doctor turned sadly to the maid. 

"I been takin' shot, zur, t' weight un down, " she went on; "but, zur, 'tis no use, at all. An' Jim Butt's my man, " she added, hurriedly, in alow voice. "I'm t' be married to un when he comes up from the Narth. Does you think----"

She paused--in embarrassment, perhaps: for it may be that it was thegreat hope of this maid, as it is of all true women of our coast, tolive to be the mother of sons. 

"Go on, " the doctor quietly said. 

"Oh, does you think, zur, " she said, clasping her hands, a sob in hervoice, "that you can cure me--afore the fleet--gets home?"

"Davy, " said the doctor, hoarsely, "go to your sister. I must have aword with this maid--alone. " I went away. 

 * * * * *

We caught sight of the _Word of the Lord_ beating down from the south inlight winds--and guessed her errand--long before that trim littleschooner dropped anchor in the basin. The skipper came ashore forhealing of an angry abscess in the palm of his hand. Could the doctorcure it? To be sure--the doctor could do _that_! The man had sufferedsleepless agony for five days; he was glad that the doctor could easehis pain--glad that he was soon again to be at the fishing. Thank God, he was to be cured!

"I have only to lance and dress it, " said the doctor. "You will haverelief at once. "

"Not the knife, " the skipper groaned. "Praise God, I'll not have theknife!"

It was the doctor's first conflict with the strange doctrines of ourcoast. I still behold--as I lift my eyes from the page--his astonishmentwhen he was sternly informed that the way of the Lord was not the way ofa surgeon with a knife. Nor was the austere old fellow to be moved. Thelance, said he, was an invention of the devil himself--its use plainly adefiance of the purposes of the Creator. Thank God! he had been rearedby a Christian father of the old school. 

"No, no, doctor!" he declared, his face contorted by pain. "I'm thankin'you kindly; but I'm not carin' t' interfere with the decrees o'Providence. "

"But, man, " cried the doctor, "I _must_----"

"No!" doggedly. "I'll not stand in the Lard's way. If 'tis His will forme t' get better, I'll get better, I s'pose. If 'tis His blessed willfor me t' die, " he added, reverently, "I'll have t' die. "

"I give you my word, " said the doctor, impatiently, "that if that handis not lanced you'll be dead in three days. "

The man looked off to his schooner. 

"Three days, " the doctor repeated. 

"I'm wonderful sorry, " sighed the skipper, "but I got t' stand by theLard. "

And he _was_ dead--within three days, as we afterwards learned: even asthe doctor had said. 

 * * * * *

Once, when the doctor was off in haste to Cuddy Cove to save the life ofa mother of seven--the Cuddy Cove men had without a moment's respitepulled twelve miles against a switch of wind from the north and werestreaming sweat when they landed--once, when the doctor was thus abouthis beneficent business, a woman from Bowsprit Head brought her childto be cured, incredulous of the physician's power, but yet desperatelyseeking, as mothers will. She came timidly--her ailing child on herbosom, where, as it seemed to me, it had lain complaining since she gaveit birth. 

"I'm thinkin' he'll die, " she told my sister. 

My sister cried out against this hopelessness. 'Twas not kind to thedear Lord, said she, thus to despair. 

"They says t' Bowsprit Head, " the woman persisted, "that he'll die in afit. I'm--I'm--not wantin' him, " she faltered, "t' die--like that. "

"No, no! He'll not!"

She hushed the child in a mechanical way--being none the less tender andpatient the while--as though her arms were long accustomed to theburden, her heart used to the pain. 

"There haven't ever been no child, " said she, looking up, after amoment, "like this--afore--t' Bowsprit Head. "

My sister was silent. 

"No, " the woman sighed; "not like this one. "

"Come, come, ma'm!" I put in, confidently. "Do you leave un t' thedoctor. _He'll_ cure un. "

She looked at me quickly. "What say?" she said, as though she had notunderstood. 

"I says, " I repeated, "that the doctor will cure that one. "

"Cure un?" she asked, blankly. 

"That he will!"

She smiled--and looked up to the sky, smiling still, while she pressedthe infant to her breast. "They isn't nobody, " she whispered, "notnobody, ever said that--afore--about my baby!"

Next morning we sat her on the platform to wait for the doctor, who hadnow been gone three days. "He does better in the air, " said she. "He--he-_needs_ air!" It was melancholy weather--thick fog, with adrizzle of rain: the wind in the east, fretful and cold. All morninglong she rocked the child in her arms: now softly singing to him--nowvainly seeking to win a smile--now staring vacantly into the mist, dreaming dull dreams, while he lay in her lap. 

"He isn't come through the tickle, have he?" she asked, when I came upfrom the shop at noon. 

"He've not been sighted yet. "

"I'm thinkin' he'll be comin' soon. "

"Ay; you'll not have t' wait much longer. "

"I'm not mindin' _that_, " said she, "for I'm used t' waitin'. "

The doctor came in from the sea at evening--when the wind had freshenedto a gale, blowing bitter cold. He had been for three days and nightsfighting without sleep for the life of that mother of seven--and hadwon! Ay, she had pulled through; she was now resting in the practicedcare of the Cuddy Cove women, whose knowledge of such things had beengenerously increased. The ragged, sturdy seven still had a mother tolove and counsel them. The Cuddy Cove men spoke reverently of the deedand the man who had done it. Tired? The doctor laughed. Not he! Why, hehad been asleep under a tarpaulin all the way from Cuddy Cove! AndSkipper Elisha Timbertight had handled the skiff in the high seas socleverly, so tenderly, so watchfully--what a marvellous hand itwas!--that the man under the tarpaulin had not been awakened until thenose of the boat touched the wharf piles. But the doctor was hollow-eyedand hoarse, staggering of weariness, but cheerfully smiling, as he wentup the path to talk with the woman from Bowsprit Head. 

"You are waiting for me?" he asked. 

She was frightened--by his accent, his soft voice, his gentle manner, towhich the women of our coast are not used. But she managed to stammerthat her baby was sick. 

"'Tis his throat, " she added. 

The child was noisily fighting for breath. He gasped, writhed in herlap, struggled desperately for air, and, at last, lay panting. Sheexposed him to the doctor's gaze--a dull-eyed, scrawny, ugly babe: suchas mothers wish to hide from sight. 

"He've always been like that, " she said. "He's wonderful sick. I'vefetched un here t' be cured. "

"A pretty child, " said the doctor. 

'Twas a wondrous kind lie--told with such perfect dissimulation that itcarried the conviction of truth. 

"What say?" she asked, leaning forward. 

"A pretty child, " the doctor repeated, very distinctly. 

"They don't say that t' Bowsprit Head, zur. "

"Well--_I_ say it!"

"I'll tell un so!" she exclaimed, joyfully. "I'll tell un you said so, zur, when I gets back t' Bowsprit Head. For nobody--nobody, zur--eversaid that afore--about my baby!"

The child stirred and complained. She lifted him from her lap--rockedhim--hushed him--drew him close, rocking him all the time. 

"Have you another?"

"No, zur; 'tis me first. "

"And does he talk?" the doctor asked. 

She looked up--in a glow of pride. And she flushed gloriously while sheturned her eyes once more upon the gasping, ill-featured babe upon herbreast. 

"He said 'mama'--once!" she answered. 

In the fog--far, far away, in the distances beyond Skull Island, whichwere hidden--the doctor found at that moment some strange interest. 

"Once?" he asked, his face still turned away. 

"Ay, zur, " she solemnly declared. "I calls my God t' witness! I'm notmakin' believe, zur, " she went on, with rising excitement. "They says t'Bowsprit Head that I dreamed it, zur, but I knows I didn't. 'Twas at thedawn. He lay here, zur--here, zur--on me breast. I was wide awake, zur--waitin' for the day. Oh, he said it, zur, " she cried, crushing thechild to her bosom. "I heared un say it! 'Mama!' says he. "

"When I have cured him, " said the doctor, gently, "he will say more thanthat. "

"What say?" she gasped. 

"When I have taken--something--out of his throat--with my knife--he willbe able to say much more than that. When he has grown a little older, hewill say, 'Mama, I loves you!'"

The woman began to cry. 

 * * * * *

There is virtue for the city-bred, I fancy, in the clean salt air andsimple living of our coast--and, surely, for every one, everywhere, atonic in the performance of good deeds. Hard practice in fair and foulweather worked a vast change in the doctor. Toil and fresh air areeminent physicians. The wonder of salty wind and the hand-to-handconflict with a northern sea! They gave him health, a clear-eyed, brown, deep-breathed sort of health, and restored a strength, broad-shoulderedand lithe and playful, that was his natural heritage. With this newpower came joyous courage, indomitability of purpose, a restlessactivity of body and mind. He no longer carried the suggestion of awrecked ship; however afflicted his soul may still have been, he wasnow, in manly qualities, the man the good God designed--strong andbonnie and tender-hearted: betraying no weakness in the duties of theday. His plans shot far beyond our narrow prospect, shaming ourblindness and timidity, when he disclosed them; and hisinterests--searching, insatiable, reflective--comprehended all thattouched our work and way of life: so that, as Tom Tot was moved toexclaim, by way of an explosion of amazement, 'twas not long before hehad mastered the fish business, gill, fin and liver. And he went aboutwith hearty words on the tip of his tongue and a laugh in his grayeyes--merry the day long, whatever the fortune of it. The children ranout of the cottages to greet him as he passed by, and a multitude ofsurly, ill-conditioned dogs, which yielded the road to no one else, accepted him as a distinguished intimate. But still, and often--late inthe night--my sister and I lay awake listening to the disquieting fallof his feet as he paced his bedroom floor. And sometimes I crept to hisdoor--and hearkened--and came away, sad that I had gone. 

 * * * * *

When--autumn being come with raw winds and darkened days--the doctorsaid that he must go an errand south to St. John's and the Canadiancities before winter settled upon our coast, I was beset by melancholyfears that he would not return, but, enamoured anew of the glories ofthose storied harbours, would abandon us, though we had come to lovehim, with all our hearts. Skipper Tommy Lovejoy joined with my sister topersuade me out of these drear fancies: which (said they) wereill-conceived; for the doctor must depart a little while, else our plansfor the new sloop and little hospital (and our defense against Jagger)would go all awry. Perceiving, then, that I would not be convinced, thedoctor took me walking on the bald old Watchman, and there shamed me formistrusting him: saying, afterwards, that though it might puzzle ourharbour and utterly confound his greater world, which must now beinformed, he had in truth cast his lot with us, for good and all, counting his fortune a happy one, thus to come at last to a littlecorner of the world where good impulses, elsewhere scrawny anddisregarded, now flourished lustily in his heart. Then with delight Isaid that I would fly the big flag in welcome when the returningmail-boat came puffing through the Gate. And scampering down theWatchman went the doctor and I, hand in hand, mistrust fled, to the verythreshold of my father's house, where my sister waited, smiling to knowthat all went well again. 

Past ten o'clock of a dismal night we sat waiting for themail-boat--unstrung by anxious expectation: made wretched by the sadnessof the parting. 

"There she blows, zur!" cried Skipper Tommy, jumping up. "We'd best getaboard smartly, zur, for she'll never come through the Gate this dirtynight. "

The doctor rose, and looked, for a strained, silent moment, upon my dearsister, but with what emotion, though it sounded the deeps of passion, Icould not then conjecture. He took her hand in both of his, and held ittight, without speaking. She tried, dear heart! to meet his ardenteyes--but could not. 

"I'm wishin' you a fine voyage, zur, " she said, her voice fallen to atremulous whisper. 

He kissed the hand he held. 

"T' the south, " she added, with a swift, wondering look into his eyes, "an' back. "

"Child, " he began with feeling, "I----"

In some strange passion my sister stepped from him. "Call me that nomore!" she cried, her voice broken, her eyes wide and moist, her littlehands clinched. "Why, child!" the doctor exclaimed. "I----"

"I'm _not_ a child!"

The doctor turned helplessly to me--and I in bewilderment to mysister--to whom, again, the doctor extended his hands, but now with afrank smile, as though understanding that which still puzzled me. 

"Sister----" said he. 

"No, no!"

'Twas my nature, it may be, then to have intervened; but I was mystifiedand afraid--and felt the play of some great force, unknown and dreadful, which had inevitably cut my sister off from me, her brother, keeping heralone and helpless in the midst of it--and I quailed and kept silent. 

"Bessie!"

She took his hand. "Good-bye, zur, " she whispered, turning away, flushed. 

"Good-bye!"

The doctor went out, with a new mark upon him; and I followed, stillsilent, thinking it a poor farewell my sister had given him, but yetdivining, serenely, that all this was beyond the knowledge of lads. Idid not know, when I bade the doctor farewell and Godspeed, that hisheart tasted such bitterness as, God grant! the hearts of men do seldomfeel, and that, nobility asserting itself, he had determined never againto return: fearing to bring my sister the unhappiness of love, ratherthan the joy of it. When I had put him safe aboard, I went back to thehouse, where I found my sister sorely weeping--not for herself, shesobbed, but for him, whom she had wounded. 

XVIII

SKIPPER TOMMY GETS A LETTER

It came from the north, addressed, in pale, sprawling characters, toSkipper Tommy Lovejoy of our harbour--a crumpled, greasy, ill-odouredmissive: little enough like a letter from a lady, bearing (as wesupposed) a coy appeal to the tender passion. But----

"Ay, Davy, " my sister insisted. "'Tis from _she_. Smell it foryourself. "

I sniffed the letter. 

"Eh, Davy?"

"Well, Bessie, " I answered, doubtfully, "I'm not able t' call t' mindthis minute just how she _did_. But I'm free t' say, " regarding thestreaks and thumb-marks with quick disfavour, "that it _looks_ a lotlike her. "

My sister smiled upon me with an air of loftiest superiority. "Smell itagain, " said she. 

"Well, " I admitted, after sniffing long and carefully, "I does seem t'have got wind o'----"

"There's no deceivin' a woman's nose, " my sister declared, positively. "'Tis a letter from the woman t' Wolf Cove. "

"Then, " said I, with a frown, "we'd best burn it. "

She mused a moment. "He never got a letter afore, " she said, looking up. 

"Not many folk has, " I objected. 

"He'd be wonderful proud, " she continued, "o' just gettin' a letter. "

"But she's a wily woman, " I protested, in warning, "an' he's a mostobligin' man. I fair shiver t' think o' leadin' un into temptation. "

"'Twould do no harm, Davy, " said she, "just t' _show_ un the letter. "

"'Tis a fearful responsibility t' take. "

"'Twould please un so!" she wheedled. 

"Ah, well!" I sighed. "You're a wonderful hand at gettin' your own way, Bessie. "

 * * * * *

When the punts of our folk came sweeping through the tickles and theGate, in the twilight of that day, I went with the letter to the RatHole: knowing that Skipper Tommy would by that time be in from theHook-an'-Line grounds; for the wind was blowing fair from that quarter. I found the twins pitching the catch into the stage, with greathilarity--a joyous, frolicsome pair: in happy ignorance of whatimpended. They gave me jolly greeting: whereupon, feeling woefullyguilty, I sought the skipper in the house, where he had gone (theysaid) to get out of his sea-boots. 

I was not disposed to dodge the issue. "Skipper Tommy, " said I, bluntly, "I got a letter for you. "

He stared. 

"'Tis no joke, " said I, with a wag, "as you'll find, when you gets t'know where 'tis from; but 'tis nothin' t' be scared of. "

"Was you sayin', Davy, " he began, at last, trailing off into the silenceof utter amazement, "that you--been--gettin'--a----"

"I was sayin', " I answered, "that the mail-boat left you a letter. "

He came close. "Was you sayin', " he whispered in my ear, with a jerk ofhis head to the north, "that 'tis from----"

I nodded. 

"_She?_"

"Ay. "

He put his tongue in his cheek--and gave me a slow, sly wink. "Ecod!"said he. 

I was then mystified by his strange behaviour: this occurring while hemade ready for the splitting-table. He chuckled, he tweaked his longnose until it flared, he scratched his head, he sighed, he scowled, hebroke into vociferous laughter; and he muttered "Ecod!" an innumerablenumber of times, voicing, thereby, the gamut of human emotions and thedegrees thereof, from lowest melancholy to a crafty sort of cynicism andthence to the height of smug elation. And, presently, when he had peereddown the path to the stage, where the twins were forking the fish, heapproached, stepping mysteriously, his gigantic forefinger raised in acaution to hush. 

"Davy, " he whispered, "you isn't got that letter _aboard_ o' you, isyou?"

My heart misgave me; but--I nodded. 

"Well, well!" cried he. "I'm thinkin', " he added, his surprise somewhatmitigated by curiosity, "that you'll be havin' it in your jacketpocket. "

"Ay, " was my sharp reply; "but I'll not read it. "

"No, no!" said he, severely, lifting a protesting hand, which he had nowencased in a reeking splitting-mit. "I'd not _have_ you read it. Sure, I'd never 'low _that_! Was you thinkin', David Roth, " now soreproachfully that my doubts seemed treasonable, "that I'd _want_ youto? Me--that nibbled once? Not I, lad! But as you _does_ happen t' havethat letter in your jacket, you wouldn't mind me just takin' a _look_ atit, would you?"

I produced the crumpled missive--with a sigh: for the skipper's driftwas apparent. 

"My letter!" said he, gazing raptly. "Davy, lad, I'd kind o'--liket'--just t'--_feel_ it. They wouldn't be no hurt in me _holdin'_ it, would they?"

I passed it over. 

"Now, Davy, " he declared, his head on one side, the letter held gingerlybefore him, "I wouldn't read that letter an I could. No, lad--not an Icould! But I've heared tell she had a deal o' l'arnin'; an' I'd kindo'--like t'--take a peek inside. Just, " he added, hurriedly, "t' seewhat power she had for writin'. "

This pretense to a purely artistic interest in the production waswondrously trying to the patience. 

"Skipper Davy, " he went on, awkwardly, skippering me with a guile thatwas shameless, "it bein' from a woman--bein' from a _woman_, now, saysI--'twould be no more 'n po-lite t' open it. Come, now, Davy!" hechallenged. "You wouldn't _say_ 'twould be more 'n po-lite, would you?It bein' from a lone woman?"

I made no answer: for, at that moment, I caught sight of the twins, listening with open-mouthed interest from the threshold. 

"I wonders, Davy, " the skipper confided, taking the leap, at last, "whatshe've gone an' writ!"

"Jacky, " I burst out, in disgust, turning to the twins, "I just _knowed_he'd get t' wonderin'!"

Skipper Tommy started: he grew shamefaced, all in a moment; and heseemed now first conscious of guilty wishes. 

"Timmie, " said Jacky, hoarsely, from the doorway, "she've writ. "

"Ay, Jacky, " Timmie echoed, "she've certain gone an' done it. "

They entered. 

"I been--sort o'--gettin' a letter, lads, " the skipper stammered: a hintof pride in his manner. "It come ashore, " he added, with importance, "from the mail-boat. "

"Dad, " Timmie asked, sorrowfully, "is you been askin' Davy t' read thatletter?"

"Well, no, Timmie, " the skipper drawled, tweaking his nose; "'tisn'tquite so bad. But I been wonderin'----"

"Oh, is you!" Jacky broke in. "Timmie, " said he, grinning, "dad's beenwonderin'!"

"Is he?" Timmie asked, assuming innocence. "Wonderin'?"

"Wasn't you sayin' so, dad?"

"Well, " the skipper admitted, "havin' _said_ so, I'll not gainsay it. I_was_ wonderin'----"

"An' you _knowin'_, " sighed Timmie, "that you're an obligin' man!"

"Dad, " Jacky demanded, "didn't the Lard kindly send a switch o' windfrom the sou'east t' save you oncet?"

The skipper blushed uneasily. 

"Does you think, " Timmie pursued, "that He'll turn His hand _again_ t'save you?"

"Well----"

"Look you, dad, " said Jacky, "isn't you got in trouble enough all alongo' wonderin' too much?"

"Well, " the skipper exclaimed, badgered into self-assertion, "I _was_wonderin'; but since you two lads come in I been _thinkin'_. Since themtwo twins o' mine come in, Davy, " he repeated, turning to me, his eyessparkling with fatherly affection, "I been thinkin' 'twould be a fineplan t' tack this letter t' the wall for a warnin' t' the household aginthe wiles o' women!"

Timmie and Jacky silently embraced--containing their delight as bestthey could, though it pained them. 

"Not, " the skipper continued, "that I'll have a word said agin' thatwoman: which I won't, " said he, "nor no other. The Lard knowed what Hewas about. He made them with His own hands, an' if _He_ was willin' t'take the responsibility, us men can do no less than stand by an' weatherit out. 'Tis my own idea that He was more sot on fine lines than sailin'qualities when He whittled His model. 'I'll make a craft, ' says He, 'forlooks, an' I'll pay no heed, ' says He, 't' the cranks she may have, hopin' for the best. ' An' He done it! That He did! They're tidycraft--oh, ay, they're wonderful tidy craft--but 'tis Lard help un in agale o' wind! An' the Lard made _she_, " he continued, reverting to thewoman from Wolf Cove, "after her kind, a woman, acquaint with the wileso' women, actin' accordin' t' nature An', " he declared, irrelevantly, "_'tis_ gettin' close t' winter, an' _'twould_ be comfortable t' have aman t' tend the fires. She _do_ be of a designin' turn o' mind, " heproceeded, "which is accordin' t' the nature o' women, puttin' no blameon her, an' she's not a wonderful lot for looks an' temper; but, "impressively lifting his hand, voice and manner awed, "she've l'arnin', which is ek'al t' looks, if not t' temper. So, " said he, "we'll saynothin' agin' her, but just tack this letter t' the wall, an' go splitthe fish. But, " when the letter had thus been disposed of, "I wonderwhat----"

"Come on, dad!"

He put an arm around each of the grinning twins, and Timmie put an armaround me; and thus we went pell-mell down to the stage, where we had anuproarious time splitting the day's catch. 

