, rippling the purple
sea.

"The Lard give me love," he continued, turning tenderly to the stalwart
twins. "Blessed be the name o' the Lard!"

The wind swept calling by--blue winds, fair winds to the north: calling
at the window, all the while.

"The Lard showed Himself t' me. Oh, ay, that He did," he added, with a
return to his old manner. "'Skipper Tommy,' says the Lard," he
whispered, "'Skipper Tommy,' says He, 'leave you an' Me,' says He, 'be
friends. You'll never regret it, b'y,' says He, 'an you make friends
with Me.' Blessed," he said, his last, low voice tremulous with deep
gratitude, "oh, blessed be the name o' the Lard!"

The wind called again--blithely called: crying at the window. In all
the harbours of our coast, 'twas time to put to sea.

"I wisht," the skipper sighed, "that I'd been--a bit--wickeder. The
wicked," 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--a
wee 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 wicked
without hurtin' some poor man? Ecod! I'm woeful blind."

He dropped my hand--suddenly: forgetting me utterly. His hands sought
the twins--waving helplessly: and were caught. Whereupon the father
sighed and smiled.

"Dear lads!" he whispered.

The sun rose--a burst of glory--and struck into the room--and blinded
the 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 change
from place to place! What was it he said? "'Tis but like wakin' from a
troubled dream. 'Tis like wakin' t' the sunlight of a new, clear day. He
takes 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 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!" ...
And I fancy that the dead pity the living--that they look upon us, in
the shadows of the world, and pity us ... And I know that my mother
waits for me at the gate--th