d that out,' says she, 'jus' afore you was born an'
jus' after I knowed you was a fool. So I 'low, Moses,' says she,
'you'd best go t' church an' make friends with God, for then,' says
she, 'you'll not feel mean t' call upon Him when the evil days comes.
In times o' trouble,' says mother, 'a man jus' can't help singin' out
for aid. An' 'tis a mean, poor man,' says she, 'that goes beggin' to a
Stranger.' Hark t' the bell, Dannie! Does you not hear it? Does you
not hear it call the folk t' come?"

'Twas still ringing its tender invitation.

"'Tis jus' like the voice o' mother," said the fool of Twist Tickle.
"Like when she used t' call me from the door. 'Come, dear!' says she.
Hark, Dannie! Hear her voice? 'Come--dear! Come--dear! Come--dear!'"

God help me! but I heard no voice....

* * * * *

Well, now, my uncle was in no genial humor while the work on the
_Shining Light_ was under way: for from our house, at twilight, when
he paced the gravelled path, he could spy the punts come in from the
grounds, gunwale laden, every one. 'Twas a poor lookout, said he, for
a man with thirty quintal in his stage and the season passing; and he
would, by lamplight, with many sighs and much impatient fuming,
overhaul his accounts, as he said. 'Tis a mystery to me to this day
how he managed it. I've no inkling of the system--nor capacity to
guess it out. 'Twas all done with six round tin boxes and many sorts
of shot; and he would drop a shot here and drop a shot there, and
empty a box and fill one, and withdraw shot from the bags to drop in
the boxes, and pick shot from the boxes to stow away in the bags, all
being done in noisy exasperation, which would give way, presently, to
despair, whereupon he would revive, drop shot with renewed vigor,
counting aloud, the while, upon his seven fingers, until, in the end,
he would come out of the engagement grimly triumphant. When, however,
the _Shining Light_ was ready for sea, with but an anchor to ship for
flight, he cast his accounts for the last time, and returned to his
accustomed composure and gentle manner with us all.

I lingered with him over his liquor that night; and I marked, when I
moved his lamp near, that he was older than he had been.

"You're all wore out, sir," said I.

"No, Dannie," he answered; "but I'm troubled."

I put his glass within reach. For a long time he disregarded it: but
sat disconsolate, staring vacantly at the fl