 * * * * *

You must know, now, that all this time we had been busy with the fish, dawn to dark; that beyond our little lives, while, intent upon theirsmall concerns, we lived them, a great and lovely work was wrought uponour barren coast: as every year, unfailingly, to the glory of God, whomade such hearts as beat under the brown, hairy breasts of our men. From the Strait to Chidley, our folk and their kin from Newfoundlandwith hook and net reaped the harvest from the sea--a vast, sullen sea, unwilling to yield: sourly striving to withhold the good Lord's bountyfrom the stout and merry fellows who had with lively courage put out togather it. 'Twas catch and split and stow away! In the dawn of stormydays and sunny ones--contemptuous of the gray wind and reachingseas--the skiffs came and went. From headland to headland--dodging thereefs, escaping the shifting peril of ice, outwitting the driftingmists--little schooners chased the fish. Wave and rock and wind andbergs--separate dangers, allied with night and fog and sleety rain--wereblithely encountered. Sometimes, to be sure, they wreaked their purpose;but, notwithstanding, day by day the schooners sailed and the skiffs putout to the open, and fish were cheerily taken from the sea. Spite ofall, the splitting-knives flashed, and torches flared on the decks andin the mud huts ashore. Barren hills--the bleak and uninhabited placesof the northern coast--for a season reflected the lurid glow and echoedthe song and shout. Thanks be to God, the fleet was loading!

In the drear autumn weather a cloud of sail went to thes'uth'ard--doughty little schooners, decks awash: beating up to the homeports. 

XIX

The FATE of The MAIL-BOAT DOCTOR

My flag flapped a welcome in the sunny wind as the mail-boat camecreeping through the Gate and with a great rattle and splatter droppedanchor in the basin off my father's wharf: for through my father's longglass I had from the summit of the Watchman long before spied the doctoraboard. He landed in fine fettle--clear-eyed, smiling, quick to extendhis strong, warm hand: having cheery words for the folk ashore, andeager, homesick glances for the bleak hills of our harbour. Ecod! but hewas splendidly glad to be home. I had as lief fall into the arms of ablack bear as ever again to be greeted in a way so careless of my breathand bones! But, at last, with a joyous little laugh, he left me to gaspmyself to life again, and went bounding up the path. I managed to catchmy wind in time to follow; 'twas in my mind to spy upon his meeting withmy sister; nor would I be thwarted: for I had for many days beentroubled by what happened when they parted, and now heartily wished theunhappy difference forgot. So from a corner of the hillside flake Iwatched lynx-eyed; but I could detect nothing amiss--no hint ofill-feeling or reserve: only frank gladness in smile and glance andhandclasp. And being well content with this, I went back to the wharf tolend Tom Tot a hand with the landing of the winter supplies, the medicalstores, the outfit for the projected sloop: all of which the doctor hadbrought with him from St. John's. 

 * * * * *

"And not only that, " said the doctor, that night, concluding hisnarrative of busy days in the city, "but I have been appointed, " with agreat affectation of pomposity, "the magistrate for this district!"

We were not impressed. "The magistrate?" I mused. "What's that?"

"What's a magistrate!" cried he. 

"Ay, " said I. "I never seed one. "

"The man who enforces the law, to be sure!"

"The law?" said I. "What's that?"

"The law of the land, Davy, " he began, near dumbfounded, "is forthe----"

My sister got suddenly much excited. "I've heard tell aboutmagistrates, " she interrupted, speaking eagerly, the light dancingmerrily in her eyes. "Come, tell me! is they able t'----"

She stuttered to a full stop, blushing. "Out with it, my dear, " said I. 

"Marry folk?" she asked. 

"They may, " said the doctor. 

"Oh, Davy!"

"Whoop!" screamed I, leaping up. "You're never tellin' me that! Quick, Bessie! Come, doctor! They been waitin' this twenty year. "

I caught his right hand, Bessie his left; and out we dragged him, payingno heed to his questions, which, by and by, he abandoned, because helaughed so hard. And down the path we sped--along the road--by the turnto Cut-Throat Cove--until, at last, we came to the cottage of AuntAmanda and Uncle Joe Bow, whom we threw into a fluster with our news. When the doctor was informed of the exigency of the situation, hemarried them on the spot, improvising a ceremony, without a moment'shesitation, as though he had been used to it all his life: a family ofsix meanwhile grinning with delight and embarrassment. 

"You sees, zur, " Uncle Joe explained, when 'twas over, "we never had nochance afore. 'Manda an' me was down narth when the last parson comethis way. An' 'Manda she've been wantin'----"

"T' have it done, " Aunt Amanda put in, patting the curly head of thesmallest Bow, "afore----"

"Ay, " said Uncle Joe, "wantin' t' have it done, shipshape, aforeshe----"

"Died, " Aunt Amanda concluded. 

By this time the amazing news had spread. Far and near the guns werepopping a salute--which set the dogs a-howling: so that the noise washeartrending. Presently the neighbours began to gather: whereupon (forthe cottage was small) we took our leave, giving the pair good wishesfor the continuance of a happy married life. And when we got to ourhouse we found waiting in the kitchen Mag Trawl, who had that daybrought her fish from Swampy Arm--a dull girl, slatternly, shiftless:the mother of two young sons. 

"I heared tell, " she drawled, addressing the doctor, but lookingelsewhere, "that you're just after marryin' Aunt Amanda. "

The doctor nodded. 

"I 'low, " she went on, after an empty pause, "that I wants t' getmarried, too. "

"Where's the man?"

"Jim he 'lowed two year ago, " she said, staring at the ceiling, "thatwe'd go south an' have it done this season if no parson come. "

"Bring the man, " said the doctor, briskily. 

"Well, zur, " said she, "Jim ain't here. You couldn't do it 'ithout Jimbein' here, could you?"

"Oh, no!"

"I 'lowed you might be able, " she said, with a little sigh, "if youtried. But you couldn't, says you?"

"No. "

"Jim he 'lowed two year ago it ought t' be done. You couldn't do itnohow?"

The doctor shook his head. 

"Couldn't make a shift at it?"

"No. "

"Anyhow, " she sighed, rising to go, "I 'low Jim won't mind now. He'sdead. "

 * * * * *

Within three weeks the mail-boat touched our harbor for the last timethat season: being then southbound into winter quarters at St. John's. It chanced in the night--a clear time, starlit, but windy, with a highsea running beyond the harbour rocks. She came in by way of NorthTickle, lay for a time in the quiet water off our wharf, and made theopen through the Gate. From our platform we watched the shadowy bulk andwarm lights slip behind Frothy Point and the shoulder of theWatchman--hearkened for the last blast of the whistle, which came backwith the wind when the ship ran into the great swell of the sea. Then--at once mustering all our cheerfulness--we turned to our ownconcerns: wherein we soon forgot that there was any world but ours, andwere content with it. 

Tom Tot came in. 

"'Tis late for you, Tom, " said my sister, in surprise. 

"Ay, Miss Bessie, " he replied, slowly. "Wonderful late for me. But Ibeen home talkin' with my woman, " he went on, "an' we was thinkin' itover, an' she s'posed I'd best be havin' a little spell with thedoctor. "

He was very grave--and sat twirling his cap: lost in anxious thought. 

"You're not sick, Tom?"

"Sick!" he replied, indignantly. "Sure, I'd not trouble the doctor forthat! I'm troubled, " he added, quietly, looking at his cap, "along--o'Mary. "

It seemed hard for him to say. 

"She've been in service, zur, " he went on, turning to the doctor, "atWayfarer's Tickle. An' I'm fair troubled--along o' she. "

"She've not come?" my sister asked. 

For a moment Tom regarded the floor--his gaze fixed upon a protrudingknot. "She weren't aboard, Miss Bessie, " he answered, looking up, "an'she haven't sent no word. I been thinkin' I'd as lief take the skiff an'go fetch her home. "

"Go the morrow, Tom, " said I. 

"I was thinkin' I would, Davy, by your leave. Not, " he added, hastily, "that I'm afeared she've come t' harm. She's too scared o' hell forthat. But--I'm troubled. An' I'm thinkin' she might--want achance--home. "

He rose. 

"Tom, " said I, "do you take Timmie Lovejoy an' Will Watt with you. You'll need un both t' sail the skiff. "

"I'm thankin' you, Davy, lad, " said he. "'Tis kind o' you t' sparethem. "

"An' I'm wishin' you well. "

He picked at a thread in his cap. "No, " he persisted, doggedly, "shewere so wonderful scared o' hell she fair _couldn't_ come t' harm. Ibrung her up too well for that. But, " with a frown of anxious doubt, "the Jagger crew was aboard, bound home t' Newf'un'land. An'--well--I'mtroubled. They was drunk--an' Jagger was drunk--an' I asked un about mymaid--an'. . . . "

"Would he tell you nothing?" the doctor asked. 

"Well, " said Tom, turning away, "he just laughed. "

We were at that moment distracted by the footfall of men coming in hasteup the path from my father's wharf. 'Twas not hard to surmise theirerrand. My sister sighed--I ran to the door--the doctor began at once toget into his boots and greatcoat. But, to our surprise, two deck-handsfrom the mail-boat pushed their way into the room. She had returned(said they) and was now waiting off the Gate. There was need of a doctoraboard. Need of a doctor! What of the mail-boat doctor? Ah, 'twas he whowas in need. My heart bounded to hear it! And how had he come to thatpass? He had essayed to turn in--but 'twas rough water outside--and hehad caroused with Jagger's crew all the way from Wayfarer's Tickle--and'twas very rough water--and he had fallen headlong down thecompanion--and they had picked him up and put him in his berth, where helay unconscious. 

'Twas sweet news to me. "You'll not go?" I whispered to the doctor. 

He gave me a withering glance--and quietly continued to button hisgreatcoat. 

"Is you forgot what I told you?" I demanded, my voice rising. 

He would not reply. 

"Oh, don't go!" I pleaded. 

He turned up the collar of his coat--picked up his little black case ofmedicines. Then I feared that he meant indeed to go. 

"Leave un die where he lies, zur!" I wailed. 

"Come along, men!" said he to the deck-hands. 

I sprang ahead of them--flung the door shut--put my back against it:crying out against him all the while. My sister caught my wrist--Ipushed her away. Tom Tot laid his hand on my shoulder--I threw it offwith an oath. My heart was in a flame of rage and resentment. That thiscastaway should succour our enemy! I saw, again, a great, wet sweep ofdeck, glistening underfoot--heard the rush of wind, the swish ofbreaking seas, the throb and clank of engines, the rain on thepanes--once again breathed the thick, gray air of a cabin where two mensat at cards--heard the curse and blow and outcry--saw my mother lyingon the pillows, a red geranium in her thin, white hand--heard her sighand whisper: felt anew her tender longing. 

"You'll _not_ go!" I screamed. "Leave the dog t' die!"

Very gently, the doctor put his arm around me, and gave me to my sister, who drew me to her heart, whispering soft words in my ear: for I had nopower to resist, having broken into sobs. Then they went out: and uponthis I broke roughly from my sister, and ran to my own room; and I threwmyself on my bed, and there lay in the dark, crying bitterly--notbecause the doctor had gone his errand against my will, but because mymother was dead, and I should never hear her voice again, nor touch herhand, nor feel her lips against my cheek. And there I lay alone, indeepest woe, until the doctor came again; and when I heard him on thestair--and while he drew a chair to my bed and felt about for myhand--I still sobbed: but no longer hated him, for I had all the timebeen thinking of my mother in a better way. 

"Davy, " he said, gravely, "the man is dead. "

"I'm glad!" I cried. 

He ignored this. "I find it hard, Davy, " said he, after a pause, "not toresent your displeasure. Did I not know you so well--were I less fond ofthe real Davy Roth--I should have you ask my pardon. However, I have notcome up to tell you that; but this: you can, perhaps, with a good hearthold enmity against a dying man; but the physician, Davy, may not. Doyou understand, Davy?"

"I'm sorry I done what I did, zur, " I muttered, contritely. "But I'mwonderful glad the man's dead. "

"For shame!"

"I'm glad!"

He left me in a huff. 

"An' I'll _be_ glad, " I shouted after him, at the top of my voice, "if Igot t' go 't hell for it!"

'Twas my nature. 

 * * * * *

Tom Tot returned downcast from Wayfarer's Tickle: having for three dayssought his daughter, whom he could not find; nor was word of heranywhere to be had. Came, then, the winter--with high winds and snowand short gray days: sombre and bitter cold. Our folk fled to the tiltsat the Lodge; and we were left alone with the maids and Timmie Lovejoyin my father's house: but had no idle times, for the doctor would nothear of it, but kept us at work or play, without regard for our wishesin the matter. 'Twas the doctor's delight by day to don his new skinclothes (which my sister had finished in haste after the first fall ofsnow) and with help of Timmie Lovejoy to manage the dogs and komatik, flying here and there at top speed, with many a shout and crack of thelong whip. By night he kept school in the kitchen, which we must alldiligently attend, even to the maids: a profitable occupation, no doubt, but laborious, to say the least of it, though made tolerable by his goodhumour. By and by there came a call from Blister Harbour, which wasforty miles to the north of us, where a man had shot off hishand--another from Red Cove, eighty miles to the south--others fromBackwater Arm and Molly's Tub. And the doctor responded, afoot or withthe dogs, as seemed best at the moment: myself to bear him company; forI would have it so, and he was nothing loath. 

XX

CHRISTMAS EVE at TOPMAST TICKLE

Returning afoot from the bedside of Long John Wise at Run-by-Guess--andfrom many a bedside and wretched hearth by the way--the doctor and Istrapped our packs aback and heartily set out from the Hudson's BayCompany's post at Bread-and-Water Bay in the dawn of the day beforeChristmas: being then three weeks gone from our harbour, and, thinkingto reach it next day. We were to chance hospitality for the night; andthis must be (they told us) at the cottage of a man of the name of JonasJutt, which is at Topmast Tickle. There was a lusty old wind scamperingdown the coast, with many a sportive whirl and whoop, flinging the snowabout in vast delight--a big, rollicking winter's wind, blowing straightout of the north, at the pitch of half a gale. With this abeam we madebrave progress; but yet 'twas late at night when we floundered down thegully called Long-an'-Deep, where the drifts were overhead and each mustrescue the other from sudden misfortune: a warm glimmer of light inJonas Jutt's kitchen window to guide and hearten us. 

The doctor beat the door with his fist. "Open, open!" cried he, stillfuriously knocking. "Good Lord! will you never open?"

So gruff was the voice, so big and commanding--and so sudden was theoutcry--and so late was the night and wild the wind and far away thelittle cottage--that the three little Jutts, who then (as it turned out)sat expectant at the kitchen fire, must all at once have huddled close;and I fancy that Sammy blinked no longer at the crack in the stove, butslipped from his chair and limped to his sister, whose hand he clutched. 

"We'll freeze, I tell you!" shouted the doctor. "Open the---- Ha! Thankyou, " in a mollified way, as Skipper Jonas opened the door; and then, most engagingly: "May we come in?"

"An' welcome, zur, " said the hearty Jonas, "whoever you be! 'Tis gettin't' be a wild night. "

"Thank you. Yes--a wild night. Glad to catch sight of your light fromthe top of the hill. We'll leave the racquets here. Straight ahead?Thank you. I see the glow of a fire. "

We entered. 

"Hello!" cried the doctor, stopping short. "What's this? Kids? Good!Three of them. Ha! How are you?"

The manner of asking the question was most indignant, not to saythreatening; and a gasp and heavy frown accompanied it. By this I knewthat the doctor was about to make sport for Martha and Jimmie and SammyJutt (as their names turned out to be): which often he did for childrenby pretending to be in a great rage; and invariably they found itdelicious entertainment, for however fiercely he blustered, his eyestwinkled most merrily all the time, so that one was irresistibly movedto chuckle with delight at the sight of them, no matter how suddenly orhow terribly he drew down his brows. 

"I like kids, " said he, with a smack of the lips. "I eat 'em!"

Gurgles of delight escaped from the little Jutts--and each turned to theother: the eyes of all dancing. 

"And how are _you_?" the doctor demanded. 

His fierce little glance was indubitably directed at little Sammy, asthough, God save us! the lad had no right to be anything _but_ well, andought to be, and should be, birched on the instant if he had thetemerity to admit the smallest ache or pain from the crown of his headto the soles of his feet. But Sammy looked frankly into the flashingeyes, grinned, chuckled audibly, and lisped that he was better. 

"Better?" growled the doctor, searching Sammy's white face and skinnybody as though for evidence to the contrary. "I'll attend to _you_!"

Thereupon Skipper Jonas took us to the shed, where we laid off our packsand were brushed clean of snow; and by that time Matilda Jutt, themother of Martha and Jimmie and Sammy, had spread the table with thebest she had--little enough, God knows! being but bread and tea--and wassmiling beyond. Presently there was nothing left of the bread and tea;and then we drew up to the fire, where the little Jutts still sat, regarding us with great interest. And I observed that Martha Jutt held aletter in her hand: whereupon I divined precisely what our arrival hadinterrupted, for I was Labrador born, and knew well enough what went onin the kitchens of our land of a Christmas Eve. 

"And now, my girl, " said the doctor, "what's what?"

By this extraordinary question--delivered, as it was, in a manner thatcalled imperatively for an answer--Martha Jutt was quite nonplussed: asthe doctor had intended she should be. 

"What's what?" repeated the doctor. 

Quite startled, Martha lifted the letter from her lap. "He's not comin', zur, " she gasped, for lack of something better. 

"You're disappointed, I see, " said the doctor. "So he's not coming?"

"No, zur--not this year. "

"That's too bad. But you mustn't mind it, you know--not for an instant. What's the matter with him?"

"He've broke his leg, zur. "

"What!" cried the doctor, restored of a sudden to his natural manner. "Poor fellow! How did he come to do that?"

"Catchin' one o' they wild deer, zur. "

"Catching a deer!" the doctor exclaimed. "A most extraordinary thing. Hewas a fool to try it. How long ago?"

"Sure, it can't be more than half an hour; for he've----"

The doctor jumped up. "Where is he?" he demanded, with professionaleagerness. "It can't be far. Davy, I must get to him at once. I mustattend to that leg. Where is he?"

"Narth Pole, zur, " whispered Sammy. 

"Oh-h-h!" cried the doctor; and he sat down again, and pursed his lips, and winked at Sammy in a way most peculiar. "I _see_!"

"Ay, zur, " Jimmie rattled, eagerly. "We're fair disappointed that he'snot----"

"Ha!" the doctor interrupted. "I see. Hum! Well, now!" And having thusincoherently exclaimed for a little, the light in his eyes growingmerrier all the time, he most unaccountably worked himself into a greatrage: whereby I knew that the little Jutts were in some way to bemightily amused. "The lazy rascal!" he shouted, jumping out of hischair, and beginning to stamp the room, frowning terribly. "The fat, idle, blundering dunderhead! Did they send you that message? Did they, now? Tell me, did they? Give me that letter!" He snatched the letterfrom Martha's lap. "Sammy, " he demanded, "where did this letter comefrom?"

"Narth Pole, zur!"

Jonas Jutt blushed--and Matilda threw her apron over her head to hideher confusion. 

"And _how_ did it come?"

"Out o' the stove, zur. "

The doctor opened the letter, and paused to slap it angrily, from timeto time, as he read it. 

 _North poll_

 DEER MARTHA

 few lines is to let you know on acounts of havin broke me leg cotchin the deer Im sory im in a stat of helth not bein able so as to be out in hevy wether. Hopin you is all wel as it leves me yrs respectful SANDY CLAWS

 Fish was poor and it would not be much this yere anyways. Tel little Sammy

"Ha!" shouted the doctor, as he crushed the letter to a little ball andflung it under the table. "Ha! That's the kind of thing that happenswhen one's away from home. There you have it! Discipline gone to thedogs. System gone to the dogs. Everything gone to the dogs. Now, what doyou think of that?"

He scowled, and gritted his teeth, and puffed, and said "Ha!" in afashion so threatening that one must needs have fled the room had therenot been a curiously reassuring twinkle in his eyes. 

"What do you think of that?" he repeated, fiercely, at last. "Acountermanded order! I'll attend to _him_!" he burst out. "I'll fix thatfellow! The lazy dunderhead, I'll soon fix him! Give me pen and ink. Where's the paper? Never mind. I've some in my pack. One moment, andI'll----"

He rushed to the shed, to the great surprise and alarm of the littleJutts, and loudly called back for a candle, which Skipper Jonas carriedto him; and when he had been gone a long time, he returned with a letterin his hand, still ejaculating in a great rage. 

"See that?" said he to the three little Jutts. "Well, _that's_ for SantaClaus's clerk. That'll fix _him_. That'll blister the stupid fellow. "

"Please, zur!" whispered Martha Jutt. 

"Well?" snapped the doctor, stopping short in a rush to the stove. 

"Please, zur, " said Martha, taking courage, and laying a timid hand onhis arm. "Sure, I don't know what 'tis all about. I don't know whatblunder he've made. But I'm thinkin', zur, you'll be sorry if you actsin haste. 'Tis wise t' count a hundred. Don't be too hard on un, zur. 'Tis like the blunder may be mended. 'Tis like he'll do better nexttime. Don't be hard----"

"_Hard_ on him?" the doctor interrupted. "Hard on _him_! Hard onthat----"

"Ay, zur, " she pleaded, looking fearlessly up. "Won't you count ahundred?"

"Count it, " said he, grimly. 

Martha counted. I observed that the numbers fell slower--and yet moreslowly--from her lips, until (and she was keenly on the watch) a gentlerlook overspread the doctor's face; and then she rattled them off, asthough she feared he might change his mind once more. 

"----an' a hundred!" she concluded, breathless. 

"Well, " the doctor drawled, rubbing his nose, "I'll modify it, "whereupon Martha smiled, "just to 'blige _you_, " whereupon she blushed. 

So he scratched a deal of the letter out; then he sealed it, strode tothe stove, opened the door, flung the letter into the flames, slammedthe door, and turned with a wondrously sweet smile to the amazed littleJutts. 

"There!" he sighed. "I think that will do the trick. We'll soon know, atany rate. "

We waited, all very still, all with eyes wide open, all gazing fixedlyat the door of the stove. Then, all at once--and in the very deepest ofthe silence--the doctor uttered a startling "Ha!" leaped from his chairwith such violence that he overturned it, awkwardly upset Jimmie Jutt'sstool and sent the lad tumbling head over heels (for which he did notstop to apologize); and there was great confusion: in the midst of whichthe doctor jerked the stove door open, thrust in his arm, and snatched ablazing letter straight from the flames--all before Jimmie and Marthaand Sammy Jutt had time to recover from the daze into which the suddenuproar had thrown them. 

"There!" cried the doctor, when he had managed to extinguish the blaze. "We'll just see what's in this. Better news, I'll warrant. "

You may be sure that the little Jutts were blinking amazement. Therecould be no doubt about the authenticity of _that_ communication. Andthe doctor seemed to know it: for he calmly tore the envelope open, glanced the contents over, and turned to Martha, the broadest of grinswrinkling his face. 

