ere. You couldn't do it 'ithout Jim
bein' here, could you?"

"Oh, no!"

"I 'lowed you might be able," she said, with a little sigh, "if you
tried. But you couldn't, says you?"

"No."

"Jim he 'lowed two year ago it ought t' be done. You couldn't do it
nohow?"

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's
dead."

* * * * *

Within three weeks the mail-boat touched our harbor for the last time
that season: being then southbound into winter quarters at St. John's.
It chanced in the night--a clear time, starlit, but windy, with a high
sea running beyond the harbour rocks. She came in by way of North
Tickle, lay for a time in the quiet water off our wharf, and made the
open through the Gate. From our platform we watched the shadowy bulk and
warm lights slip behind Frothy Point and the shoulder of the
Watchman--hearkened for the last blast of the whistle, which came back
with the wind when the ship ran into the great swell of the sea.
Then--at once mustering all our cheerfulness--we turned to our own
concerns: wherein we soon forgot that there was any world but ours, and
were 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 I
been home talkin' with my woman," he went on, "an' we was thinkin' it
over, an' she s'posed I'd best be havin' a little spell with the
doctor."

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 for
that! 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, "at
Wayfarer'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 protruding
knot. "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 for
that. But--I'm troubled. An' I'm thinkin' she might--want a
chance