ad entered in.

* * * * *

By day my father was occupied with the men of the place, who were then
anxiously fitting out for the fishing season, which had come of a sudden
with the news of a fine sign at Battle Harbour. But my mother did not
mind, but, rather, smiled, and was content to know that he was about his
business--as men must be, whatever may come to pass in the house--and
that he was useful to the folk of our harbour, whom she loved. And my
dear sister--whose heart and hands God fashioned with kind purpose--gave
full measure of tenderness for both; and my mother was grateful for
that, as she ever was for my sister's loving kindness to her and to me
and to us all.

One night, being overwrought by sorrow, it may be, my father said that
he would have the doctor-woman from Wolf Cove to help my mother.

"For," said he, "I been thinkin' a deal about she, o' late, an' they's
no tellin' that she wouldn't do you good."

My mother raised her eyebrows. "The doctor-woman!" cried she. "Why,
David!"

"Ay," said my father, looking away, "I s'pose 'tis great folly in me t'
think it. But they isn't no one else t' turn to."

And that was unanswerable.

"There seems to be no one else," my mother admitted. "But, David--the
doctor-woman?"

"They _does_ work cures," my father pursued. "I'm not knowin' _how_
they does; but they does, an' that's all I'm sayin'. Tim Budderly o' the
Arm told me--an' 'twas but an hour ago--that she charmed un free o'
fits."

"I have heard," my mother mused, "that they work cures. And if----"

"They's no knowin' what she can do," my father broke in, my mother now
listening eagerly. "An' I just wish you'd leave me go fetch her. Won't
you, lass? Come, now!"

"'Tis no use, David," said my mother. "She couldn't do anything--for
me."

"Ay, but," my father persisted, "you're forgettin' that she've worked
cures afore this. I'm fair believin'," he added with conviction, "that
they's virtue in some o' they charms. Not in many, maybe, but in some.
An' she might work a cure on you. I'm not sayin' she will. I'm only
sayin' she might."

My mother stared long at the white washed rafters overhead. "Oh," she
sighed, plucking at the coverlet, "if only she could!"

"She might," said my father. "They's no tellin' till you've tried."

"'Tis true, David," my mother whispered, still fingering the coverlet.
"God works in strange ways--and we've no one else in this land to help