"Martha Jutt, " said he, "will you _please_ be good enough to read_that_. "

And Martha read:

 _North Pole_, Dec. 24, 10:18 P. M. 

 _To Captain Blizzard, _ _Jonas Jutt's Cottage, Topmast Tickle_, _Labrador Coast. _

 RESPECTED SIR:

 Regret erroneous report. Mistake of a clerk in the Bureau of Information. Santa Claus got away at 9:36. Wind blowing due south, strong and fresh. 

 SNOW, Chief Clerk. 

Then there was a great outburst of glee. It was the doctor who raisedthe first cheer. Three times three and a tiger! And what a tiger it was!What with the treble of Sammy, which was of the thinnest description, and the treble of Martha, which was full and sure, and the treble ofJimmie, which dangerously bordered on a cracked bass, and what withMatilda's cackle and Skipper Jonas's croak and my own hoorays and thedoctor's gutteral uproar (which might have been mistaken for a verydouble bass)--what with all this, as you may be sure, the shout of thewind was nowhere. Then we joined hands--it was the doctor who began itby catching Martha and Matilda--and danced the table round, shaking ourfeet and tossing our arms, the glee ever more uproarious--danced untilwe were breathless, every one, save little Sammy, who was not asked tojoin the gambol, but sat still in his chair, and seemed to expect noinvitation. 

"Wind blowing due south, strong and fresh, " gasped Jimmie, when, atlast, we sat down. "He'll be down in a hurry, with they swift deer. My!but he'll just _whizz_ in this gale!"

"But 'tis sad 'tis too late t' get word to un, " said Martha, the smilegone from her face. 

"Sad, is it?" cried the doctor. "Sad! What's the word you want to send?"

"'Tis something for Sammy, zur. "

Sammy gave Martha a quick dig in the ribs. "'N' mama, " he lisped, reproachfully. 

"Ay, zur; we're wantin' it bad. An' does you think us could get word toun? For Sammy, zur?"

"'N' mama, " Sammy insisted. 

"We can try, at any rate, " the doctor answered, doubtfully. "Maybe wecan catch him on the way down. Where's that pen? Here we are. Now!"

He scribbled rapidly, folded the letter in great haste, and dispatchedit to Santa Claus's clerk by the simple process of throwing it in thefire. As before, he went to his pack in the shed, taking the candle withhim--the errand appeared to be really most trivial--and stayed so longthat the little Jutts, who now loved him very much (as I could see), wished that the need would not arise again. But, all in good time, hereturned, and sat to watch for the reply, intent as any of them; and, presently, he snatched the stove door open, creating great confusion inthe act, as before; and before the little Jutts could recover from thesudden surprise, he held up a smoking letter. Then he read aloud:

 "Try Hamilton Inlet. Touches there 10:48. Time of arrival at Topmast Tickle uncertain. No use waiting up. SNOW, Clerk. "

"By Jove!" exclaimed the doctor. "That's jolly! Touches Hamilton Inletat 10:48. " He consulted his watch. "It's now 10:43 and a half. We'vejust four and a half minutes. I'll get a message off at once. Where'sthat confounded pen? Ha! Here we are. Now--what is it you want for Sammyand mama?"

The three little Jutts were suddenly thrown into a fearful state ofexcitement. They tried to talk all at once; but not one of them couldframe a coherent sentence. It was most distressful to see. 

"The Exterminator!" Martha managed to jerk out, at last. 

"Oh, ay!" cried Jimmie Jutt. "Quick, zur! Write un down. Pine's PromptPain Exterminator. Warranted to cure. Please, zur, make haste. "

The doctor stared at Jimmie. 

"Oh, zur, " groaned Martha, "don't be starin' like that! Write, zur!'Twas all in the paper the prospector left last summer. Pine's PromptPain Exterminator. Cures boils, rheumatism, pains in the back an' chest, sore throat, an' all they things, an' warts on the hands by a simpleapplication with brown paper. We wants it for the rheumatiz, zur. Oh, zur----"

"None genuine without the label, " Jimmie put in, in an excited rattle. "Money refunded if no cure. Get a bottle with the label. "

The doctor laughed--laughed aloud, and laughed again. "By Jove!" heroared, "you'll get it. It's odd, but--ha, ha!--by Jove, he has it instock!"

The laughter and repeated assurance seemed vastly to encourage Jimmieand Martha--the doctor wrote like mad while he talked--but not littleSammy. All that he lisped, all that he shouted, all that he screamed, had gone unheeded. As though unable to put up with the neglect anylonger, he limped over the floor to Martha, and tugged her sleeve, andpulled at Jimmie's coat-tail, and jogged the doctor's arm, until, atlast, he attracted a measure of attention. Notwithstanding his mother'sprotests--notwithstanding her giggles and waving hands--notwithstandingthat she blushed as red as ink (until, as I perceived, her freckles wereall lost to sight)--notwithstanding that she threw her apron over herhead and rushed headlong from the room, to the imminent danger of thedoor-posts--little Sammy insisted that his mother's gift should be namedin the letter of request. 

"Quick!" cried the doctor. "What is it? We've but half a minute left. "

Sammy began to stutter. 

"Make haste, b'y!" cried Jimmie. 

"One--bottle--of--the--Magic--Egyptian--Beautifier, " said Sammy, quitedistinctly for the first time in his life. 

The doctor looked blank; but he doggedly nodded his head, nevertheless, and wrote it down; and off went the letter at precisely 10:47. 45, as thedoctor said. 

 * * * * *

Later--when the excitement had all subsided and we sat dreaming in thewarmth and glow--the doctor took little Sammy in his lap, and told himhe was a very good boy, and looked deep in his eyes, and stroked hishair, and, at last, very tenderly bared his knee. Sammy flinched atthat; and he said "Ouch!" once, and screwed up his face, when thedoctor--his gruffness all gone, his eyes gentle and sad, his hand aslight as a mother's--worked the joint, and felt the knee-cap and socketwith the tips of his fingers. 

"And is this the rheumatiz the Prompt Exterminator is to cure, Sammy?"he asked. 

"Ith, zur. "

"Ah, is _that_ where it hurts you? Right on the point of the bone, there?"

"Ith, zur. "

"And was there no fall on the rock, at all? Oh, there _was_ a fall? Andthe bruise was just there--where it hurts so much? And it's very hard tobear, isn't it?"

Sammy shook his head. 

"No? But it hurts a good deal, sometimes, does it not? That's too bad. That's very sad, indeed. But, perhaps--perhaps, Sammy--I can cure it foryou, if you are brave. And are you brave? No? Oh, I think you are. Andyou'll try to be, at any rate, won't you? Of course! That's a good boy. "

And so, with his sharp little knives, the doctor cured Sammy Jutt'sknee, while the lad lay white and still on the kitchen table. And 'twasnot hard to do; but had not the doctor chanced that way, Sammy Juttwould have been a cripple all his life. 

 * * * * *

"Doctor, zur, " said Matilda Jutt, when the children were put to bed, with Martha to watch by Sammy, who was still very sick, "is you reallygot a bottle o' Pine's Prompt?"

The doctor laughed. "An empty bottle, " said he. "I picked it up atPoverty Cove. Thought it might come useful. I'll put Sammy's medicine inthat. They'll not know the difference. And you'll treat the knee with itas I've told you. That's all. We must turn in at once; for we must begone before the children wake in the morning. "

"Oh, ay, zur; an'----" she began: but hesitated, much embarrassed. 

"Well?" the doctor asked, with a smile. 

"Would you mind puttin' some queer lookin' stuff in one o' they bottleso' yours?"

"Not in the least, " in surprise. 

"An' writin' something on a bit o' paper, " she went on, pulling at herapron, and looking down, "an' gluin' it t' the bottle?"

"Not at all. But what shall I write?"

She flushed. "'Magic Egyptian Beautifier, ' zur, " she answered; "for I'mthinkin' 'twould please little Sammy t' think that Sandy Claws leftsomething--for me--too. "

 * * * * *

If you think that the three little Jutts found nothing but bottles ofmedicine in their stockings, when they got down-stairs on Christmasmorning, you are very much mistaken. Indeed, there was much more thanthat--a great deal more than that. I will not tell you what it was; foryou might sniff, and say, "Huh! That's little enough!" But there _was_more than medicine. No man--rich man, poor man, beggarman nor thief, doctor, lawyer nor merchant chief--ever yet left a Hudson's BayCompany's post, stared in the face by the chance of having to seekhospitality of a Christmas Eve--no right-feeling man, I say, ever yetleft a Hudson's Bay Company's post, under such circumstances, withoutputting something more than medicine in his pack. I chance to know, atany rate, that upon this occasion Doctor Luke did not. And I know, too--you may be interested to learn it--that as we floundered throughthe deep snow, homeward bound, soon after dawn, the next day, he wasglad enough that he hadn't. No merry shouts came over the white milesfrom the cottage of Jonas Jutt, though I am sure that they rang theremost heartily; but the doctor did not care: he shouted merrily enoughfor himself, for he was very happy. And that's the way _you'd_ feel, too, if you spent _your_ days hunting good deeds to do. 

XXI

DOWN NORTH

When, in my father's house, that night, the Christmas revel wasover--when, last of all, in noisy glee, we had cleared the broad kitchenfloor for Sir Roger De Coverly, which we danced with the help of themaids' two swains and Skipper Tommy Lovejoy and Jacky, who had come outfrom the Lodge for the occasion (all being done to the tune of "MoneyMusk, " mercilessly wrung from an ancient accordion by TimmieLovejoy)--when, after that, we had all gathered before the great blazein the best room, we told no tales, such as we had planned to tell, butsoon fell to staring at the fire, each dreaming his own dreams. 

 * * * * *

It may be that my thoughts changed with the dying blaze--passing frommerry fancies to gray visions, trooping out of the recent weeks, of coldand hunger and squalid death in the places from which we had returned. 

"Davy!" said my sister. 

I started. 

"What in the world, " she asked, "is you thinkin' so dolefully of?"

"I been thinkin', " I answered, sighing, "o' the folk down narth. "

"Of the man at Runner's Woe?" the doctor asked. 

"No, zur. He on'y done murder. 'Twas not o' he. 'Twas o' somethingsadder than that. "

"Then 'tis too sad to tell, " he said. 

"No, " I insisted. "'Twould do well-fed folk good t' hear it. "

"What was it?" my sister asked. 

"I was thinkin'----"

Ah, but '_twas_ too sad!

"O' what?"

"O' the child at Comfort Harbour, Bessie, that starved in his mother'sarms. "

Timmie Lovejoy threw more billets on the fire. They flamed andspluttered and filled the room with cheerful light. 

"Davy, " said the doctor, "we can never cure the wretchedness of thiscoast. "

"No, zur?"

"But we can try to mitigate it. "

"We'll try, " said I. "You an' me. "

"You and I. "

"And I, " my sister said. 

Lying between the sturdy little twins, that night--where by right ofcaste I lay, for it was the warmest place in the bed--I abandoned, onceand for all, my old hope of sailing a schooner, with the decks awash. 

"Timmie!" I whispered. 

He was sound asleep. I gave him an impatient nudge in the ribs. 

"Ay, Davy?" he asked. 

"You may have my hundred-tonner, " said I. 

"What hundred-tonner?"

"The big fore-an'-after, Timmie, I'm t' have when I'm growed. You mayskipper she. You'll not wreck her, Timmie, will you?"

He was asleep. 

"Hut!" I thought, angrily. "I'll have Jacky skipper that craft, ifTimmie don't look out. "

At any rate, she was not to be for me. 

XXII

The WAY From HEART'S DELIGHT

It chanced in the spring of that year that my sister and the doctor andI came unfortuitously into a situation of grave peril: wherein (as youshall know) the doctor was precipitate in declaring a sentiment, which, it may be, he should still have kept close within his heart, withholdingit until a happier day. But for this there is some excuse: for not oneof us hoped ever again to behold the rocks and placid water of ourharbour, to continue the day's work to the timely close of the day, tosit in quiet places, to dream a fruitful future, to aspire untroubled insecurity and ease: and surely a man, whatever his disposition andstrength of mind, being all at once thus confronted, may without blamedo that which, as a reward for noble endeavour, he had hoped in allhonour to do in some far-off time. 

 * * * * *

Being bound across the bay from Heart's Delight of an ominously dullafternoon--this on a straight-away course over the ice which still clungto the coast rocks--we were caught in a change of wind and swept to seawith the floe: a rising wind, blowing with unseasonable snow from thenorthwest, which was presently black as night. Far off shore, the packwas broken in pieces by the sea, scattered broadcast by the gale; sothat by the time of deep night--while the snow still whipped past inclouds that stung and stifled us--our pan rode breaking water: whichhissed and flashed on every hand, the while ravenously eating at ournarrow raft of ice. Death waited at our feet. . . . We stood with our backsto the wind, my sister and I cowering, numb and silent, in the lee ofthe doctor. . . . Through the long night 'twas he that sheltered us. . . . Byand by he drew my sister close. She sank against his breast, andtrembled, and snuggled closer, and lay very still in his arms. . . . Iheard his voice: but was careless of the words, which the wind sweptoverhead--far into the writhing night beyond. 

"No, zur, " my sister answered. "I'm not afraid--with you. "

A long time after that, when the first light of dawn was abroad--sullenand cheerless--he spoke again. 

"Zur?" my sister asked, trembling. 

He whispered in her ear. 

"Ay, zur, " she answered. 

Then he kissed her lips. . . . 

 * * * * *

Late in the day the snow-clouds passed. Ice and black water mercilesslyencompassed us to the round horizon of gray sky. There was no hopeanywhere to be descried. . . . In the dead of night a change of wind herdedthe scattered fragments of the pack. The ice closed in upon us--greatpans, crashing together: threatening to crush our frailer one. . . . Wewere driven in a new direction. . . . Far off to leeward--somewhere deep inthe black night ahead--the floe struck the coast. We heard the evilcommotion of raftering ice. It swept towards us. Our pan stopped deadwith a jolt. The pack behind came rushing upon us. We were tilted out ofthe water--lifted clear of it all--dropped headlong with the wreck ofthe pan. . . . 

I crawled out of a shallow pool of water. "Bessie!" I screamed. "Oh, Bessie, where is you?"

The noise of the pack passed into distance--dwindling to deepestsilence. 

"Davy, " my sister called, "is you hurt?"

"Where is you, Bessie?"

"Here, dear, " she answered, softly. "The doctor has me safe. "

Guided by her sweet voice, I crept to them; and then we sat closetogether, silent all in the silent night, waiting for the dawn. . . . 

 * * * * *

We traversed a mile or more of rugged, blinding ice--the sky blue inevery part, the sun shining warm, the wind blowing light and balmy fromthe south. What with the heat, the glare, the uneven, treacherouspath--with many a pitfall to engulf us--'twas a toilsome way wetravelled. The coast lay white and forsaken beyond--desolate, inhospitable, unfamiliar: an unkindly refuge for such castaways as we. But we came gratefully to the rocks, at last, and fell exhausted in thesnow, there to die, as we thought, of hunger and sheer weariness. Andpresently the doctor rose, and, bidding us lie where we were, set out todiscover our whereabouts, that he might by chance yet succour us: whichseemed to me a hopeless venture, for the man was then near snow-blind, as I knew. . . . 

 * * * * *

Meantime, at our harbour, where the world went very well, the eye ofSkipper Tommy Lovejoy chanced in aimless roving to alight upon theletter from Wolf Cove, still securely fastened to the wall, ever visiblewarning to that happy household against the wiles o' women. I fancy that(the twins being gone to Trader's Cove to enquire for us) the mild blueeye wickedly twinkled--that it found the tender missive for the momentirresistible in fascination--that the old man approached, stepping inawe, and gazed with gnawing curiosity at the pale, sprawlingsuperscription, his very name--that he touched the envelope with histhick forefinger, just to make sure that 'twas tight in its place, beyond all peradventure of catastrophe--that, merely to provide againstits defilement by dust, he removed and fondled it--that then he wonderedconcerning its contents, until, despite his crying qualms of conscience(the twins being gone to Trader's Cove and Davy Roth off to Heart'sDelight to help the doctor heal the young son of Agatha Rundle), thisfateful dreaming altogether got the better of him. At any rate, off hehied through the wind and snow to Tom Tot's cottage: where, as fortunehad it, Tom Tot was mending a caplin seine. 

"Tom Tot, " said he, quite shamelessly, "I'm fair achin' t' know what'sin this letter. "

The harbour was cognizant of Skipper Tommy's state and standingtemptation: much concerned, as well, as to the outcome. 

"Skipper Tommy, " Tom Tot asked, and that most properly, "is you gotleave o' the boss's son?"

"Davy?"

"Ay, Davy. "

"I is not, " the skipper admitted, with becoming candour. 

"Is you spoke t' the twins?"

"I is not. "

"Then, " Tom Tot concluded, "shame on you!"

Skipper Tommy tweaked his nose. "Tom Tot, " said he, "you got a wonderfulpower for readin'. Don't you go tellin' _me_ you hasn't! I _knows_ youhas. "

"Well, " Tom Tot admitted, "as you're makin' a p'int of it, I'm fair onprint, but poor on writin'. "

"Tom Tot, " Skipper Tommy went on, with a wave (I fancy) of uttermostadmiration, "I'll stand by it that you is as good at writin' as print. That I will, " he added, recklessly, "agin the world. "

Tom Tot yielded somewhat to this blandishment. He took the profferedletter. "I isn't denyin', Skipper Tommy, " he said, "that I'm able t'make out your name on this here letter. "

"Ecod!" cried Skipper Tommy, throwing up his hands. "I knowed it!"

"I isn't denyin', " Tom Tot repeated, gravely, "that I'm _fair_ onwritin'. Fair, mark you! No more. "

"Ay, " said the skipper, "but I'm wantin' you t' know that this hereletter was writ by a woman with a wonderful sight o' l'arnin'. I'llwarrant you can read _it_. O' course, " in a large, conclusive way, "anyou _can't_----"

"Skipper Tommy, " Tom interrupted, quickly, "I isn't _sayin'_ I can't. "

"Isn't you?" innocently. "Why, Tom Tot, I was thinkin'----"

"No, zur!" Tom answered with heat. "I isn't!"

"Well, you wouldn't----"

"I will!"

"So be, " said the skipper, with a sigh of infinite satisfaction. "I'mthinkin', somehow, " he added, his sweet faith now beautifully radiant (Iam sure), as was his way, "that the Lard is mixed up in this letter. He's mixed up in 'most all that goes on, an' I'd not be s'prised if Hehad a finger in this. 'Now, ' says the Lard, 'Skipper Tommy, ' says He, 'the mail-boat went t' the trouble o' leavin' you a letter, ' says He, 'an'----'"

"Leave the Lard out o' this, " Tom Tot broke in. 

"Sure, an' why?" Skipper Tom mildly asked. 

"You've no call t' drag Un in here, " was the sour reply. "You leave Unalone. You're gettin' too wonderful free an' easy with the Lard GodA'mighty, Thomas Lovejoy. He'll be strikin' you dead in your tracks anyou don't look out. "

"Tom Tot, " the skipper began, "the Lard an' me is wonderful----"

"Leave the Lard alone, " Tom Tot snapped. "Come, now! Is you wantin' thishere letter read?"

"I is. "

Without more ado, Tom Tot opened the letter from Wolf Cove. I have nodoubt that sensitive blood flushed the bronzed, wrinkled cheeks ofSkipper Tommy Lovejoy, and that, in a burst of grinning modesty, hetweaked his nose with small regard for that sorely tried and patientmember. And I am informed that, while my old friend thus waited inecstasy, Tom Tot puzzled over the letter, for a time, to make sure thathis learning would not be discomfited in the presence of Skipper TommyLovejoy, before whom he had boasted. Then----

"Skipper Tommy, " he implored, in agony, "how long--oh, how long--is youhad this letter?"

Skipper Tommy stared. 

"How long, oh, how long?" Tom Tot repeated. 

"What's gone amiss?" Skipper Tommy entreated, touching Tom Tot's shakinghand. "It come in the fall o' the year, Tom, lad. But what's gone amissalong o' you?"

"She've been waitin'--since then? Oh, a wretched father, I!"

"Tom, lad, tell me what 'tis all about. "

"'Tis from she--Mary! 'Tis from my lass, " Tom Tot cried. "'Twas writby that doctor-woman--an' sent t' you, Skipper Tommy--t' tell me--t'break it easy--that she'd run off from Wayfarer's Tickle--because o'the sin she'd found there. I misdoubt--oh, I misdoubt--that she'vebeen afeared I'd--that I'd mistook her, poor wee thing--an' turn heroff. I call the Lard God A'mighty t' witness, " he cried, passionately, "that I'd take her home, whatever come t' pass! I calls God t' witnessthat I loves my lass! She've done no wrong, " he continued. "She've butrun away from the sin t' Wayfarer's Tickle. She've taken shelter t' WolfCove--because--she've been afeared that--I'd mistook--an' cast her off!"

"An' she's waitin' there for you?"

"Ay--for me--t' bring her home. "

"For her father t' come?"

"Her father. "

There was a moment of silence. "Tom Tot, " Skipper Tommy declared, fetching his thigh a resounding slap, "that letter's been tacked t' mywall the winter long. Is you hearin' me, Tom Tot? It's been lyin' idleagin my wall. While she've been waitin', Tom! While she've beenwaitin'!"

"Oh, ay!"

"I'm fair glad you're hearin' me, " said the skipper. "For I calls you t'witness this: that when I cotches them twins o' mine I'll thwack untill they're red, Tom Tot--till they're red and blistered below decks. An' when I cotches that young Davy Roth--when I cotches un alone, 'ithout the doctor--I'll give un double watches. "

"We'll get underway for Wolf Cove, Skipper Tommy, " said Tom Tot, "whenthe weather lightens. An' we'll fetch that lass o' mine, " he added, softly, "home. "

"That we will, Tom Tot, " said Skipper Tommy Lovejoy. 

And 'twas thus it came about that we were rescued: for, being old andwise, they chose to foot it to Wolf Cove--over the 'longshorehills--fearing to chance the punt at sea, because of the shifting ice. Midway between our harbour and Wolf Cove, they found the doctor sittingblind in the snow, but still lustily entreating the surroundingdesolation for help--raising a shout at intervals, in the manner of afaithful fog-horn. Searching in haste and great distress, they soon cameupon my sister and me, exhausted, to be sure, and that most pitiably, but not beyond the point of being heartily glad of their arrival. Thenthey made a tiny fire with birch rind and billets from Tom Tot'spack--and the fire crackled and blazed in a fashion the mostheartening--and the smutty tin kettle bubbled as busily as in the mostimmaculate of kitchens: and presently the tea and hard-bread were doingsuch service as rarely, indeed, save in our land, it is their goodfortune to achieve. And having been refreshed and roundly scolded, wewere led to the cove beyond, where we lay the night at the cottage ofTiltworthy Cutch: whence, in the morning, being by that timesufficiently restored, we set out for our harbour, under the guidance ofSkipper Tommy Lovejoy, whose continued separation from the woman at WolfCove I made sure of by commanding his presence with us. 

