is joy and an odd _certainty_ in it. They are the last
words she ever spoke to _him_.

"He is very cold," she says then, with a little shiver.

Sir Mark, seeing the tears are running down Dicky's cheeks and that he
is incapable of saying anything further, pushes him gently to one side,
and murmurs something in Portia's ear. She seems quite willing to do
anything they may desire.

"Yes, yes. He must come home. It will be better. I will come home with
him." And then with a long-drawn sigh, "Poor Uncle Christopher!" This is
the last time her thoughts ever wander away from her dead love. "It will
be well to take him away from the cruel sea," she says, lifting her eyes
to the rough but kindly faces of the boatmen who surround her. "But,"
piteously, "oh! do not _hurt_ him!"

"Never fear, missy," says one old sailor, in a broken voice; and a young
fellow, turning aside, whispers to a comrade that he was "her man" in
tones of heartfelt pity.

Still keeping his head within her arms, she rises slowly to her knees,
and then the men, careful to humor her, so lift the body that she--even
when she has gained her feet--has still this dear burden in her keeping.
At the very last, when they have laid him upon the rude bier they have
constructed for him in a hurry, she still hesitates, and regards with
anguish the hard spot where she must lay her burden down.

She gazes distressfully around her, and then plucks with a little
mournful, helpless fashion at a dainty, fleecy thing that lies close to
her throat, and is her only covering from the angry blast. One of the
women divining her purpose, presses forward, and, in silence, folds her
own woollen shawl and lays it on the bier, and then unfastening the
white Shetland fabric round Portia's neck, lays that upon her own
offering, so that the dead man's cheek will rest on it. Her womanly soul
has grasped the truth, that the girl wants his resting-place to be made
softer by some gift of hers; and when her task is completed, and the
men, gathering up their load, silently prepare to move with it towards
the old Court, Portia turns upon this woman a smile so sweet, so full of
gratitude, that she breaks into bitter weeping, and, flinging her apron
over her honest, kindly, sunburnt face, runs hurriedly away.

"She was his lass. Poor soul! poor soul!" says another woman in a hushed
tone, and with deep pathos.

Holding his dead hand in hers, Portia, with steady steps, walks beside
the rough