t her hope had fled
with ours--that, now, remote from our love and comfort-alone--all
alone--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 heavy
tread 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 faith
in 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," he
went on, gloriously confident. "'Tis not hard, I'm sure--the Lard's too
kind for that. He just lets us think it is, so He can give us a lovely
surprise, when the time comes. Oh, no, 'tis not _hard_! 'Tis but like
wakin' up from a troubled dream. 'Tis like wakin' t' the sunlight of a
new, clear day. Ah, 'tis a pity us all can't wake with you t' the beauty
o' the morning! But the dear Lard is kind. There comes an end t' all the
dreamin'. 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!"

"I'm not afraid," my mother whispered, turning. "I'm not afraid, Skipper
Tommy. 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 and
solemn in the room--and there was a hush in all the house; and there was
a mystery, which even the break of day could not dissolve, and a shadow,
which the streaming sunlight could not drive away. Beyond the broad
window of her room, the hills of Skull Island and God's Warning stood
yellow in the spring sunshine, rivulets dripping from the ragged patches
of snow which yet lingered in the hollows; and the harbour water rippled
under balmy, fragrant winds from the wilderness; and workaday voices,
strangely unchanged by the solemn change upon our days, came drifting up
the hill from my father's wharves; and, ay, indeed, all the world of sea
and 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 tiptoe
and spoke in whispers, lest we offend the spirit which h