"You may beat me, Skipper Tommy, " said I, "when you gets me home, an' Iwish you joy of it. But home you goes!"

"But, Davy, lad, " he protested, "there's that poor Tom Tot goin' onalone----"

"Home you goes!"

"An' there's that kind-hearted doctor-woman. Sure, now, Davy, " he began, sweetly, "I'd like t' tell she----"

"That's just, " said I, "what I'm afeared of. "

Home the skipper came; and when the twins and I subsequently presentedourselves for chastisement, with solemn ceremony, gravely removingwhatever was deemed in our harbour superfluous under the circumstances, he was so affected by the spectacle that (though I wish I might writeit differently) he declared himself of opinion, fixed and unprejudiced, that of all the works of the Lord, which were many and infinitelyblessed, none so favoured the gracious world as the three contriteurchins there present: and in this ecstasy of tenderness (to our shame)quite forgot the object of our appearance. 

 * * * * *

When Tom Tot brought Mary home from Wolf Cove, my sister and the doctorand I went that night by my sister's wish to distinguish the welcome, sothat, in all our harbour, there might be no quibble or continuingsuspicion; and we found the maid cutting her father's hair in thekitchen (for she was a clever hand with the scissors and comb), asthough nothing had occurred--Skipper Tommy Lovejoy meanwhile with spiritengaging the old man in a discussion of the unfailing topic; this beingthe attitude of the Lord God Almighty towards the wretched sons of men, whether feeling or not. 

In the confusion of our entrance Mary whispered in my ear. "Davy lad, "she said, with an air of mystery, "I got home. "

"I'm glad, Mary, " I answered, "that you got home. "

"An', hist!" said she, "I got something t' tell you, " said she, her eyesflashing, "along about hell. "

"Is you?" I asked, in fear, wishing she had not. 

She nodded. 

"Is you _got_ t' tell me, Mary?"

"Davy, " she whispered, pursing her lips, in the pause regarding me witha glance so significant of darkest mystery that against my very will Iitched to share the fearful secret, "I got t'. "

"Oh, why?" I still protested. 

"I been there!" said she. 

'Twas quite enough to entice me beyond my power: after that, I keptwatch, all in a shiver of dread, for some signal; and when she had swepther father's shorn hair from the floor, and when my sister had gone withTom Tot's wife to put the swarm of little Tots to bed, and when Tom Tothad entered upon a minute description of the sin at Wayfarer's Tickle, from which his daughter, fearing sudden death and damnation, had fled, Mary beckoned me to follow: which I did. Without, in the breathless, moonlit night, I found her waiting in a shadow; and she caught me by thewrist, clutching it cruelly, and led me to the deeper shadow andseclusion of a great rock, rising from the path to the flake. 'Twas verystill and awesome, there in the dark of that black rock, with the lightof the moon lying ghostly white on all the barren world, and the long, low howl of some forsaken dog from time to time disturbing the solemnsilence. 

I was afraid. 

"Davy, lad, " she whispered, bending close, so that she could look intomy eyes, which wavered, "is you listenin'?"

"Ay, " I answered, breathless. 

Her voice was then triumphant. "I been t' hell, " said she, "an' back!"

"What's it like, Mary?"

She shuddered. 

"What's it like, " I pleaded, lusting for the unholy knowledge, "inhell?"

For a moment she stared at the moonlit hills. Her grasp on my wristrelaxed. I saw that her lips were working. 

"What's it like, " I urged, "in hell?" for I devoutly wished to have thedisclosure over with. 

"'Tis hell, " she answered, low, "at Wayfarer's Tickle. The gate t' hell!Rum an' love, Davy, dear, " she added, laying a fond hand upon my head, "leads t' hell. "

"Not love!" I cried, in sudden fear: for I had thought of the drivingsnow, of my dear sister lying in the doctor's arms, of his kiss upon herlips. "Oh, love leads t' heaven!"

"T' hell, " said she. 

"No, no!"

"T' hell. "

I suffered much in the silence--while, together, Mary and I stared atthe silent world, lying asleep in the pale light. 

"'Twas rum, " she resumed, "that sent the crew o' the _Right an' Tight_t' hell. An' 'twas a merry time they had at the gate. Ay, a merry time, with Jagger fillin' the cups an' chalkin' it down agin the fish! Butthey went t' hell. _They went t' hell_! She was lost with all hands inthe gale o' that week--lost on the Devil's Fingers--an' all hands drunk!An' Jack Ruddy o' Helpful Harbour, " she muttered, "went down along o'she. He was a bonnie lad, " she added, tenderly, "an' he kissed me bystealth in the kitchen. " Very sorrowfully she dreamed of that boisterouskiss. "But, " she concluded, "'twas love that put Eliza Hare in th'etarnal fires. "

"Not love!" I complained. 

"Davy, " she said, not deigning to answer me, "Davy, " she repeated, hervoice again rising splendidly triumphant, "I isn't goin' t' hell! ForI've looked in an' got away. The Lard'll never send me, now. Never!"

"I'm glad, Mary. "

"I'm not a goat, " she boasted. "'Twas all a mistake. I'm a sheep. That'swhat I is!"

"I'm wonderful glad. "

"But you, Davy, " she warned, putting an arm about my waist, in sincereaffection, "you better look out. "

"I isn't afeared. "

"You better look out!"

"Oh, Mary, " I faltered, "I--I--isn't _much_ afeared. "

"You better look out!"

"Leave us go home!" I begged. 

"The Lard'll ship you there an you don't look out. He've no mercy onlittle lads. "

"Oh, leave us go home!"

"He'll be cotchin' you!"

I could bear it no longer: nor wished to know any more about hell. Itook her hand, and dragged her from the black shadow of the rock: cryingout that we must now go home. Then we went back to Tom Tot's cheerfulkitchen; and there I no longer feared hell, but could not forget, try asI would, what Mary Tot had told me about love. 

 * * * * *

Skipper Tommy Lovejoy was preaching what the doctor called in his genialway "The Gospel According to Tommy. "

"Sure, now, Tom Tot, " said he, "the Lard is a Skipper o' wonderful civildisposition. 'Skipper Tommy, ' says He t' me, 'an you only does thebest----'"

"You're too free with the name o' the Lard. "

Skipper Tommy looked up in unfeigned surprise. "Oh, no, Tom, " said he, mildly, "I isn't. The Lard an' me is----"

"You're too free, " Tom Tot persisted. "Leave Un be or you'll rue it. "

"Oh, no, Tom, " said the skipper. "The Lard an' me gets along wonderfulwell together. We're _wonderful_ good friends. I isn't scared o' _He_!"

As we walked home, that night, the doctor told my sister and me that, whatever the greater world might think of the sin at Wayfarer's Tickle, whether innocuous or virulent, Jagger was beyond cavil flagrantlycorrupting our poor folk, who were simple-hearted and easy to persuade:that he was, indeed, a nuisance which must be abated, come what would. 

XXIII

The COURSE of TRUE LOVE

Symptoms of my dear sister's previous disorder now again alarminglydeveloped--sighs and downcast glances, quick flushes, infinitetenderness to us all, flashes of high spirits, wet lashes, tumultuouslybeating heart; and there were long dreams in the twilight, wherein, whenshe thought herself alone, her sweet face was at times transfigured intosome holy semblance. And perceiving these unhappy evidences, I was oncemore disquieted; and I said that I must seek the doctor's aid, that shemight be cured of the perplexing malady: though, to be sure, as then andthere I impatiently observed, the doctor seemed himself in some strangeway to have contracted it, and was doubtless quite incapable ofprescribing. 

My sister would not brook this interference. "I'm not sayin', " sheadded, "that the doctor couldn't cure me, an he had a mind to; for, Davy, dear, " with an earnest wag of her little head, "'twould not be thetruth. I'm only sayin' that I'll not have un try it. "

"Sure, why, Bessie?"

Her glance fell. "I'll not tell you why, " said she. 

"But I'm wantin' t' know. "

She pursed her lips. 

"Is you forgettin', " I demanded, "that I'm your brother?"

"No, " she faltered. 

"Then, " said I, roughly, "I'll have the doctor cure you whether you willor not!"

She took my hand, and for a moment softly stroked it, looking away. "You're much changed, dear, " she said, "since our mother died. "

"Oh, Bessie!"

"Ay, " she sighed. 

I hung my head. 'Twas a familiar bitterness. I was, indeed, not the sameas I had been. And it seems to me, now--even at this distant day--thatthis great loss works sad changes in us every one. Whether we be childor man, we are none of us the same, afterwards. 

"Davy, " my sister pleaded, "were your poor sister now t' ask you t' sayno word----"

"I would not say one word!" I broke in. "Oh, I would not!"

That was the end of it. 

 * * * * *

Next day the doctor bade me walk with him on the Watchman, so that, ashe said, he might without interruption speak a word with me: which Iwas loath to do; for he had pulled a long face of late, and had sighedand stared more than was good for our spirits, nor smiled at all, savein a way of the wryest, and was now so grave--nay, sunk deep inblear-eyed melancholy--that 'twas plain no happiness lay in prospect. 'Twas sad weather, too--cold fog in the air, the light drear, the landall wet and black, the sea swishing petulantly in the mist. I had nomind to climb the Watchman, but did, cheerily as I could, because hewished it, as was my habit. 

When we got to Beacon Rock, there was no flush of red in the doctor'scheeks, as ever there had been, no life in his voice, which not longsince had been buoyant; and his hand, while for a moment it restedaffectionately on my shoulder, shook in a way that frightened me. 

"Leave us go back!" I begged. "I'm not wantin' t' talk. "

I wished I had not come: for there was in all this some foreboding ofwretchedness. I was very much afraid. 

"I have brought you here, Davy, " he began, with grim deliberation, "totell you something about myself. I do not find it, " with a shrug and awry mouth, "a pleasant----"

"Come, zur, " I broke in, this not at all to my liking, "leave us go t'the Soldier's Ear!"

"Not an agreeable duty, " he pursued, fixing me with dull eyes, "for meto speak; nor will it be, I fancy, for you to hear. But----"

This exceeded even my utmost fears. "I dare you, zur, " said I, desperatefor a way of escape, "t' dive from Nestin' Ledge this cold day!"

He smiled--but 'twas half a sad frown; for at once he puckered hisforehead. 

"You're scared!" I taunted. 

He shook his head. 

"Oh, do come, zur!"

"No, Davy, " said he. 

I sighed. 

"For, " he added, sighing, too, "I have something to tell you, which mustnow be told. "

Whatever it was--however much he wished it said and over with--he was inno haste to begin. While, for a long time, I kicked at the rock, inanxious expectation, he sat with his hands clasped over his knee, staring deep into the drear mist at sea--beyond the breakers, past thestretch of black and restless water, far, far into the gray spaces, which held God knows what changing visions for him! I stole glances athim--not many, for then I dared not, lest I cry; and I fancied that hisdisconsolate musings must be of London, a great city, which, as he hadtold me many times, lay infinitely far away in that direction. 

"Well, Davy, old man, " he said, at last, with a quick little laugh, "hitor miss, here goes!"

"You been thinkin' o' London, " I ventured, hoping, if might be, for amoment longer to distract him. 

"But not with longing, " he answered, quickly. "I left no one to wish meback. Not one heart to want me--not one to wait for me! And I do notwish myself back. I was a dissipated fellow there, and when I turned myback on that old life, when I set out to find a place where I mightatone for those old sins, 'twas without regret, and 'twas for good andall. This, " he said, rising, "is my land. This, " he repeated, glancingnorth and south over the dripping coast, the while stretching wide hisarms, "is now my land! I love it for the opportunity it gave me. I loveit for the new man it has made me. I have forgotten the city. I love_this_ life! And I love you, Davy, " he cried, clapping his arm aroundme, "and I love----"

He stopped. 

"I knows, zur, " said I, in an awed whisper, "whom you love. "

"Bessie, " said he. 

"Ay, Bessie. "

There was now no turning away. My recent fears had been realized. I musttell him what was in my heart. 

"Mary Tot says, zur, " I gasped, "that love leads t' hell. "

He started from me. 

"I would not have my sister, " I continued, "go t' hell. For, zur, " saidI, "she'd be wonderful lonesome there. "

"To hell?" he asked, hoarsely. 

"Oh, ay!" I groaned. "T' the flames o' hell!"

"'Tis not true!" he burst out, with a radiant smile. "I know it!Love--my love for her--has led me nearer heaven than ever I hoped tobe!"

I troubled no more. Here was a holy passion. Child that I was--ignorantof love and knowing little enough of evil--I still perceived that thislove was surely of the good God Himself. I feared no more for my dearsister. She would be safe with him. 

"You may love my sister, " said I, "an you want to. You may have her. "

He frowned in a troubled way. 

"Ay, " I repeated, convinced, "you may have my dear sister. I'm notafraid. "

"Davy, " he said, now so grave that my heart jumped, "you give her to theman I am. "

"I'm not carin', " I replied, "what you was. "

"You do not know. "

Apprehension grappled with me. "I'm not wantin' t' know, " I protested. "Come, zur, " I pleaded, "leave us go home. "

"Once, Davy, " he said, "I told you that I had been wicked. "

"You're not wicked now. "

"I was. "

"I'm not carin' what you was. Oh, zur, " I cried, tugging at his hand, "leave us go home!"

"And, " said he, "a moment ago I told you that I had been a dissipatedfellow. Do you know what that means?"

"I'm not _wantin_' t' know!"

"You must know. "

I saw the peril of it all. "Oh, tell me not!" I begged. "Leave us gohome!"

"But I _must_ tell you, Davy, " said he, beginning, now in an agony ofdistress, to pace the hilltop. "It is not a matter of to-day. You areonly a lad, now; but you will grow up--and learn--and know. Oh, God, " hewhispered, looking up to the frowning sky, laying, the while, his handupon my head, "if only we could continue like this child! If only we_need_ not know! I want you, Davy, " he continued, once more addressingme, "when you grow up, to know, to recall, whatever happens, that I wasfair, fair to you and fair to her, whom you love. You are not like otherlads. It is your _place_, I think, in this little community, that makesyou different. _You_ can understand. I _must_ tell you. "

"I'm scared t' know, " I gasped. "Take my sister, zur, an' say no more. "

"Scared to know? And I to tell. But for your sister's sake--for the sakeof her happiness--I'll tell you, Davy--let me put my arm around you--ay, I'll tell you, lad, God help me! what it means to be a dissipatedfellow. O Christ, " he sighed, "I pay for all I did! Merciful God, atthis moment I pay the utmost price! Davy, lad, " drawing me closer, "youwill not judge me harshly?"

"I'll hearken, " I answered, hardening. 

Then, frankly, he told me as much, I fancy, as a man may tell a lad ofsuch things. . . . 

 * * * * *

In horror--in shame--ay, in shame so deep I flushed and dared not lookat him--I flung off his arms. And I sprang away--desperately fingeringmy collar: for it seemed I must choke, so was my throat filled withindignation. "You wicked man!" I cried. "You kissed my sister. You--_you_--kissed my sister!"

"Davy!"

"You wicked, wicked man!"

"Don't, Davy!"

"Go 'way!" I screamed. 

Rather, he came towards me, opening his arms, beseeching me. But I washot-headed and willful, being only a lad, without knowledge of singained by sinning, and, therefore, having no compassion; and, still, Ifell away from him, but he followed, continuing to beseech me, until, atlast, I struck him on the breast: whereupon, he winced, and turned away. Then, in a flash--in the still, illuminating instant that follows a blowstruck in blind rage--I was appalled by what I had done; and I stoodstiff, my hands yet clinched, a storm of sobs on the point of breaking:hating him and myself and all the world, because of the wrong he haddone us, and the wrong I had done him, and the wrong that life hadworked us all. 

I took to my heels. 

"Davy!" he called. 

The more he cried after me, the more beseechingly his voice rang in myears, the more my heart urged me to return--the harder I ran. 

 * * * * *

I wish I had not struck him . . . I wish, I say, I had not struck him . . . I wish that when he came towards me, with his arms wide open, hisgrave, gray eyes pleading--wretched soul that he was--I wish that then Ihad let him enfold me. What poor cleverness, what a poor sacrifice, itwould have been! 'Twas I--strange it may have been--but still 'twas I, Davy Roth, a child, Labrador born and bred, to whom he stretched out hishand. I should have blessed God that to this remote place a needful manhad come. 'Twas my great moment of opportunity. I might--I might--havehelped him. How rare the chance! And to a child! I might have taken hishand. I might have led him immediately into placid waters. But I wasI--unfeeling, like all lads: blind, too, reprehensible, deserving ofblame. In all my life--and, as it happens (of no merit of my own, but ofhis), it has thus far been spent seeking to give help and comfort tosuch as need it--never, never, in the diligent course of it, has anopportunity so momentous occurred. I wish--oh, I wish--he might onceagain need me! To lads--and to men--and to frivolous maids--and tobeggars and babies and cripples and evil persons--and to all sorts andconditions of human kind! Who knows to whom the stricken soul--downcastwhether of sin or sorrow--may appeal? Herein is justification--the verykey to heaven, with which one may unlock the door and enter, claimingbliss by right, defiant of God Himself, if need were: "I have sinned, incommon with all men, O God, but I have sought to help such as were insorrow, whether of sin or the misfortunes incident to life in the pitbelow, which is the world. You dare not cast me out!" Oh, men and women, lads and maids, I speak because of the wretchedness of my dear folk, outof their sorrow, which is common to us all, but here, in this barrenplace, is unrelieved, not hidden. Take the hand stretched out! Andwatch: lest in the great confusion this hand appear--and disappear. Ifthere be sin, here it is: that the hand wavered, beseeching, withinreach of such as were on solid ground, and was not grasped. 

 * * * * *

Ah, well! to my sister I ran; and I found her placidly sewing in thebroad window of our house, which now looked out upon a melancholyprospect of fog and black water and vague gray hills. Perceiving mydistress, she took me in her lap, big boy though I was, and rocked me, hushing me, the while, until I should command my grief and disclose thecause of it. 

"He's a sinful man, " I sobbed, at last. "Oh, dear Bessie, care no morefor him!"

She stopped rocking--and pressed me closer to her soft, sweet bosom--soclose that she hurt me, as my loving mother used to do. And when Ilooked up--when, taking courage, I looked into her face--I found itfearsomely white and hopeless; and when, overcome by this, I took herhand, I found it very cold. 

"Not sinful, " she whispered, drawing my cheek close to hers. "Oh, notthat!"

"A sinful, wicked person, " I repeated, "not fit t' speak t' such asyou. "

"What have he done, Davy?"

"I'd shame t' tell you. "

"Oh, what?"

"I may not tell. Hug me closer, Bessie, dear. I'm in woeful want o'love. "

She rocked me, then--smoothing my cheek--kissing me--hoping thus tostill my grief. A long, long time she coddled me, as my mother mighthave done. 

"Not sinful, " she said. 

"Ay, a wicked fellow. We must turn un out o' here, Bessie. He've noplace here, no more. He've sinned. "

She kissed me on the lips. Her arms tightened about me. And there wesat--I in my sister's arms--hopeless in the drear light of that day. 

"I love him, " she said. 

"Love him no more! Bessie, dear, he've sinned past all forgiving. "

Again--and now abruptly--she stopped rocking. She sat me back in herlap. I could not evade her glance--sweet-souled, confident, content, reflecting the bright light of heaven itself. 

"There's no sin, Davy, " she solemnly said, "that a woman can't forgive. "

 * * * * *

I passed that afternoon alone on the hills--the fog thickening, the windblowing wet and cold, the whole world cast down--myself seeking, all thewhile, some reasonable way of return to the doctor's dear friendship. Idid not know--but now I know--that reason, sour and implacable, is sadlyinadequate to our need when the case is sore, and, indeed, a wretchedstaff, at best: but that fine impulse, the sure, inner feeling, which isfaith, is ever the more trustworthy, if good is to be achieved, for itis forever sanguine, nor, in all the course of life, relentless. But, happily, Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, who, in my childhood, came oftenopportunely to guide me with his wiser, strangely accurate philosophy, now sought me on the hill, being informed, as it appeared, of mydistress--and because, God be thanked! he loved me. 

"Go 'way!" I complained. 

"Go 'way?" cried he, indignantly. "I'll not go 'way. For shame! To sendme from you!"

"I'm wantin' t' be alone. "

"Ay; but 'tis unhealthy for you. "

"I'm thrivin' well enough. "

"Hut!" said he. "What's this atween the doctor an' you? You'd cast unoff because he've sinned? Ecod! I've seldom heard the like. Who is you?Even the Lard God A'mighty wouldn't do that. Sure, _He_ loves only suchas have sinned. Lad, " he went on, now, with a smile, with a touch of hisrough old hand, compelling my confidence and affection, "what's past isdone with. Isn't you l'arned that yet? Old sins are as if they never hadbeen. Else what hope is there for us poor sons of men? The weight o' sinwould sink us. 'Tis not the dear Lard's way t' deal so with men. To-dayis not yesterday. What was, has been; it is not. A man is not what hewas--he is what he is. But yet, lad--an' 'tis wonderful queer--to-day_is_ yesterday. 'Tis _made_ by yesterday. The mistake--the sin--o'yesterday is the straight course--the righteous deed--o' to-day. 'Tisonly out o' sin that sweetness is born. That's just what sin is for! Therighteous, Davy, dear, " he said, in all sincerity, "are not lovable, nottrustworthy. The devil nets un by the hundred quintal, for _'tis_ sucheasy fishin'; but sinners--such as sin agin their will--the Lard lovesan' gathers in. They who sin must suffer, Davy, an' only such as suffercan _know_ the dear Lard's love. God be thanked for sin, " he said, looking up, inspired. "Let the righteous be damned--they deserve it. Give _me_ the company o' sinners!"

"Is you sure?" I asked, confounded by this strange doctrine. 

"I thank God, " he answered, composedly, "that _I_ have sinned--andsuffered. "

"Sure, " said I, "_you_ ought t' know, for you've lived so awful long. "

"They's nothin' like sin, " said he, with a sure smack of the lips, "t'make good men. I knows it. "

"An' Bessie?"

