in' that. But----"

"He made you kind," I broke in, hotly, "an' such as good folk love."

"I'm not knowin' much about that, Davy. The good Lard made me as He
willed. But I'm an obligin' man. I've turned out, Davy, most wonderful
obligin'. I'm always doin' what folks wants me to. Such men as me, lad,"
he went on, precisely indicating the weakness of his tender character,
"is made that way. An' if she tells me she's a lone woman, and if she
begins t' cry, what is I to do? An' if I has t' pass me word, Davy, t'
stop her tears! Eh, lad? Will you tell me, David Roth, _what_ is I t'
do?"

"Turn the punt over," said I, quickly. "They's wind enough for that,
man! An' 'tis your only chance, Skipper Tommy--'tis the only chance
_you_ got--if she begins t' cry."

He was dispirited. "I wisht," he said, sadly, "that the Lard hadn't made
me _quite_ so obligin'!"

"'Tis too bad!"

"Ay," he sighed, "'tis too bad I can't trust meself in the company o'
folk that's givin' t' weepin'."

"I'll have the twins pray for you," I ventured.

"Do!" he cried, brightening. "'Tis a grand thought! An' do you tell them
two dear lads that I'll never give in--no, lad, their father'll never
give in t' that woman--till he's just _got_ to."

"But, Skipper Tommy," said I, now much alarmed, so hopeless was his
tone, stout as his words were, "tell my father you're not wantin' t' go.
Sure, he can send Elisha Turr in your stead."

"Ay," said he, "but I _is_ wantin' t' go. That's it. I'm thinkin' all
the time o' the book, lad. I'm wantin' t' make that book a good book.
I'm wantin' t' learn more about cures."

"I'm thinkin' _her_ cures isn't worth much," said I.

He patted me on the head. "You is but a lad," said he, indulgent with my
youth, "an' your judgment isn't well growed yet. Some o' they cures is
bad, no doubt," he added, "an' some is good. I wants no bad cures in my
book. I'll not _have_ them there. But does you think I can't _try_ un
all on _meself_ afore I has un _put_ in the book?"

* * * * *

When the punt was well through North Tickle, on a free, freshening wind,
I sped to the Rat Hole to apprise the twins of their father's unhappy
situation, and to beg of them to be constant and importunate in prayer
that he might be saved from the perils of that voyage. Then, still
running as fast as my legs would go, I returned to our house, where,
again, I found the shadow and the mystery, and the hush in all the
ro