for he've such a wonderful distaste for
dust 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 thus
count sure that which lay in grave doubt--admitting no uncertainty--was
beyond my understanding.

"Does you think," she asked, looking away, "that he will be back"--she
hesitated--"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, tell
me, 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 love
her.'"

It seemed to me, then, that she suffered--that she felt some glorious
agony: of which, as I thought, lads could know nothing. And I wondered
why.

"That he loves me!" she murmured.

"No," said I. "'Tell her not that,' said he," I went on. "'Tell her that
I 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 her
tenderly caring for my mother's old room. And when, at midday, I came up
from the wharf, I found the house restored to order and quiet: my
sister sitting composed in my mother's place, smiling a welcome across
the 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 with
froth. 'Twas a solemn day--like a sad Sunday, when a man lies dead in
the harbour. No work was done--no voice was lifted boisterously--no
child was out of doors: but all clung peevishly to their mothers'
skirts. The men on the wharf--speculating in low, anxious voices--with
darkened eyes watched the tattered sky: the rushing, sombre clouds,
still in a panic fleeing to the wilderness. They said the sloop would
not outlive the gale. They said 'twas a glorious death that the doctor
and Skipper Thomas Lovejoy had died; thus to depart in th