"Oh, Davy, lad, _she'll_ be safe with him!"

Then I, too, knew it--knew that sin had been beneficently decreed byGod, whose wisdom seems so all-wise, once our perverse hearts are openedto perceive--knew that my dear sister would, indeed, be safe with thissinner, who sorrowed, also. And I was ashamed that I had ever doubtedit. 

"Look!" Skipper Tommy whispered. 

Far off--across the harbour--near lost in the mist--I saw my sister andthe doctor walking together. 

 * * * * *

My sister was waiting for me. "Davy, " she asked, anxiously, "where haveyou been?"

"On the hills, " I answered. 

For a moment she was silent, fingering her apron; and then, lookingfearlessly into my eyes--"I love him, " she said. 

"I'm glad. "

"I cannot help it, " she continued, clasping her hands, her breastheaving. "I love him--so _hard_--I cannot tell it. "

"I'm glad. "

"An' he loves me. He loves me! I'm not doubtin' that. He _loves_ me, "she whispered, that holy light once more breaking about her, in whichshe seemed transfigured. "Oh, " she sighed, beyond expression, "he lovesme!"

"I'm glad. "

"An' I'm content t' know it--just t' know that he loves me--just t' knowthat I love him. His hands and eyes and arms! I ask no more--but just t'know it. Just once to have--to have had him--kiss me. Just once to havelain in his arms, where, forever, I would lie. Oh, I'm glad, " she cried, joyously, "that the good Lord made me! I'm glad--just for that. Justbecause he kissed me--just because I love him, who loves me. I'm glad Iwas made for him to love. 'Tis quite enough for me. I want--only this Iwant--that he may have me--that, body and soul, I may satisfy hislove--so much I love him. Davy, " she faltered, putting her hands to hereyes, "I love--I _love_--I love him!"

Ecod! 'Twas too much for me. Half scandalized, I ran away, leaving herweeping in my dear mother's rocking-chair. 

 * * * * *

My sister and I were alone at table that evening. The doctor was gone inthe punt to Jolly Harbour, the maids said; but why, they did not know, for he had not told them--nor could we guess: for 'twas a vexatiousdistance, wind and tide what they were, nor would a wise man undertakeit, save in case of dire need, which did not then exist, the folk ofJolly Harbour, as everybody knows, being incorruptibly healthy. But Iwould not go to sleep that night until my peace was made; and though, todeceive my sister, I went to bed, I kept my eyes wide open, waiting forthe doctor's step on the walk and on the stair: a slow, hopelessfootfall, when, late in the night, I heard it. 

I followed him to his room--with much contrite pleading on the tip of mytongue. And I knocked timidly on the door. 

"Come in, Davy, " said he. 

My heart was swelling so--my tongue so sadly unmanageable--that I coulddo nothing but whimper. But----

"I'm wonderful sad, zur, " I began, after a time, "t' think that I----"

"Hush!" said he. 

'Twas all I said--not for lack of will or words, but for lack of breathand opportunity; because all at once (and 'twas amazingly sudden) Ifound myself caught off my feet, and so closely, so carelessly, embraced, that I thought I should then and there be smothered: a deathwhich, as I had been led to believe, my dear sister might have enviedme, but was not at all to my liking. And when I got my breath 'twas butto waste it in bawling. But never had I bawled to such good purpose: forevery muffled howl and gasp brought me nearer to that state of serenityfrom which I had that day cast myself by harsh and willful conduct. 

Then--and 'twas not hard to do--I offered my supreme propitiation: whichwas now no more a sacrifice, but, rather, a high delight. 

"You may have my sister, zur, " I sobbed. 

He laughed a little--laughed an odd little laugh, the like of which Ihad never heard. 

"You may have her, " I repeated, somewhat impatiently. "Isn't you hearin'me? I _give_ her to you. "

"This is very kind, " he said. "But----"

"You're _wantin'_ her, isn't you?" I demanded, fearing for the momentthat he had meantime changed his mind. 

"Yes, " he drawled; "but----"

"But what?"

"She'll not have me. "

"Not have you!" I cried. 

"No, " said he. 

At that moment I learned much wisdom concerning the mysterious ways ofwomen. 

XXIV

The BEGINNING of The END

From this sad tangle we were next morning extricated by news from thesouth ports of our coast--news so ill that sentimental tears and wisheswere of a sudden forgot; being this: that the smallpox had come to PoorLuck Harbour and was there virulently raging. By noon of that day thedoctor's sloop was underway with a fair wind, bound south in desperatehaste: a man's heart beating glad aboard, that there might come a tragicsolution of his life's entanglement. My sister and I, sitting togetheron the heads of Good Promise, high in the sunlight, with the sea spreadblue and rippling below--we two, alone, with hands clasped--watched thelittle patch of sail flutter on its way--silently watched until itvanished in the mist. 

"I'm not knowin', " my sister sighed, still staring out to sea, "what'sbeyond the mist. "

"Nor I. "

'Twas like a curtain, veiling some dread mystery, as an ancienttragedy--but new to us, who sat waiting: and far past our guessing. 

"I wonder what we'll see, dear, " she whispered, "when the mist lifts. "

"'Tis some woeful thing. "

She leaned forward, staring, breathing deep, seeking with the strangegift of women to foresee the event; but she sighed, at last, and gave itup. 

"I'm not knowin', " she said. 

We turned homeward; and thereafter--through the months of thatsummer--we were diligent in business: but with small success, for Jaggerof Wayfarer's Tickle, seizing the poor advantage with great glee, nowfoully slandered and oppressed us. 

 * * * * *

Near midsummer our coast was mightily outraged by the sailings of the_Sink or Swim_, Jim Tall, master--Jagger's new schooner, trading ourports and the harbours of the Newfoundland French Shore, with a case ofsmallpox in the forecastle. We were all agog over it, bitterly angered, every one of us; and by day we kept watch from the heads to warn heroff, and by night we saw to our guns, that we might instantly deal withher, should she so much as poke her prow into the waters of our harbour. Once, being on the Watchman with my father's glass, I fancied I sightedher, far off shore, beating up to Wayfarer's Tickle in the dusk: butcould not make sure, for there was a haze abroad, and her cut was notyet well known to us. Then we heard no more of her, until, by and by, the skipper of the _Huskie Dog_, bound north, left news that she wasstill at large to the south, and sang us a rousing song, which, he said, had been made by young Dannie Crew of Ragged Harbour, and was thenvastly popular with the folk of the places below. 

 "Oh, _have_ you seed the skipper o' the schooner _Sink or Swim_? We'll use a rope what's long an' strong, when we cotches him. He've a case o' smallpox for'ard, An' we'll hang un, by the Lord! For he've traded every fishin' port from Conch t' Harbour Rim. 

 "T' save the folk that dreads it, We'll hang the man that spreads it, They's lakes o' fire in hell t' sail for such as Skipper Jim!"

My sister, sweet maid! being then in failing health and spirits, Isecretly took ship with the skipper of the _Bonnie Betsy Buttercup_, bound south with the first load of that season: this that I might surelyfetch the doctor to my sister's help, who sorely needed cheer andhealing, lest she die like a thirsty flower, as my heart told me. And Ifound the doctor busy with the plague at Bay Saint Billy, himselfquartered aboard the _Greased Lightning_, a fore-and-after which he hadchartered for the season: to whom I lied diligently and without shameconcerning my sister's condition, and with such happy effect that we putto sea in the brewing of the great gale of that year, with our topsailand tommy-dancer spread to a sousing breeze. But so evil a turn did theweather take--so thick and wild--that we were thrice near driven on alee shore, and, in the end, were glad enough to take chance shelterbehind Saul's Island, which lies close to the mainland near theHarbourless Shore. There we lay three days, with all anchors over theside, waiting in comfortable security for the gale to blow out; and'twas at dusk of the third day that we were hailed from the coast rocksby that ill-starred young castaway of the name of Docks whose taleprecipitated the final catastrophe in the life of Jagger of Wayfarer'sTickle. 

 * * * * *

He was only a lad, but, doubtless, rated a man; and he was now sadlywoebegone--starved, shivering, bruised by the rocks and breaking waterfrom which he had escaped. We got him into the cozy forecastle, clappedhim on the back, put him in dry duds; and, then, "Come, now, lads!"cried Billy Lisson, the hearty skipper of the _Greased Lightning_, "don't you go sayin' a word 'til I brew you a cup o' tea. On theHarbourless Shore, says you? An' all hands lost? Don't you say a word. Not one!"

The castaway turned a ghastly face towards the skipper. "No, " hewhispered, in a gasp, "not one. "

"Not you!" Skipper Billy rattled. "You keep mum. Don't you so much as_mutter_ 'til I melts that iceberg in your belly. "

"No, sir. "

Perchance to forestall some perverse attempt at loquacity, Skipper Billylifted his voice in song--a large, rasping voice, little enoughacquainted with melody, but expressing the worst of the rage of thosedays: being thus quite sufficient to the occasion. 

 "Oh, _have_ you seed the skipper o' the schooner _Sink or Swim_? We'll use a rope what's long an' strong, when we cotches him. He've a case o' smallpox for'ard, An' we'll hang un, by the Lord! For he've traded every fishin' port from Conch t' Harbour Rim. 

 "T' save the folk that dreads it, We'll _hang_ the man that spreads it, They's lakes o' fire in hell t' sail for such as Skipper Jim!"

"Skipper Billy, sir, " said Docks, hoarsely, leaning into the light ofthe forecastle lamp, "does you say _hang_? Was they goin' t' hangSkipper Jim if they cotched him?"

"_Was_ we?" asked Skipper Billy. "By God, " he roared, "we _is_!"

"My God!" Docks whispered, staring deep into the skipper's eyes, "theywas goin' t' hang the skipper!"

There was not so much as the drawing of a breath then to be heard in theforecastle of the _Greased Lightning_. Only the wind, blowing in thenight--and the water lapping at the prow--broke the silence. 

"Skipper Billy, sir, " said Docks, his voice breaking to a whimper, "wasthey goin' t' hang the crew? They wasn't, was they? Not goin' t' _hang_un?"

"Skipper t' cook, lad, " Skipper Billy answered, the words prompt andsure. "Hang un by the neck 'til they was dead. "

"My God!" Docks whined. "They was goin' t' hang the crew!"

"But we isn't cotched un yet. "

"No, " said the boy, vacantly. "Nor you never will. "

The skipper hitched close to the table. "Lookee, lad, " said he, leaningover until his face was close to the face of Docks, "was _you_ everaboard the _Sink or Swim_?"

"Ay, sir, " Docks replied, at last, brushing his hair from his brow. "Iwas clerk aboard the _Sink or Swim_ two days ago. "

For a time Skipper Billy quietly regarded the lad--the while scratchinghis beard with a shaking hand. 

"Clerk, " Docks sighed, "two days ago. "

"Oh, _was_ you?" the skipper asked. "Well, well!" His lower jawdropped. "An' would mind tellin' us, " he continued, his voice nowtouched with passion, "what's _come_ o' that damned craft?"

"She was lost on the Harbourless Shore, sir, with all hands--but me. "

"Thank God for that!"

"Ay, thank God!"

Whereupon the doctor vaccinated Docks. 

XXV

A CAPITAL CRIME

"You never set eyes on old Skipper Jim, did you, Skipper Billy?" Docksbegan, later, that night. "No? Well, he was a wonderful hard man. Theysays the devil was abroad the night of his bornin'; but I'm thinkin'that Jagger o' Wayfarer's Tickle had more t' do with the life he livedthan ever the devil could manage. 'Twas Jagger that owned the _Sink orSwim_; 'twas he that laid the courses--ay, that laid this last one, too. Believe me, sir, " now turning to Doctor Luke, who had uttered a sharpexclamation, "for I _knowed_ Jagger, an' I _sailed_ along o' SkipperJim. 'Skipper Jim, ' says I, when the trick we played was scurvy, 'thishere ain't right. ' 'Right?' says he. 'Jagger's gone an' laid _that_ wordby an' forgot where he put it. ' 'But you, Skipper Jim, ' says I, '_you_;what _you_ doin' this here for?' 'Well, Docks, ' says he, 'Jagger, ' sayshe, 'says 'tis a clever thing t' do, an' I'm thinkin', ' says he, 'thatJagger's near right. Anyhow, ' says he, 'Jagger's my owner. '"

Doctor Luke put his elbows on the forecastle table, his chin on hishands--and thus gazed, immovable, at young Docks. 

"Skipper Jim, " the lad went on, "was a lank old man, with a beard thatused t' put me in mind of a dead shrub on a cliff. Old, an' tall, an'skinny he was; an' the flesh of his face was sort o' wet an' whitish, asif it had no feelin'. They wasn't a thing in the way o' wind or sea thatSkipper Jim was afeard of. I like a brave man so well as anybody does, but I haven't no love for a fool; an' I've seed _him_ beat out o' safeharbour, with all canvas set, when other schooners was reefed down an'runnin' for shelter. Many a time I've took my trick at the wheel whenthe most I hoped for was three minutes t' say my prayers. 

"'Skipper, sir, ' we used t' say, when 'twas lookin' black an' nasty t'win'ard an' we was wantin' t' run for the handiest harbour, ''tis likeyou'll be holdin' on for Rocky Cove. Sure, you've no call t' run forharbour from _this here_ blow!'

"'Stand by that mainsheet there!' he'd yell. 'Let her off out o' thewind. We'll be makin' for Harbour Round for shelter. Holdin' on, did yousay? My dear man, they's a whirlwind brewin'!'

"But if 'twas blowin' hard--a nor'east snorter, with the gale raisin' awind-lop on the swell, an' the night comin' down--if 'twas blowin'barb'rous hard, sometimes we'd get scared. 

"'Skipper, ' we couldn't help sayin', ''tis time t' get out o' this. Leaveus run for shelter, man, for our lives!'

"'Steady, there, at the wheel!' he'd sing out. 'Keep her on her course. 'Tis no more than a clever sailin' breeze. '

"Believe _me_, sir, " Docks sighed, "they wasn't a port Skipper Jimwouldn't make, whatever the weather, if he could trade a dress or aBible or a what-not for a quintal o' fish. 'Docks, ' says he, 'Jagger, 'says he, 'wants fish, an' _I_ got t' get un. ' So it wasn't pleasantsailin' along o' him in the fall o' the year, when the wind was all inthe nor'east, an' the shore was a lee shore every night o' the week. No, sir! 'twasn't pleasant sailin' along o' Skipper Jim in the _Sink orSwim_. On no account, 'twasn't pleasant! Believe _me_, sir, when I letsmy heart feel again the fears o' last fall, I haven't no love left forJim. No, sir! doin' what he done this summer, I haven't no love left forJim. 

"'It's fish me an' Jagger wants, b'y, ' says he t' me, 'an' they's noone'll keep un from us. '

"'Dear man!' says I, pointin' t' the scales, 'haven't you got noconscience?'

"'Conscience!' says he. 'What's that? Sure, ' says he, 'Jagger never_heared_ that word!'

"Well, sir, as you knows, there's been a wonderful cotch o' fish on theLabrador side o' the Straits this summer. An' when Skipper Jim hears aFrenchman has brought the smallpox t' Poor Luck Harbour, we was tradin'the French shore o' Newfoundland. Then he up an' cusses the smallpox, an' says he'll make a v'y'ge of it, no matter what. I'm thinkin' 'twasall the fault o' the cook, the skipper bein' the contrary man he was;for the cook he says he've signed t' cook the grub, an' he'll cook 'tilhe drops in his tracks, but he _haven't_ signed t' take the smallpox, an' he'll be jiggered for a squid afore he'll sail t' the Labrador. 'Smallpox!' says the skipper. 'Who says 'tis the smallpox? Me an' Jaggersays 'tis the chicken-pox. ' So the cook--the skipper havin' the eyes hehad--says he'll sail t' the Labrador all right, but he'll see himselfhanged for a mutineer afore he'll enter Poor Luck Harbour. 'Poor LuckHarbour, is it?' says the skipper. 'An' is that where they'vethe--the--smallpox?' says he. 'We'll lay a course for Poor Luck Harbourthe morrow. I'll prove 'tis the chicken-pox or eat the man that has it. 'So the cook--the skipper havin' the eyes he had--says _he_ ain't afraido' no smallpox, but he knows what'll come of it if the crew getsashore. 

"'Ho, ho! cook, ' says the skipper. '_You'll_ go ashore along o' _me_, meboy. '

"The next day we laid a course for Poor Luck Harbour, with a fair wind;an' we dropped anchor in the cove that night. In the mornin', sureenough, the skipper took the cook an' the first hand ashore t' show un aman with the chicken-pox; but I was kep' aboard takin' in fish, for suchwas the evil name the place had along o' the smallpox that we was theonly trader in the harbour, an' had all the fish we could handle. 

"'Skipper, ' says I, when they come aboard, '_is_ it the smallpox?'

"'Docks, b'y, ' says he, lookin' me square in the eye, 'you never yetheard me take back my words. I _said_ I'd eat the man that had it. But Itells you what, b'y, I ain't hankerin' after a bite o' what I seed!'

"'We'll be liftin' anchor an' gettin' t' sea, then, ' says I; for it mademe shiver t' hear the skipper talk that way. 

"'Docks, b'y, ' says he, 'we'll be liftin' anchor when we gets all thefish they is. Jagger, ' says he, 'wants fish, an' I'm the boy t' get un. When the last one's weighed an' stowed, we'll lift anchor an' out; butnot afore. '

"We was three days out from Poor Luck Harbour, tradin' Kiddle Tickle, when Tommy Mib, the first hand, took a suddent chill. 'Tommy, b'y, ' saysthe cook, 'you cotched cold stowin' the jib in the squall day aforeyesterday. I'll be givin' _you_ a dose o' pain-killer an' pepper. ' Sothe cook give Tommy a wonderful dose o' pain-killer an' pepper an' putun t' bed. But 'twas not long afore Tommy had a pain in the back an' aburnin' headache. 'Tommy, b'y, ' says the cook, 'you'll be gettin' theinflammation, I'm thinkin'. I'll have t' put a plaster o' mustard an'red pepper on _your_ chest. ' So the cook put a wonderful large plastero' mustard an' red pepper on poor Tommy's chest, an' told un t' liequiet. Then Tommy got wonderful sick--believe _me_, sir, wonderful sick!An' the cook could do no more, good cook though he was. 

"'Tommy, ' says he, 'you got something I don't know nothin' about. '

"'Twas about that time that we up with the anchor an' run t' HollowCove, where we heard they was a grand cotch o' fish, all dry an' waitin'for the first trader t' pick it up. They'd the smallpox there, sir, accordin' t' rumour; but we wasn't afeard o' cotchin' it--thinkin' we'dnot cotched it at Poor Luck Harbour--an' sailed right in t' do thetradin'. We had the last quintal aboard at noon o' the next day; an' weshook out the canvas an' laid a course t' the nor'ard, with a fair, light wind. We was well out from shore when the skipper an' me went downt' the forecastle t' have a cup o' tea with the cook; an' we was hard atit when Tommy Mib hung his head out of his bunk. 

"'Skipper, ' says he, in a sick sort o' whisper, 'I'm took. '

"'What's took you?' says the skipper. 

"'Skipper, ' says he, 'I--I'm--took. '

"'What's took you, you fool?' says the skipper. 

"Poor Tommy fell back in his bunk. 'Skipper, ' he whines, 'I've cotchedit!'

"''Tis the smallpox, sir, ' says I. 'I seed the spots. '

"'No such nonsense!' says the skipper. ''Tis the measles. That's what_he've_ got. Jagger an' me says so. '

"'But Jagger ain't here, ' says I. 

"'Never you mind about that, ' says he. 'I knows what Jagger thinks. '

"When we put into Harbour Grand we knowed it wasn't no measles. When wedropped anchor there, sir, _we knowed what 'twas_. Believe _me_, sir, we_knowed_ what 'twas. The cook he up an' says he ain't afraid o' nosmallpox, but he'll be sunk for a coward afore he'll go down theforecastle ladder agin. An' the second hand he says he likes a bunk inthe forecastle when he can have one comfortable, but he've no objectiont' the hold _at times_. 'Then, lads, ' says the skipper, 'you'll not bemeanin' t' look that way agin, ' says he, with a snaky little glitter inhis eye. 'An' if you do, you'll find a fist about the heft o' _that_, 'says he, shakin' his hand, 't' kiss you at the foot o' the ladder. 'After that the cook an' the second hand slep' in the hold, an' them an'me had a snack o' grub at odd times in the cabin, where I had a hammockslung, though the place was wonderful crowded with goods. 'Twas theskipper that looked after Tommy Mib. 'Twas the skipper that sailed theship, too, --drove her like he'd always done: all the time eatin' an'sleepin' in the forecastle, where poor Tommy Mib lay sick o' thesmallpox. But we o' the crew kep' our distance when the ol' man was ondeck; an' they was no rush for'ard t' tend the jib an' stays'l when itwas 'Hard a-lee!' in a beat t' win'ard--no rush at all. Believe _me_, sir, they was no rush for'ard--with Tommy Mib below. 

"'Skipper Jim, ' says I, one day, 'what _is_ you goin' t' do?'

"'Well, Docks, ' says he, 'I'm thinkin' I'll go see Jagger. '

"So we beat up t' Wayfarer's Tickle--makin' port in the dusk. SkipperJim went ashore, but took nar a one of us with un. He was there awonderful long time; an' when he come aboard, he orders the anchor upan' all sail made. 

"'Where you goin'?' says I. 

"'Tradin', ' says he. 

"'Is you?' says I. 

"'Ay, ' says he. 'Jagger says 'tis a wonderful season for fish. '"

Docks paused. "Skipper Billy, " he said, breaking off the narrative andfixing the impassive skipper of the _Greased Lightning_ with an anxiouseye, "did they have the smallpox at Tops'l Cove? Come now; did they?"

"Ay, sir, " Skipper Billy replied; "they had the smallpox at Tops'lCove. "

"Dear man!" Docks repeated, "they had the smallpox at Tops'l Cove! Wewas three days at Tops'l Cove, with folk aboard every day, tradin' fish. An' Tommy Mib below! We touched Smith's Arm next, sir. Come now, speakfair; did they have it there?"

"They're not rid of it yet, " said Doctor Luke. 

"Smith's Arm too!" Docks groaned. 

"An' Harbour Rim, " the skipper added. 

"Noon t' noon at Harbour Rim, " said Docks. 

