gn her death-warrant. Indeed, I had small hope for her
life anyhow.

Our hospital was on the coast of Labrador, and the remorseless Straits
of Belle Isle yawned forty miles wide between it and the nearest point
of the island home of most of our friends. One belated vessel, still
waiting to finish loading, lay in the harbour. She expected to be a
week yet, and possibly ten days if the weather held bad. An interview
with the skipper resulted in a promise to carry the sick woman to her
harbour if she were still alive on the day of sailing, or news of her
death if she passed away.

Joe had no alternative. He certainly must go on, for he had nothing
for the winter with him, no gear, and no way of procuring any. So it
was agreed that Nancy should be left in our care, and, if alive,
should follow by the schooner. Only poor Nancy was undisturbed next
morning by the creaking of the mast hoops and the squealing of the
blocks--the familiar warning to our ears that a vessel is leaving for
sea. For she lay utterly unconscious of the happenings of the outside
world, hovering between life and death in the ward upstairs.

To whatever cause we ought to ascribe it does not much matter. But for
the time, anyhow, our arrangements "panned out right." The weather
delayed the fish vessel till our patient was well enough to be moved.
Ten days later, sewed up in a blanket sleeping-bag, Nancy was
painfully carried aboard and deposited in a captain's berth--again
most generously put at her disposal.

And so once more she put out to sea.

It was not until the next spring that I heard the final outcome of all
the troubles. Nancy had arrived home in safety, with only one
hitch--her kit-bag and clothing had been forgotten in sailing, and
when at length she reached her harbour, she had had to be carried up
to her home swathed only in a bag of blankets.

Such are but incidents like head winds in the lives of the Labrador
fisher-folk; but those who, like our people, are taught to meet
troubles halfway look at the silver lining instead of the dark cloud.
As for Joe himself, he is still unable to get into his head why these
events should be of even passing interest to any one else.

SALLY'S "TURNS"

"Spin me a yarn, Uncle Eph. I'm fairly played out. We've been on the
go from daylight and I'm too tired to write up the day's work."

"A yarn, Doctor. I'm no hand at yarns," said the master of the
spick-and-span little cottage at which I and