"And Highwater Cove, " the doctor put in. 

"Twenty quintal come aboard at Highwater Cove. I mind it well. "

"They been dyin' like flies at Seldom Cove. "

"Like flies?" Docks repeated, in a hoarse whisper. "Skipper Billy, sir, who--who died--like that?"

Skipper Billy drew his hand over his mouth. "One was a kid, " he said, tugging at his moustache. 

"My God!" Docks muttered. "One was a kid!"

In the pause--in the silence into which the far-off, wailing chorus ofwind and sea crept unnoticed--Skipper Billy and Docks stared into eachother's eyes. 

"An' a kid died, too, " said the skipper. 

Again the low, wailing chorus of wind and sea, creeping into thesilence. I saw the light in Skipper Billy's eyes sink from a flare to aglow; and I was glad of that. 

"'Twas a cold, wet day, with the wind blowin' in from the sea, when wedropped anchor at Little Harbour Deep, " Docks continued. "We always kep'the forecastle closed tight an' set a watch when we was in port; an' theforecastle was tight enough that day, but the second hand, whose watchit was, had t' help with the fish, for 'tis a poor harbour there, an' wewas in haste t' get out. The folk was loafin' about the deck, fore an'aft, waitin' turns t' weigh fish or be served in the cabin. An' does youknow what happened?" Docks asked, tensely. "Can't you see how 'twas?Believe _me_, sir, 'twas a cold, wet day, a bitter day; an' 'tis nowonder that one o' they folk went below t' warm hisself at theforecastle stove--went below, where poor Tommy Mib was lyin' sick. Skipper, sir, " said Docks, with wide eyes, leaning over the table andletting his voice drop, "I seed that man come up--come tumblin' up likemad, sir, his face so white as paint. He'd seed Tommy Mib! An' heyelled, sir; an' Skipper Jim whirled about when he heard that word, an'I seed his lips draw away from his teeth. 

"'Over the side, every man o' you!' sings he. 

"But 'twas not the skipper's order--'twas that man's horrid cry thatsent un over the side. They tumbled into the punts and pushed off. Itmade me shiver, sir, t' see the fright they was in. 

"'Stand by t' get out o' this!' says the skipper. 

"'Twas haul on this an' haul on that, an' 'twas heave away with theanchor, 'til we was well under weigh with all canvas spread. We beatout, takin' wonderful chances in the tickle, an' stood off t' thesou'east. That night, when we was well off, the cook says t' me that he_thinks_ he've nerve enough t' be boiled in his own pot in a good cause, but he've no mind t' make a Fox's martyr of hisself for the likes o'Skipper Jim. 

"'Cook, ' says I, 'we'll leave this here ship at the next port. '

"'Docks, ' says he, ''tis a clever thought. '

"'Twas Skipper Jim's trick at the wheel, an' I loafed aft t' have a wordwith un--keepin' well t' win'ward all the time; for he'd just come upfrom the forecastle. 

"'Skipper Jim, ' says I, 'we're found out. '

"'What's found out?' says he. 

"'The case o' smallpox for'ard, ' says I. 'What you goin' t' do aboutit?'

"'Do!' says he. 'What'll I do? Is it you, Docks, that's askin' me that?Well, ' says he, 'Jagger an' me fixed _that_ all up when I seed him theret' Wayfarer's Tickle. They's three ports above Harbour Deep, an' I'mgoin' t' trade un all. 'Twill be a v'y'ge by that time. Then I'm goin't' run the _Sink or Swim_ back o' the islands in Seal Run. Which done, I'll wait for Tommy Mib t' make up his mind, one way or t' other. If hecasts loose, I'll wait, decent as you like, 'til he's well under weigh, when I'll ballast un well an' heave un over. If he's goin' t' bide aspell longer in this world, I'll wait 'til he's steady on his pins. But, whatever, go or stay, I'll fit the schooner with a foretopmast, bark hercanvas, paint her black, call her the _Prodigal Son_, an' lay a coursefor St. Johns. They's not a man on the docks will take the _ProdigalSon_, black hull, with topmast fore an' aft an' barked sails, inboundfrom the West Coast with a cargo o' fish--not a man, sir, will take the_Prodigal Son_ for the white, single-topmast schooner _Sink or Swim_, upfrom the Labrador, reported with a case o' smallpox for'ard. For, lookyou, b'y, ' says he, 'nobody knows _me_ t' St. Johns. '

"'Skipper Jim, ' says I, 'sure you isn't goin' t' put this fish on themarket!'

"'Hut!' says he. 'Jagger an' me is worryin' about the price o' fishalready. '

"We beat about offshore for three days, with the skipper laid up in theforecastle. Now what do you make o' that? The skipper laid up in theforecastle along o' Tommy Mib--an' Tommy took the way he was! Come, now, what do you make o' that?" We shook our heads, one and all; it was plainthat the skipper, too, had been stricken. "Well, sir, " Docks went on, "when Skipper Jim come up t' give the word for Rocky Harbour, he lookedlike a man risin' from the dead. 'Take her there, ' says he, 'an' singout t' me when you're runnin' in. ' Then down he went agin; but, whatever, me an' the cook an' the second hand was willin' enough t' sailher t' Rocky Harbour without un, for 'twas in our minds t' cut an' runin the punt when the anchor was down. 'A scurvy trick, ' says you, 't'leave old Skipper Jim an' Tommy Mib in the forecastle, all alone--an'Tommy took that way?' A scurvy trick!" cried Docks, his voice aquiver. "Ay, maybe! But you ain't been aboard no smallpox-ship. You ain't neverknowed what 'tis t' lie in your bunk in the dark o' long nightsshiverin' for fear you'll be took afore mornin'. An' maybe you hasn'tseed a man took the way Tommy Mib was took--not took _quite_ that way. "

"Yes, I has, b'y, " said Skipper Billy, quietly. "'Twas a kid that Iseed. "

"Was it, now?" Docks whispered, vacantly. 

"A kid o' ten years, " Skipper Billy replied. 

"Ah, well, " said Docks, "kids dies young. Whatever, " he went on, hurriedly, "the old man come on deck when he was slippin' up the narrowst' the basin at Rocky Harbour. 

"''Tis the last port I'll trade, ' says he, 'for I'm sick, an' wantin' t'get home. '

"We was well up, with the canvas half off her, sailin' easy, on thelookout for a berth, when a punt put out from a stage up alongshore, an'come down with the water curlin' from her bows. 

"'What's the meanin' o' that, Docks?' sings the skipper, pointin' t' thepunt. 'They're goin' out o' the course t' keep t' win'ard. '

"'Skipper Jim, ' says I, 'they knows us. '

"'Sink us, ' says he, 'they does! They knows what we is an' what we gotfor'ard. Bring her to!' he sings out t' the man at the wheel. 

"When we had the schooner up in the wind, the punt was bobbin' in thelop off the quarter. 

"'What ship's that?' says the man in the bow. 

"'_Sink or Swim_, ' says the skipper. 

"'You get out o' here, curse you!' says the man. 'We don't want youhere. They's news o' you in every port o' the coast. '

"'I'll bide here 'til I'm ready t' go, sink you!' says the skipper. 

"'Oh, no, you won't!' says the man. 'I've a gun or two that says you'llbe t' sea agin in half an hour if the wind holds. '

"So when we was well out t' sea agin, the cook he says t' me that he'vea wonderful fondness for a run ashore in a friendly port, but he've nomind t' be shot for a mad dog. 'An' we better bide aboard, ' says thesecond hand; 'for 'tis like we'll be took for mad dogs wherever we triest' land. ' Down went the skipper, staggerin' sick; an' they wasn't a manamong us would put a head in the forecastle t' ask for orders. So webeat about for a day or two in a foolish way; for, look you! havin' inmind them Rocky Harbour rifles, we didn't well know what t' do. Threedays ago it blew up black an' frothy--a nor'east switcher, with arippin' wind an' a sea o' mountains. 'Twas no place for a short-handedschooner. Believe _me_, sir, 'twas no place at all! 'Twas time t' runfor harbour, come what might; so we asked the cook t' take charge. Thecook says t' me that he'd rather be a cook than a skipper, an' a skipperthan a ship's undertaker, but he've no objection t' turn his hand t'anything t' 'blige a party o' friends: which he'll do, says he, bytakin' the schooner t' Broad Cove o' the Harbourless Shore, which is abad shelter in a nor'east gale, says he, but the best he can manage. 

"So we up an' laid a course for Broad Cove; an' they was three schoonersharboured there when we run in. We anchored well outside o' them; an', sure, we thought the schooner was safe, for we knowed she'd ride outwhat was blowin', if it took so much as a week t' blow out. But itblowed harder--harder yet: a thick wind, squally, too, blowin' dead onshore, where the breakers was leapin' half-way up the cliff. By midnightthe seas was smotherin' her, fore an' aft, an' she was tuggin' at herbow anchor chain like a fish at the line. Lord! many a time I thoughtshe'd rip her nose off when a hill o' suddy water come atop of her witha thud an' a hiss. 

"'She'll go ashore on them boilin' rocks, ' says the cook. 

"We was sittin' in the cabin--the cook an' the second hand an' me. 

"''Tis wonderful cold, ' says the second hand. 

"'I'm chillin', meself, ' says the cook. 

"'Chillin'!' thinks I, havin' in mind the way poor Tommy Mib was took. 'Has you a pain in your back?' says I. 

"They was shiverin' a wonderful lot, an' the cook was holdin' his headin his hands, just like Tommy Mib used t' do. 

"'Ay, b'y, ' says he. 

"'Ay, b'y, ' says the second hand. 

"'Been drilled too hard o' late, ' says the cook. 'We're all wore outalong o' work an' worry. '

"I didn't wait for no more. 'H-m-m!' says I, 'I thinks I'll take a lookoutside. '

"It was dawn then. Lord! what a sulky dawn it was! All gray, an' drivin'like mad. The seas was rollin' in, with a frothy wind-lop atop o' them. They'd lift us, smother us, drop us, toss the schooners ridin' in ourlee, an' go t' smash on the big, black rocks ashore. Lord! how theypulled at the old _Sink or Swim_! 'Twas like as if they wanted her badfor what she done. Seems t' me the Lord God A'mighty must 'a' knowedwhat He was about. Seems to me the Lord God A'mighty said t' Hisself:'Skipper Jim, ' says He, 'I'm through usin' _you_. I've done all thedamage I want done along o' you. I've sent some o' the wicked t' bedsthey chose t' lie on; an' the good folk--all the good folk an' littlekids I couldn't wait no longer for, I loved un so--I've took up here. Ay, Jim, ' says the Lord God A'mighty, 'I'm through usin' you; an' I gott' get rid o' the old _Sink or Swim_. I'm sorry for the cook an' thesecond hand an' poor Tommy Mib, ' says He, 'wonderful sorry; but I can'trun My world no other way. An' when you comes t' think it over, ' saysHe, 'you'll find 'tis the best thing that could happen t' they, forthey're took most wonderful bad. ' Oh ay, " said Docks, with a gentlesmile, "the Lord God A'mighty knowed what He was about. 

"I went for'ard t' have a look at the chain. Skipper Jim hisself wasthere, watchin' it close. 

"'She's draggin', ' says he. But I wouldn't 'a' knowed that voice forSkipper Jim's--'twas so hollow and breathless. 'She's draggin', ' sayshe. 'Let her drag. They's a better anchorage in there a bit. She'll takethe bottom agin afore she strikes them craft. '

"We was draggin' fast--bearin' straight down on the craft inside. Theywas a trader an' two Labrador fishin'-craft. The handiest was a fishin'boat, bound home with the summer's cotch, an' crowded with men, women, an' kids. We took the bottom an' held fast within thirty fathom of herbow. I could see the folk on deck--see un plain as I sees you--hands an'lips an' eyes. They was swarmin' fore an' aft like a lot o' scaredseal--wavin' their arms, shakin' their fists, jabberin', leapin' aboutin the wash o' the seas that broke over the bows. 

"'Docks, ' says the skipper, 'what's the matter with they folk, anyhow?We isn't draggin', is we?' says he, half cryin'. 'We isn't hurtin'_they_, is we?'

"An old man--'tis like he was skipper o' the craft--come runnin'for'ard, with half a dozen young fellows in his wake. 'Sheer off!' singsthe old one. He jabbered a bit more, all the while wavin' us off, but asquall o' wind carried it all away. 'We'll shoot you like dogs an youdon't!' says one o' the young ones; an' at that I felt wonderful meanan' wicked an' sorry. Back aft they went. There they talked an' talked;an' as they talked they pointed--pointed t' the breakers that wasboilin' over the black rocks; pointed t' the spumey sea an' t' the low, ragged clouds drivin' across it; pointed t' the _Sink or Swim_. Then theskipper took the wheel, an' the crew run for'ard t' the windlass an' jibsheets. 

"'Skipper, sir, ' says I, 'they're goin' t' slip anchor an' run!'

"'Ay, ' says Skipper Jim, 'they knows us, b'y! They knows the _Sink orSwim_. We lies t' win'ard, an' they're feared o' the smallpox. They'llrisk that craft--women an' kids an' all--t' get away. They isn't a craftafloat can beat t' sea in this here gale. They'll founder, lad, orthey'll drive on the rocks an' loss themselves, all hands. 'Tis an evilday for this poor old schooner, Docks, ' says he, with a sob, 'thatmen'll risk the lives o' kids an' women t' get away from her; an' 'tisan evil day for my crew. ' With that he climbed on the rail, cotched theforemast shrouds with one hand, put the other to his mouth, an' sungout: 'Ahoy, you! Bide where you is! Bide where you is!' Then he jumpeddown; an' he says t' me, 'tween gasps, for the leap an' shout had takenall the breath out of un, 'Docks, ' says he, 'they's only one thing for aman t' do in a case like this. Get the jib up, b'y. I'm goin' aft t' thewheel. Let the anchor chain run out when you sees me wave my hand. See, lad, ' says he, pointin' t' leeward, 'they're waitin', aboard thatfishin' craft, t' see what we'll do. We'll show un that we're men!Jagger be damned, ' says he; 'we'll show un that we're men! Call thehands, ' says he; 'but leave Tommy Mib lie quiet in his bunk, ' says he, 'for he's dead. '

"'Skipper Jim, ' says I, lookin' in his blood-red eyes, an' then t' thebreakers, 'what you goin' t' do?'

"'Beach her, ' says he. 

"'Is you gone an' forgot, ' says I, 'about Jagger?'

"'Never you mind about Jagger, Docks, ' says he. 'I'll see _him_, ' sayshe, 'later. Call the hands, ' says he, 'an' we'll wreck her like men!'"

Docks covered his face with his hands. Place was once more given to thenoises of the gale. He looked up--broken, listless; possessed again bythe mood of that time. 

"An' what did _you_ say, lad?" Skipper Billy whispered. 

"I hadn't no objection, " sighed the lad. 

The answer was sufficient. 

 * * * * *

"So I called the hands, " Docks went on. "An' when the second handcotched sight o' the rocks we was bound for, he went mad, an' tumbledover the taffrail; an' the cook was so weak a lurch o' the ship flunghim after the second hand afore we reached the breakers. I never seedSkipper Jim no more; nor the cook, nor the second hand, nor poor TommyMib. But I'm glad the Lord God A'mighty give Jim the chance t' dieright, though he'd lived wrong. Oh, ay! I'm fair glad the good Lord donethat. The Labradormen give us a cheer when the chain went rattlin' overan' the _Sink or Swim_ gathered way--a cheer, sir, that beat its wayagin the wind--God bless them!--an' made me feel that in the end I wasa man agin. She went t' pieces when she struck, " he added, as if inafterthought; "but I'm something of a hand at swimmin', an' I got ashoreon a bit o' spar. An' then I come down the coast 'til I found you lyin'here in the lee o' Saul's Island. " After a pause, he said hoarsely, toSkipper Billy: "They had the smallpox at Tops'l Cove, says you? They gotit yet at Smith's Arm? At Harbour Rim an' Highwater Cove they beendyin'? How did they die at Seldom Cove? Like flies, says you? An' onewas a kid?"

"_My_ kid, " said Skipper Billy, quietly still. 

"My God!" cried Docks. "_His_ kid! How does that there song go? Whatabout they lakes o' fire? Wasn't it, "'They's lakes o' fire in hell t' sail for such as Skipper Jim!'

you sung? Lord! sir, I'm thinkin' I'll have t' ship along o' Skipper Jimonce more!"

"No, no, lad!" cried Skipper Billy, speaking from the heart. "For youwas willin' t' die right. But God help Jagger on the mornin' o' theJudgment Day! I'll be waitin' at the foot o' the throne o' God t' chargeun with the death o' my wee kid!"

Doctor Luke sat there frowning. 

XXVI

DECOYED

Despite Skipper Billy's anxious, laughing protest that 'twas not yet fitweather to be at sea, the doctor next day ordered the sail set: for, ashe said, he was all of a maddening itch to be about certain business, ofa professional and official turn, at our harbour and Wayfarer's Tickle, and could no longer wait the pleasure of a damned obstinate nor'eastgale--a shocking way to put it, indeed, but vastly amusing when utteredwith a fleeting twinkle of the eye: vastly convincing, too, followed bya snap of the teeth and the gleam of some high, heroic purpose. So wemanaged to get the able little _Greased Lightning_ into the thick ofit--merrily into the howl and gray frown of that ill-minded sea--and, though wind and sea, taking themselves seriously, conspired to smotherher, we made jolly reaches to the nor'ard, albeit under double reefs, and came that night to Poor Luck Harbour, where the doctor's sloop waswaiting. There we bade good-bye to the mood-stricken Docks, and a shortfarewell to Skipper Billy, who must return into the service of theGovernment doctors from St. Johns, now, at last, active in the smallpoxports. And next morning, the wind having somewhat abated in the night, the doctor and I set sail for our harbour, where, two days later, withthe gale promising to renew itself, we dropped anchor: my dear sister, who had kept watch from her window, now waiting on my father's wharf. 

 * * * * *

It seemed to me then--and with utmost conviction I uttered the feelingabroad, the while perceiving no public amusement--that the powers ofdoctors were fair witchlike: for no sooner had my sweet sister swallowedthe first draught our doctor mixed--nay, no sooner had it been offeredher in the silver spoon, and by the doctor, himself--than her soft cheekturned the red of health, and her dimples, which of late had beenexpressionless, invited kisses in a fashion the most compelling, so thata man of mere human parts would swiftly take them, though he were nextmoment hanged for it. I marvel, indeed, that Doctor Luke could resistthem; but resist he did: as I know, for, what with lurking and peeping(my heart being anxiously enlisted), I took pains to discover the fact, and was in no slight degree distressed by it. For dimples were made forkissing--else for what?--and should never go unsatisfied; they are sofrank in pleading that 'twould be sheer outrage for the lips of men tofeel no mad desire: which, thank God! seldom happens. But, then, whatconcern have I, in these days, with the identical follies of dimples andkissing?

"'Tis a wonderful clever doctor, " said I to my sister, my glance fixedin amazement on her glowing cheeks, "that we got in Doctor Luke. "

"Ah, yes!" she sighed: but so demure that 'twas not painful to hear it. 

"An', ecod!" I declared, "'tis a wonderful clever medicine that he'vebeen givin' you. "

"Ecod! Davy Roth, " she mocked, a sad little laugh in her eyes, "an'how, " said she, "did you manage to find it out?"

"Bessie!" cried I, in horror. "Do you stop that swearin'! For an youdon't, " I threatened, "I'll give you----"

"Hut!" she flouted. "'Tis your own word. "

"Then, " I retorted, "I'll never say it again. Ecod! but I won't. "

She pinched my cheek. 

"An' I'm wonderin', " I sighed, reverting to the original train ofthought, which was ever a bothersome puzzle, "how he can keep fromkissin' you when he puts the spoon in your mouth. Sure, " said I, "he'vesuch a wonderful good chance t' do it!"

It may have been what I said; it may have been a familiar footfall inthe hall: at any rate, my sister fled in great confusion. And, pursuingheartily, I caught her in her room before she closed the door, butretreated in haste, for she was already crying on the bed. Whereupon, Igave up the puzzle of love, once and for all; and, as I sought the windyday, I was established in the determination by a glimpse of the doctor, sitting vacant as an imbecile in the room where my sister and I hadbeen: whom I left to his own tragedy, myself being wearied out ofpatience by it. 

"The maid that turns _me_ mad, " was my benighted reflection, as Iclimbed the Watchman to take a look at the weather, "will be a wonderfulclever hand. "

 * * * * *

Unhappily, there had been no indictable offense in Jagger's connectionwith the horrid crimes of the _Sink or Swim_ (as the doctor said with awry face): for Docks would be but a poor witness in a court of law atSt. Johns' knowing nothing of his own knowledge, but only by hearsay;and the bones of Skipper Jim already lay stripped and white in thewaters of the Harbourless Shore. But, meantime, the doctor kept watchfor opportunity to send frank warning to the man of Wayfarer's Tickle;and, soon, chance offered by way of the schooner _Bound Down_, SkipperImmerly Swat, whom the doctor charged, with a grim little grin, toinform the evil fellow that he was to be put in jail, out of hand, whenfirst he failed to walk warily: a message to which Jagger returned (bythe skipper of the _Never Say Die_) an answer of the sauciest--so saucy, indeed, that the doctor did not repeat it, but flushed and kept silent. And now the coast knew of the open war; and great tales came to us ofJagger's laughter and loose-mouthed boasting--of his hate and ridiculeand defiant cursing: so that the doctor wisely conceived him to be uponthe verge of some cowardly panic. But the doctor went about his usualwork, healing the sick, quietly keeping the helm of our business, asthough nothing had occurred: and grimly waited for the inevitable hour. 

Jonas Jutt, of Topmast Tickle, with whom we had passed a ChristmasEve--the father of Martha and Jimmie and Sammy Jutt--came by stealth toour harbour to speak a word with the doctor. "Doctor Luke, " said he, between his teeth, "I'm this year in service t' Jagger o' Wayfarer'sTickle; an' I've heared tell o' the quarrel atween you; an'. . . . "

"Yes?" the doctor inquired. 

"I've took sides. "

"I rather think, " the doctor observed, "that you can tell me somethingI very much want to know. "

"I've no wish, God knows!" Jonas continued, with deep feeling, "t'betray my master. But you--_you_, zur--cured my child, an' I'm wantin't' do you a service. "

"I think you can. "

"I knows I can! I know--I _knows_--that which will put Jagger t' makin'brooms in the jail t' St. Johns. "

"Ah!" the doctor drawled. "I wish, " said he, "that I knew that. "

"I knows, " Jonas pursued, doggedly, though it went against the grain, "that last week he wrecked the _Jessie Dodd_ on the Ragged Edge atWayfarer's Tickle. I knows that she was insured for her value andfifteen hundred quintal o' Labrador fish. I knows that they wasn't afish aboard. I knows that every fish is safe stowed in Jagger's stores. I knows that the schooner lies near afloat at high tide. I knows thatshe'll go t' pieces in the winter gales. I knows----"

The doctor lifted his hand. He was broadly smiling. "You have told me, "said he, "quite enough. Go back to Wayfarer's Tickle. Leave me, " headded, "to see that Jagger learns the worthy trade of broom-making. Youhave done me--great service. "

"Ah, but, " cried Jonas, gripping the doctor's hand, "_you_ cured mylittle Sammy!"

The doctor mused. "It may be difficult, " he said, by and by, "to fixthis wreck upon Jagger. "

"Hist!" Jonas replied, stepping near. "The skipper o' the _JessieDodd_, " he whispered, pointedly, solemnly closing one eye, "is wonderfulweak in the knees. "

Doctor and I went then in the sloop to Wayfarer's Tickle (the windfavouring us); and there we found the handsome _Jessie Dodd_ lyingbedraggled and disconsolate on the Ragged Edge, within the harbour:slightly listed, but afloat aft, and swinging with the gentle lift andfall of the water. We boarded her, sad at heart that a craft so lovelyshould come to a pass like this; and 'twas at once plain to ussailor-men that 'twas a case of ugly abandonment, if not ofbarratry--plain, indeed, to such as knew the man, that in conspiracywith the skipper Jagger had caused the wreck of the schooner, countingupon the isolation of the place, the lateness of the season, thesimplicity of the folk, the awe in which they held him--upon all this toconceal the crime: as often happens on our far-off coast. So we took theskipper into custody (and this with a high hand) unknown to Jagger--gothim, soon, safe into the sloop: so cowed and undone by the doctor'smanner that he miserably whined for chance to turn Queen's evidence inour behalf. 'Twas very sad--nauseating, too: so that one wished to stopthe white, writhing lips with a hearty buffet; for rascals should bestrong, lest their pitiful complaints distress the hearts of honest men, who have not deserved the cruel punishment. 

Jagger came waddling down to the landing, his great dog at his heels. "What you doin', " he demanded, scowling like a thunder-storm, "with thatman?"

"I next call your attention, " the doctor answered, with a smile of themost engaging sort, like a showman once I saw in the South, "to the mostbe-_witch_ing exhibit in this vast concourse of wonders. We havehere--don't crowd, _if_ you please--we have here the skipper of theschooner _Jessie Dodd_, cast away on the Ragged Edge at Wayfarer'sTickle. He is--and I direct your particular attention to the astoundingfact--under arrest; being taken by a magistrate duly appointed by theauthorities at St Johns. Observe, if you will, his--ah--rather abjectcondition. Mark his penitent air. Conceive, if you can, the--ah--ardourwith which he will betray----"

Jagger turned on his heel--and went wearily away. And I have neverforgiven the doctor his light manner upon this wretched occasion: forit seems to me (but I am not sure of it) that rascals, also, areentitled to the usual courtesy. At any rate, in uttermost despair wepaid for the lack of it. 

 * * * * *

I copy, now, from the deposition of Allworthy Grubb, master of theschooner _Jessie Dodd_, Falmouth, England, as taken that night at ourharbour: "The 'Jessie Dodd' was chartered by Thomas Jagger, doingbusiness at Wayfarer's Tickle, to load fish for across. . . . I do herebymake a voluntary statement, with my own free will, and without anyinducement whatever. . . . Thomas Jagger offered me, if I would put the'Jessie Dodd' ashore, he would give me half the profits realized on shipand cargo. This he promised me on a Sunday morning in his fish stageopposite to where the ship was put ashore. After the ship was put ashorehe no longer discussed about the money I was to receive. . . . Two daysbefore the 'Jessie Dodd' was put ashore I broke the wheel chain and tiedthe links with spunyarn. I showed the broken links to Mr. Jagger. Theday we were starting there was rum served out to the crew. Mr. Jaggersupplied it. When the vessel started, nearly all the crew were drunk. Ihad the wheel. About five minutes after she started I cut the spunyarn. The vessel began to go on the rocks. One of the crew shouted, 'Hard-a-starboard!' I shouted that the port wheel chain was broken. Then the vessel went ashore. . . . Mr. Jagger sent a kettle of rumaboard, which I had served to the crew. No attempt was made to get thevessel off. . . . When I saw Mr. Jagger he told me I was a seven kinds ofa fool for putting her ashore where I did. He said it would be allright, anyhow. He said they were all afraid of him. He said no one wouldgive it away. . . . I am guilty of putting the 'Jessie Dodd' ashore, forwhich I am extremely sorry of being prompted to do so by Thomas Jagger, and to be so sadly led away into such depravity. Had it not been forsuch an irreproachable character, which I have held previous to thisdreadful act, ten minutes after the occurrence I would have given myselfup. Not one hour since but what I have repented bitterly. . . . " I presentthis that the doctor may not appear unfairly to have initiated aprosecution against his enemy: though that were a blessing to our coast. 

"Davy, " said the doctor, briskily, when the writing was done, "I mustleave Captain Grubb to your hospitality for a time. It will be necessaryfor me to go south to the cable station at Chateau. The support ofLloyds--since Jagger has influence at St. Johns--will be invaluable inthis case. "

He set sail in the sloop next day. 

It was now late in the fall of the year. Young slob ice was forming bynight in the quiet places of the harbour. The shiver of winter waseverywhere abroad. . . . For a week the weather continued ominous--withnever a glint of sunshine to gladden us. Drear weather, treacherous--promising grief and pain. Off shore, the schooners of thegreat fleet crept by day to the s'uth'ard, harbouring by night: takingquick advantage of the variable winds, as chance offered. 'Twas thusthat the doctor returned to our harbour; and there he was held, from dayto day, by vicious winds, which the little sloop could not carry, bygreat, black seas, which she could not ride. . . . One day, being ill atease, we went to the Watchman, that we might descry the first favourablesign. In the open, the wind was still to the north of east--but wildlycapricious: blowing hither and thither; falling, too, to a sigh, rising, all at once, to a roaring gust, which tore at the whisps of grass andfairly sucked the breath from one's body. Overhead, the sky was low andtumultuous; great banks of black cloud, flecked with gray andwhite--ragged masses--went flying inland, as in a panic. There was noquiet light in the east, no clean air between; 'twas everywherethick--everywhere sullen. . . . We left the Watchman downcast--each, too, preoccupied. In my heart was the heavy feeling that some sad thing wasabout to befall us. . . . 

 * * * * *

I must tell, now, that, before the smallpox came to Poor Luck Harbour, the doctor had chartered the thirty-ton _Trap and Seine_ for ourbusiness: with which Skipper Tommy Lovejoy and the twins, with four menof our harbour, had subsequently gone north to Kidalik, where thefishing was reported good beyond dreams. 'Twas time for the schooner tobe home. She was long overdue; and in great anxiety we awaited herreturn or news of her misfortune: the like of which often happens on ourcoast, where news proceeds only by word of mouth. 'Twas in part in hopeof catching sight of her barked topsail that we had gone to theWatchman. But at that moment the _Trap and Seine_ lay snug at anchor inWayfarer's Tickle: there delayed for more civil weather in which toattempt the passage of the Bay, for she was low in the water with herweight of fish, and Skipper Tommy had a mind to preserve his goodfortune against misadventure. And, next day, the wind being stillunfavourable, he had Timmie row him ashore, that he might pass an hourin talk with the men on Jagger's wharf: for there was nothing better todo, and the wreck of the _Jessie Dodd_ was food of the choicest forwater-side gossip. To him, by and by, came Jagger's clerk: begging thatthe _Trap and Seine_ might be got under weigh for our harbour within thehour, for Jagger lay near death (having been taken in the night) andsorely needed the doctor, lest he die. 

"Die!" cried Skipper Tommy, much distressed. "That's fair awful. Poorman! So sick as that?"

"Ay, " the clerk replied, with a sharp little look into Skipper Tommy'smild eyes, "he'll die. "

"Ecod!" the skipper declared. "'Twill make the doctor sad t' know it!"

Skipper Tommy remembers that the clerk turned away, as if, for somestrange reason, to get command of himself. 

"That he will, " said the clerk. 

"'Tis awful!" the skipper repeated. "I'll get the schooner t' sea thisminute. She's wonderful low in the water, " he mused, pulling at hisnose; "but I'm thinkin' the doctor would rather save a life than get acargo o' green fish t' harbour. "

"Dying, tell him, " the clerk urged, smoothing his mouth with a leanhand. "Dying--and in terror of hell. "

"Afeared o' hell?"

"Gone mad with fear of damnation. "

Skipper Tommy raised his hands. "That's awful!" he muttered, with a sadshake of the head. "Tell that poor man the doctor will come. Tell un, oh, tell un, " he added, wringing his hands, "_not_ t' be afeared o'hell!"

"Yes, yes!" the clerk exclaimed, impatiently. "Don't forget the message. Jagger lies sick, and dying, and begging for help. "

Skipper Tommy made haste to the small boat, the while raising a cry forTimmie, who had gone about his own pleasure, the Lord knew where! AndTimmie ran down the path, as fast as his sea-boots would go: but wasintercepted by Jonas Jutt, who drew him into the lower fish-stage, asthough in fear of observation, and there whispered the circumstances ofthe departure of the _Trap and Seine_. 

"But do you tell your father, " he went on, "that Jagger's not sick. "

"Not sick?" cried Timmie, under his breath. 

"Tell your father that I heared Jagger say he'd prove the doctor acoward or drown him. "

Timmie laughed. 

"Tell un, " Jonas whispered, speaking in haste and great excitement, "that Jagger's as hearty drunk as ever he was--loaded t' the gunwalewith rum an' hate--in dread o' the trade o' broom-makin'--desperate t'get clear o' the business o' the _Jessie Dodd_. Tell un he wants t'drown the doctor atween your harbour an' Wayfarer's Tickle. Tell un t'give no heed t' the message. Tell un t'----"

"Oh, Lard!" Timmie gurgled, in a spasm of delight. 

"Tell un t' have the doctor stay at home 'til the weather lifts. Tellun----"

In response to an urgent call from the skipper, who was waiting at thesmall-boat, Timmie ran out. As he stumbled down the path, emittingguffaws and delicious chuckles, he conceived--most unhappily for usall--an infinitely humorous plan, which would still give him the delightof a rough passage to our harbour: for Timmie loved a wet deck and areeling beat to windward, under a low, driving sky, with the nightcoming down, as few lads do. Inform the skipper? Not Timmie! Nor wouldhe tell even Jacky. He would disclose the plot at a more dramaticmoment. When the beat was over--when the schooner had made harbour--whenthe anchor was down--when the message was delivered--in the thick of theoutcry of protest against the doctor's high determination to ventureupon the errand of mercy--_then_ Timmie Lovejoy, the dramaticopportunity having come, would, with proper regard for his ownimportance, make the astounding revelation. It would be quite thrilling(he thought); moreover, it would be a masterly joke on his father, whotook vast delight in such things. 

"The wind's veerin' t' the s'uth'ard, " said the skipper, anxiously, while they put a double reef in the mainsail. "'Twill be a rough timeacross. "

"Hut! dad, " Timmie answered. "Sure, _you_ can make harbour. "

"Ecod!" Jacky added, with a grin. "You're the man t' do it, dad--_you're_ the man t' drive her!"

"Well, lads, " the flattered skipper admitted, resting from the wrestlewith the obstinate sail, and giving his nose a pleased sort of tweak, "Iisn't sayin' I'm not. "

So, low as she was--sunk with the load in her hold and the gear andcasks and what-not on her deck--they took the _Trap and Seine_ into thegale. And she made brave weather of it--holding her own stoutly, cheerily shaking the frothy water from her bows: though 'twas an unfairtask to put her to. Skipper Tommy put the first hand at the mainsailhalliards, the second hand at the foresail, with orders to cut away atthe lift of his hand, lest the vessel get on her beam's ends andcapsize. 'Twas thus that they drove her into the wind--stout hearts andstout timber: no wavering or weak complaint, whatever the wind and sea. But night caught them off our harbour--deep night: with the headlandsnear lost in the black sky; no more than the looming, changing shadowof the hills and the intermittent flash of breakers to guide the way. They were now beating along shore, close to Long Cove of the mainland, which must then have lain placid in the lee of Naked Point. At the cryof "Hard-a-lee!"--sung out in terror when the breakers were fair underthe bow--the ship came about and fell off towards the open sea. Thencame three great waves; they broke over the bow--swept the schooner, stem to stern, the deck litter going off in a rush of white water. Thefirst wrenched Jacky from his handhold; but Skipper Tommy, standingastern, caught him by the collar as the lad went over the taffrail. Came, then, with the second wave, Timmie, whom, also, the skippercaught. But 'twas beyond the old man's power to lift both to the deck:nor could he cry for help, nor choose whom to drop, loving them alike;but desperately clung to both until the rush of the third wave tore oneaway. 

It was Timmie. 

 * * * * *

Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, making into our harbour, by way of the Gate, inthe depths of that wild night--poor old Skipper Tommy, blind and brokenby grief--ran his loaded schooner into the Trap and wrecked her on theSeven Murderers, where she went to pieces on the unfeeling rocks. Butwe managed to get the crew ashore, and no man lost his life at thattime. And Skipper Tommy, sitting bowed in my father's house, told us ina dull, slow way--made tragic, from time to time, by the sweet light inhis eye, by the flitting shadow of a smile--told us, thus, that Jaggerof Wayfarer's Tickle lay at the point of death, in fear of hell, cryingfor the help of his enemy: and then put his arm about Jacky, and wentwith him to the Rat Hole, there to bury his sorrow, that it might notdistress us the more, who sorrowed, also. 

XXVII

The DAY of The DOG

I was awakened at dawn. 'Twas by a gentle touch of the doctor's hand. "Is it you, zur?" I asked, starting from sad dreams. 

"Hush!" he whispered. "'Tis I, Davy. "

I listened to the roar of the gale--my sleepy senses immediately arousedby the noise of wind and sleet. The gathered rage was loosed, at last. 

"'Tis a bitter night, " I said. 

"The day is breaking. "

He sat down beside me, gravely silent; and he put his arm around me. 

"You isn't goin'?" I pleaded. 

"Yes. "

I had grown to know his duty. 'Twas all plain to me. I would not haveheld him from it, lest I come to love him less. 

"Ay, " I moaned, gripping his hand, "you're goin'!"

"Yes, " he said. 

We sat for a moment without speaking. The gale went whippingpast--driving madly through the breaking day: a great rush of black, angry weather. 'Twas dim in the room. I could not see his face--but felthis arm warm about me: and wished it might continue there, and that Imight fall asleep, serene in all that clamour, sure that I might find itthere on waking, or seek it once again, when sore need came. And Ithought, even then, that the Lord had been kind to us: in that this manhad come sweetly into our poor lives, if but for a time. 

"You isn't goin' alone, is you?"

"No. Skipper Tommy is coming to sail the sloop. "

Again--and fearsomely--the gale intruded upon us. There was a swish ofwind, rising to a long, mad shriek--the roar of rain on the roof--therattle of windows--the creaking of the timbers of our house. I trembledto hear it. 

"Oh, doctor!" I moaned. 

"Hush!" he said. 

The squall subsided. Rain fell in a monotonous patter. Light crept intothe room. 

"Davy!"

"Ay, zur?"

"I'm going, now. "

"Is you?"

He drew me very close. "I've come to say good-bye, " he said. My headsank in great misgiving against him. I could not say one word. "And youknow, lad, " he continued, "that I love your sister. Tell her, when I amgone, that I love her. Tell her----"

He paused. "An' what, zur, " I asked, "shall I tell my sister for you?"

"Tell her--that I love her. No!" he cried. "'Tis not that. Tell her----"

"Ay?"

"That I loved her!"

"Hist!" I whispered, not myself disquieted by this significant change ofform. "She's stirrin' in her room. "

It may be that the doctor loved my sister through me--that I found somestrange place in his great love for her, to which I had no title, butwas most glad to have. For, then, in the sheltering half-light, helifted me from my bed--crushed me against his breast--held me there, whispering messages I could not hear--and gently laid me down again, andwent in haste away. And I dressed in haste: but fumbled at all thebuttons, nor could quickly lay hands on my clothes, which were scatteredeverywhere, by my sad habit; so that, at last, when I was clad for theweather, and had come to my father's wharf, the sloop was cast off. Skipper Tommy sat in the stern, his face grimly set towards NorthTickle and the hungry sea beyond: nor did he turn to look at me. But thedoctor waved his hand--and laughed a new farewell. 

 * * * * *

I did not go to the hills--because I had no heart for that (and had nowish to tell my sister what might be seen from there): but sat grievingon a big box, in the lee of the shop, drumming a melancholy refrain withmy heels. And there I sat while the sad light of day spread over therocky world; and, by and by, the men came out of the cottages--and_they_ went to the hills of God's Warning, as I knew they would--andcame back to the wharf to gossip: but in my presence were silentconcerning what they had seen at sea, so that, when I went up to ourhouse, I did not know what the sloop was making of the gale. And when Icrossed the threshold, 'twas to a vast surprise: for my breakfast wasset on a narrow corner of the kitchen table (and had turned cold); andthe whole house was in an amazing state of dust and litter andunseasonable confusion--the rugs lifted, the tables and chairs awry, themaids wielding brooms with utmost vigour: a comfortless prospect, indeed, but not foreign to my sister's way at troublous times, as Iknew. So I ate my breakfast, and that heartily (being a boy); and thensought my sister, whom I found tenderly dusting in my mother's room. 

"'Tis queer weather, Bessie, " said I, in gentle reproof, "for cleanin'house. "

She puckered her brow--a sad little frown: but sweet, as well, for, downcast or gay, my sister could be naught else, did she try it. 

"Is you thinkin' so, Davy?" she asked, pulling idly at her dust-rag. "Ah, well!" she sighed. 

"Why, " I exclaimed, "'tis the queerest I ever knowed!"

"I been thinkin', " she mused, "that I'd get the house tidied up--whilethe doctor's away. "

"Oh, _was_ you?"

"Ay, " she said, looking up; "for he've such a wonderful distaste fordust an' confusion. An' I'll have the house all in order, " she added, with a wan smile, "when he gets back. "

'Tis the way of women to hope; but that my clever sister should thuscount sure that which lay in grave doubt--admitting no uncertainty--wasbeyond my understanding. 

"Does you think, " she asked, looking away, "that he will be back"--shehesitated--"the morrow?"

I did not deign to reply. 

"May be, " she muttered, "the day after. "

'Twas hard to believe it of her. "Bessie, " I began, ignoring her folly, "afore the doctor went, he left a message for you. "

Her hands went swiftly to her bosom. "For me?" she whispered. "Ah, tellme, Davy!"

"I'm just about t' tell, " said I, testily. "But, sure, 'tis nothin' t'put you in a state. When he come t' my room, " I proceeded, "at dawn, t'say good-bye, he left a message. 'Tell her, ' said he, 'that I loveher. '"

It seemed to me, then, that she suffered--that she felt some gloriousagony: of which, as I thought, lads could know nothing. And I wonderedwhy. 

"That he loves me!" she murmured. 

"No, " said I. "'Tell her not that, ' said he, " I went on. "'Tell her thatI loved her. '"

"Not that!" she cried. "'Twas that he loves me--_not_ that he loved me!"

"'Twas that he loved you. "

"Oh, no!"

"I got it right. "

"Ah, then, " she cried, in despair, "he've no hope o' comin' back! Oh, "she moaned, clasping her hands, "if only I had----"

But she sighed--and turned again to her womanly task; and I left hertenderly caring for my mother's old room. And when, at midday, I came upfrom the wharf, I found the house restored to order and quiet: mysister sitting composed in my mother's place, smiling a welcome acrossthe table, as my mother used to do. And I kissed her--for I loved her!

 * * * * *

It blew up bitter cold--the wind rising: the sea turned white withfroth. 'Twas a solemn day--like a sad Sunday, when a man lies dead inthe harbour. No work was done--no voice was lifted boisterously--nochild was out of doors: but all clung peevishly to their mothers'skirts. The men on the wharf--speculating in low, anxious voices--withdarkened eyes watched the tattered sky: the rushing, sombre clouds, still in a panic fleeing to the wilderness. They said the sloop wouldnot outlive the gale. They said 'twas a glorious death that the doctorand Skipper Thomas Lovejoy had died; thus to depart in the highendeavour to succour an enemy--but shed no tears: for 'tis not the wayof our folk to do it. . . . Rain turned to sleet--sleet to black fog. Thesmell of winter was in the air. There was a feeling of snow abroad. . . . Then came the snow--warning flakes, driving strangely through the mist, where no snow should have been. Our folk cowered--not knowing what theyfeared: but by instinct perceiving a sudden change of season, for whichthey were not ready; and were disquieted. . . . 

What a rush of feeling and things done--what rage and impulsivedeeds--came then! The days are not remembered--but lie hid in a mist, asI write. . . . Timmie Lovejoy crawled into our harbour in the dusk of thatday: having gone ashore at Long Cove with the deck-litter of the _Trapand Seine_; which surprised us not at all, for we are used to suchthings. And when he gave us the message (having now, God knows! a tragicopportunity, but forgetting that)--when he sobbed that Jagger, being insound health, would prove the doctor a coward or drown him--wedetermined to go forthwith by the coast rocks to Wayfarer's Tickle topunish Jagger in some way for the thing he had done. And when I went upthe path to tell my poor sister of the villany practiced upon thedoctor, designed to compass his very death--ah! 'tis dreadful to recallit--when I went up the path, my mother's last prayer pleading in mysoul, the whitening world was all turned red; and my wish was that, someday, I might take my enemy by the throat, whereat I would tear with mynaked fingers, until my hands were warm with blood. . . . But it came on tosnow; and for two days and nights snow fell, the wind blowing mightily:so that no man could well move from his own house. And when the windwent down, and the day dawned clear again, we put the dogs to myfather's komatik and set out for Wayfarer's Tickle: whence Jagger hadthat morning fled, as Jonas Jutt told us. 

"Gone!" cried Tom Tot. 

"T' the s'uth'ard with the dogs. He's bound t' the Straits Shore t' getthe last coastal boat t' Bay o' Islands. "

"Gone!" we repeated, blankly. 

"Ay--but ten hours gone. In mad haste--alone--ill provisioned--fleein'in terror. . . . He sat on the hills--sat there like an old crag--in therain an' wind--waitin' for the doctor's sloop. 'There she is, Jutt!'says he. 'No, ' says I. 'Thank God, Jagger, that's a schooner, reefeddown an' runnin' for harbour!' . . . 'There she is!' says he. 'No, ' saysI. 'Thank God, that's the same schooner, makin' heavy weather o' thegale!' . . . 'There she is, Jutt!' says he. 'Ay, ' says I, 'God help her, that's the doctor's sloop! They've wrecked the _Trap an' Seine_'. . . . An'there he sat, watchin', with his chin on his hand, 'til the doctor'ssloop went over, an' the fog drifted over the sea where she had been. . . . An' then he went home; an' no man seed un agin 'til he called for thedogs. An' he went away--in haste--alone--like a man gone mad. . . . "

The lean-handed clerk broke in. He was blue about the lips--his eyessunk in shadowy pits--and he was shivering. 

"'Timmons, ' says he to me, " he chattered, "'I'm going home. I donewrong, ' says he. 'They'll kill me for this. '"

"An' when he got the dogs in the traces, " Jonas proceeded, "I seed hewasn't ready for no long journey. 'Good Lord, Jagger, ' says I, 'youisn't got no grub for the dogs!' 'Dogs!' says he. 'I'll feed the dogswith me whip. ' 'Jagger, ' says I, 'don't you try it. They won't _eat_ awhip. They can't _live_ on it. ' 'Never you fear, ' says he. 'I'll feedthem ugly brutes when they gets me t' Cape Charles Harbour. ' 'Jagger, 'says I, 'you better look out they don't feed theirselves afore they getsyou there. You got a ugly leader, ' says I, 'in that red-eyed brute. ''Him?' says he. 'Oh, I got _him_ broke!' But he _didn't_ have----"

"And with that, " said the clerk, "off he put. "

"Men, " cried Tom Tot, looking about upon our group, "we'll cotch unyet!"

So we set out in pursuit of Jagger of Wayfarer's Tickle, who had fledover the hills--I laugh to think of it--with an ugly, red-eyed leader, to be fed with a whip: which dog I knew. . . . No snow fell. The days wereclear--the nights moonlit. Bitter cold continued. We followed a plaintrack--sleeping by night where the quarry had slept. . . . Day after daywe pushed on: with no mercy on the complaining dogs--plunging throughthe drifts, whipping the team up the steeper hills, speeding when thegoing lay smooth before us. . . . By and by we drew near. Here and therethe snow was significantly trampled. There were signs of confusion andcross purposes. The man was desperately fighting his dogs. . . . One night, the dogs were strangely restless--sniffing the air, sleepless, howling;nor could we beat them to their beds in the snow: they were like wolves. And next day--being then two hours after dawn--we saw before us a bloodypatch of snow: whereupon Tom Tot cried out in horror. 

"Oh, dear God!" he muttered, turning with a gray face. "They've eat himup!"

Then--forgetting the old vow--he laughed. 

 * * * * *

. . . And this was true. They had eaten him up. The snow was all trampledand gory. They had eaten him up. Among the tatters of his garments, Ifound a hand; and I knew that hand for the hand of Jagger of Wayfarer'sTickle. . . . They had turned wolves--they had eaten him up. From faroff--the crest of a desolate hill--there came a long howl. I lookedtowards that place. A great dog appeared--and fled. I wondered if thedog I knew had had his day. I wondered if the first grip had been uponthe throat. . . . 

 * * * * *

When we came again to our harbour--came close again to the grief we hadin rage and swift action forgot--when, from the inland hills, we caughtsight of the basin of black water, and the cottages, snuggled by thewhite water-side--we were amazed to discover a schooner lying at anchoroff my father's wharf: the wreck of a craft, her topmast hanging, hercabin stove in, her jib-boom broke off short. But this amazement--thisvast astonishment--was poor surprise as compared with the shock I gotwhen I entered my father's house. For, there--new groomed andplacid--sat the doctor; and my dear sister was close to him--oh, sojoyfully close to him--her hand in his, her sweet face upturned to himand smiling, glowing with such faith and love as men cannot deserve: aradiant, holy thing, come straight from the Heart of the dear God, whois the source of Love. 

"Oh!" I ejaculated, stopping dead on the threshold. 

"Hello, Davy!" the doctor cried. 

I fell into the handiest chair. "You got home, " I observed, in a gasp. "Didn't you?"

He laughed. 

"Sure, " I began, vacantly, "an', ecod!" I exclaimed, with heat, "whatcraft picked _you_ up?"

"The _Happy Sally_. "

"Oh!" said I. 'Twas a queer situation. There seemed so little to say. "Was you drove far?" I asked, politely seeking to fill an awkward gap. 

"South o' Belle Isle. "

"Ah!"

The doctor was much amused--my sister hardly less so. They watched mewith laughing eyes. And they heartlessly abandoned me to my ownconversational devices: which turned me desperate. 

"Is you goin' t' get married?" I demanded. 

My sister blushed--and gave me an arch glance from behind her long, darklashes. But--

"We are not without hope, " the doctor answered, calmly, "that the Bishopwill be on our coast next summer. "

"I'm glad, " I observed, "that you've both come t' your senses. "

"Oh!" cried my sister. 

"Ecod!" the doctor mocked. 

"Ay, " said I, with a wag. "I is _that_!"

The doctor spoke. "'Twas your sister, " said he, "found the way. Shediscovered a word, " he continued, turning tenderly to her, his voicecharged with new and solemn feeling, "that I'd forgot. "

"A word!" said I, amazed. 

"Just, " he answered, "one word. "

'Twas mystifying. "An' what word, " I asked, "might that word be?"

"'Expiation, '" he replied. 

I did not know the meaning of that word--nor did I care. But I was gladthat my dear sister--whose cleverness (and spirit of sacrifice) mightever be depended upon--had found it: since it had led to a consummationso happy. 

"Skipper Tommy saved?" I enquired

"He's with the twins at the Rat Hole. "

"Then, " said I, rising, "as you're both busy, " said I, in a saucy flash, "I'll be goin'----"

"You'll not!" roared the doctor. And he leaped from his seat--bore downupon me, indeed, like a mad hurricane: my sister laughing and clappingher little hands. So I knew I must escape or have my bones near crackunder the pressure of his affection; and I was agile--and eluded him. 

 * * * * *

I found Skipper Tommy and the twins at the Rat Hole--the skipperestablished in comfort by the stove, a cup of tea at his hand, hisstockinged feet put up to warm: the twins sitting close, both grinningbroadly, each finely alert to anticipate the old man's wants, who nowhad acquired a pampered air, which sat curiously upon him. "Seems t' me, Davy, " he said, in a solemn whisper, at the end of the tale, new toldfor me, "that the dear Lard took pity. 'You done pretty well, Tommy, 'says He, 't' put out t' the help o' Jagger in that there gale. I'mthinkin' I'll have t' change my mind about you, ' says He. 'The twins, Tommy, ' says He, 'is well growed, an' able lads, both, as I knowed whenI started out t' do this thing; but I'm thinkin', ' says He, 'that I'llplease you, Tommy, ' says He, 'by lettin' you live a little longer withthem dear lads. ' Oh, " the skipper concluded, finding goodness in all theacts of the Lord, the while stretching out his rough old hand to touchthe boys, his face aglow, "'twas wonderful kind o' Him t' let me see mylads again!"

The twins heartily grinned. 

XXVIII

IN HARBOUR

When the doctor was told of the tragic end of Jagger of Wayfarer'sTickle, he shuddered, and sighed, and said that Jagger had planned anoble death for him: but said no more; nor has he since spoken the nameof that bad man. And we sent the master of the _Jessie Dodd_ to St. Johns by the last mail-boat of that season--and did not seek to punishhim: because he had lost all that he had, and was most penitent; andbecause Jagger was dead, and had died the death that he did. . . . The lastof the doctor's small patrimony repaired the damage done our business bythe wreck of the _Trap and Seine_: and brought true my old dream of anestablished trade, done with honour and profit to ourselves and the folkof our coast, and of seven schooners, of which, at last, the twins weremade masters of two. . . . And that winter my sister was very happy--ay, ashappy (though 'tis near sin to say it) as her dear self deserved. Sweetsister--star of my life!. . . The doctor, too, was happy; and not once(and many a cold night I shivered in my meagre nightgown at his doorto discover it)--not once did he suffer the old agony I had known him tobear. And when, frankly, I asked him why this was----

"Love, Davy, " he answered. 

"Love?" said I. 

"And labour. "

"An' labour?"

"And the Gospel according to Tommy. "

"Sure, " I asked, puzzled, "what's that?"

"Faith, " he answered. 

"'Tis queer!" I mused. 

"Just faith, " he repeated. "Just faith in the loving-kindness of thedear God. Just faith--with small regard for creeds and forms. "

This he said with a holy twinkle. 

 * * * * *

But that was long ago. Since then I have been to the colleges andhospitals of the South, and have come back, here, in great joy, to livemy life, serving the brave, kind folk, who are mine own people, heartilyloved by me: glad that I am Labrador born and bred--proud of the braveblood in my great body, of the stout purpose in my heart: of which(because of pity for all inlanders and the folk of the South) I may notwith propriety boast. Doctor Davy, they call me, now. But I have notgone lacking. I am not without realization of my largest hope. Thedecks are often wet--wet and white. They heave underfoot--and are wetand white--while the winds come rushing from the gray horizon. Ah, Ilove the sea--the sweet, wild sea: loveliest in her adorable rage, likea woman!. . . And my father's house is now enlarged, and is an hospital;and the doctor's sloop is now grown to a schooner, in which he goesabout, as always, doing good. . . . And my sister waits for me to come infrom the sea, in pretty fear that I may not come back; and I am gladthat she waits, sitting in my mother's place, as my mother used to do. 

And Skipper Tommy Lovejoy this day lies dying. . . . 

 * * * * *

I sit, a man grown, in my mother's room, which now is mine. It isspringtime. To-day I found a flower on the Watchman. Beyond the broadwindow of her room, the hills of Skull Island and God's Warning standyellow in the sunshine, rivulets dripping from the ragged patches ofsnow which yet linger in the hollows; and the harbour water ripplesunder balmy, fragrant winds from the wilderness; and workaday voices, strangely unchanged by the years that are passed, come drifting up thehill from my father's wharves; and, ay, indeed, all the world of seaand land is warm and wakeful and light of heart, just as it used to be, when I was a lad, and my mother lay here dying. But there is no shadowin the house--no mystery. The separate sorrows have long since fled. Mymother's gentle spirit here abides--just as it used to do: touching mypoor life with holy feeling, with fine dreams, with tender joy. There isno shadow--no mystery. There is a glory--but neither shadow nor mystery. And my hand is still in her dear hand--and she leads me: just as sheused to do. And all my days are glorified--by her who said good-bye tome, but has not left me desolate. 

 * * * * *

Skipper Tommy died to-day. 'Twas at the break of dawn. The sea layquiet; the sky was flushed with young, rosy colour--all the hues ofhope. We lifted him on the pillows: that from the window he mightwatch--far off at sea--the light chase the shadows from the world. 

"A new day!" he whispered. 

'Twas ever a mystery to him. That there should come new days--that thedeeds of yesterday should be forgot in the shadows of yesterday--that asthe dawn new hope should come unfailing, clean, benignant. 

"A new day!" he repeated, turning his mild old face from the placidsea, a wondering, untroubled question in his eyes. 

"Ay, zur--a new day. "

He watched the light grow--the hopeful tints spread rejoicing towardsthe higher heavens. 

"The Lard, " he said, "give me work. Blessed be the name o' the Lard!"

All the world was waking. 

"The Lard give me pain. Blessed be the name o' the Lard!"

And a breeze came with the dawn--a rising breeze, rippling the purplesea. 

"The Lard give me love, " he continued, turning tenderly to the stalwarttwins. "Blessed be the name o' the Lard!"

The wind swept calling by--blue winds, fair winds to the north: callingat the window, all the while. 

"The Lard showed Himself t' me. Oh, ay, that He did, " he added, with areturn to his old manner. "'Skipper Tommy, ' says the Lard, " hewhispered, "'Skipper Tommy, ' says He, 'leave you an' Me, ' says He, 'befriends. You'll never regret it, b'y, ' says He, 'an you make friendswith Me. ' Blessed, " he said, his last, low voice tremulous with deepgratitude, "oh, blessed be the name o' the Lard!"

The wind called again--blithely called: crying at the window. In allthe harbours of our coast, 'twas time to put to sea. 

"I wisht, " the skipper sighed, "that I'd been--a bit--wickeder. Thewicked, " he took pains to explain, "knows the dear Lard's love. An', somehow, I isn't _feelin'_ it as I should. An' I wisht--I'd sinned--awee bit--more. "

Still the wind called to him. 

"Ecod!" he cried, impatiently, his hand moving feebly to tweak his nose, but failing by the way. "There I been an' gone an' made another mistake!Sure, 'tis awful! Will you tell me, Davy Roth, an you can, " he demanded, now possessed of the last flicker of strength, "how I could be wickedwithout hurtin' some poor man? Ecod! I'm woeful blind. "

He dropped my hand--suddenly: forgetting me utterly. His hands soughtthe twins--waving helplessly: and were caught. Whereupon the fathersighed and smiled. 

"Dear lads!" he whispered. 

The sun rose--a burst of glory--and struck into the room--and blindedthe old eyes. 

"I wonder----" the old man gasped, looking once more to the glowing sky. "I wonder. . . . "

Then he knew. 

 * * * * *

How unmomentous is the death we die! This passing--this gentle changefrom place to place! What was it he said? "'Tis but like wakin' from atroubled dream. 'Tis like wakin' t' the sunlight of a new, clear day. Hetakes our hand. 'The day is broke, ' says He. 'Dream no more, but rise, child o' Mine, an' come into the sunshine with Me. ' 'Tis only thatthat's comin' t' you--only His gentle touch--an' the waking. Hush! Don'tyou go gettin' scared. 'Tis a lovely thing--that's comin' t' you!" . . . And I fancy that the dead pity the living--that they look upon us, inthe shadows of the world, and pity us . . . And I know that my motherwaits for me at the gate--that her arms will be the first to enfold me, her lips the first to touch my cheek. "Davy, dear, my little son, " shewill whisper in my ear, "aren't you glad that you, too, are dead?" And Ishall be glad. 

 * * * * *

Ha! but here's a cheery little gale of wind blowing up the path. 'Tis mynephew--coming from my father's wharf. Davy, they call him. The sturdy, curly-pated, blue-eyed lad--Labradorman, every luscious inch of him:without a drop of weakling blood in his stout little body! There's jollypurpose in his stride--in his glance at my window. 'Tis a walk on theWatchman, I'll be bound! The wind's in the west, the sun unclouded, thesea in a ripple. The day invites us. Why not? The day does not knowthat an old man lies dead. . . . He's at the door. He calls my name. "UncleDavy! Hi, b'y! Where is you?" Ecod! but the Heavenly choir will neverthrill me so. . . . He's on the stair. I must make haste. In a moment hisarms will be round my neck. And----

Here's a large period to my story! The little rascal has upset my bottleof ink!

THE END

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NORMAN DUNCAN

DR. GRENFELL'S PARISH

16 Illustrations, Cloth, $1. 00 net. 

_Outlook:_ "It is a series of sketches of Grenfell's work in Labrador. Avery rare picture the author has given of a very rare man: a true storyof adventure which we should like to see in the hands of every boy andof every man of whatever age who still retains anything of a boyishheroism in his soul. "

_N. Y. Globe_: "Mr. Duncan has given a very moving picture of thedreadfully hard life of the northern fishermen. He has included dozensof the little cameos of stories, true stories, as he vouches, full ofhuman nature as it is exhibited in primitive conditions. "

_Congregationalist_: "Norman Duncan draws vivid pictures of the Labradorand the service which Dr. Grenfell has rendered to its people. It is afascinating tale and told with real enthusiasm and charm. The unusualstage of action and the chivalrous quality of the hero, once known, layhold upon the imagination and will not let go. "

_Fifth Edition_

By DR. WILFRED T. GRENFELL

THE HARVEST OF THE SEA

16 Illustrations, Cloth, $1. 00 net. 

_New York Sun_: "Relates the life of the North Sea fisherman on the nowfamous Dogger Bank: the cruel apprenticeship, the bitter life, thegallant deeds of courage and of seamanship, the evils of drink, the workof the deep sea mission. These are real sea tales that will appeal toevery one who cares for salt water, and are told admirably. "

_N. Y. Tribune_: "Dr. Grenfell tells, in fiction form, but with strictadherence to fact, how the mission to deep sea fishermen came to befounded among the fishing fleets that frequent the Dogger Bank that hasfigured prominently in the recent international complication. It is astory rich in adventure and eloquent of accomplishments for thebetterment of the men. "

_Chicago Tribune_: "It is a plain unvarnished tale of the real life ofthe deep sea fishermen and of the efforts which Grenfell's mission makesto keep before their minds the words of Him who stilled the waters andwho chose His bosom disciples from men such as they. "

_Brooklyn Eagle_: "A robust, inspiring book, making us better acquaintedwith a man of the right sort, doing a man's work. "

_Fifth Edition_

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NORMAN DUNCAN

THE ADVENTURES OF

BILLY TOPSAIL

Illustrated. Cloth, $1. 50

A ripping story of adventure by sea is regarded by every true-heartedboy as the very best story of all. The yarn--that's the thing! If thesea is a northern sea, full of ice and swept by big gales, if theadventures are real, if the hero is _not_ a prig, if the tale concernsitself with heroic deeds and moves like a full-rigged ship with all sailspread to a rousing breeze, the boy will say "Bully!" and read the storyagain. "The Adventures of Billy Topsail" is a book to be chummy with. Itis crowded with adventure, every page of it, from the time young Billyis nearly drowned by his dog, until in a big blizzard, lost on anice-floe, he rescues Sir Archibald's son, and the old _Dictator_weathers the gale. 

There is "something doing" every minute--something exciting and real andinspiring. The book is big enough and broad enough to make Billy Topsaila tried friend of every reader--just the sort of friend Archie found himto be. And Billy is good company. He is _not_ a prig; he is a real boy, full of spirit and fun and courage and the wish to distinguish himself. In a word, as the lads say, he's "all right, all right!" He sails, fishes, travels the ice, goes whaling, is swept to sea with the ice, captures a devil-fish, hunts a pirates' cave, gets lost on a cliff, iswrecked, runs away to join a sealer, and makes himself interesting in ahundred ways. He's a good chum, in calm or gale, on water, ice orshore--that's what Billy Topsail o' Ruddy Cove is. 

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By NORMAN DUNCAN

_Doctor Luke of The Labrador_

12mo, Cloth, $1. 50. 

_N. Y. Evening Post_: "Mr. Duncan is deserving of much praise for this, his first novel. . . . In his descriptive passages Mr. Duncan is sincere tothe smallest detail. His characters are painted in with bold, widestrokes. . . . Unlike most first novels, 'Dr. Luke' waxes stronger as itprogresses. "

_Henry van Dyke_: "It is a real book, founded on truth and lighted withimagination, well worth reading and remembering. "

_Review of Reviews_: "Mr. Duncan has added a new province to the realmof literature. This strong, beautiful love story moves with adistinctive rhythm that is as fresh as it is new. One of the season'stwo or three best books. "

_Hamilton W. Mabie, in the Ladies' Home Journal_: "Full of incidents, dramatically told, of the heroism and romance of humble life: strong, tender, pathetic; one of the most wholesome stories of the season. "

_Current Literature_: "Beyond a peradventure, ranks as one of the mostremarkable novels issued in 1904. Stands out so prominently in theyear's fiction that there is little likelihood of its beingovershadowed. "

_London Punch_: "Since Thackeray wrote the last word of 'ColonelNewcome, ' nothing finer has been written than the parting scene whereSkipper Tommy Lovejoy, the rugged old fisherman, answers the last call. "

_Saturday Evening Post_: "There is enough power in this little volume tomagnetize a dozen of the popular novels of the winter. "

_Sir Robert Bond, Premier of Newfoundland_: "I shall prize the book. Itis charmingly written, and faithfully portrays the simple lives of thenoble-hearted fisher folk. "

_Brooklyn Eagle_: "Norman Duncan has fulfilled all that was expected ofhim in this story; it establishes him beyond question as one of thestrong masters of present-day fiction. "

_26th 1000_

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THE HUBBARD EXPLORING EXPEDITION

By DILLON WALLACE

_The Lure of the Labrador Wild_

ILLUSTRATED 8vo CLOTH $1. 50 NET. 

_New York Sun_: "A remarkable story, and we are much mistaken if it doesnot become a classic among tales of exploration. "

_Chicago Evening Post_: "Two continents became interested in the storiesthat came out of the wild about the hardships of the Hubbard expedition. Wallace's story and record--they are inseparable--possesses in its nakedtruth more of human interest than scores of volumes of imaginativeadventure and romance of the wild. "

_Review of Reviews_: "The chronicle of high, noble purpose andachievement and it appeals to the finest, best, and most virile in man. "

_Chicago Record-Herald_: "One of the most fascinating books of traveland adventure in the annals of recent American exploration. Every man orboy who has ever heard the 'red gods' of the wilderness calling willrevel in these graphic pages, in which the wild odor of the pines, theroar of rapids, the thrill of the chase and of thickening dangers comevividly to the senses. "

_New York Evening Post_: "The story is told simply and well. It may beadded that for tragic adventure it has scarcely a parallel except inArctic exploration. "

_New York Evening Mail_: "A chronicle of the expedition from first tolast, and a fine tribute to the memory of Hubbard, whose spiritstruggled with such pitiable courage against the ravages of a purelyphysical breakdown. The story itself is well told. "

_Chicago Inter-Ocean_: "In the records of the explorations of recentyears there is no more tragic story than that of Hubbard's attempt tocross the great unexplored and mysterious region of the northeasternportion of the North American continent. Wallace himself narrowlyescaped death in the Labrador wild, but, having been rescued, he hasbrought out of that unknown land a remarkable story. "

_Brooklyn Eagle_: "One of the very best stories of a canoe trip into thewilds ever written. "

_FOURTH EDITION_

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Transcriber's Notes:

1. Punctuation has been normalized to contemporary standards. 2. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. 3. Unusual formatting of chapter titles in text has been retained.