“No more than what I was when I was a happy wife
in Jamaica, and had a true and noble husband and two
blessed children! No more, and the same!”

She did not weep, though she spoke with intense feeling.
He seemed to feel almost more strongly. He put
his hand upon his forehead, pressing both brows. Neither
seemed to regard the presence of witnesses; yet when
Miss Dare moved, as if to withdraw, the priest hastily
begged her not to go away; and then to Mrs. Barrè,
who stood looking fixedly upon him, he said sadly:—

“How can I, then, but say farewell?”

“How can you not, when I come asking?”

“No,” he answered, “I follow plain duty; and not unfeelingly,
but most feelingly, must say farewell!” and he
turned and walked away from the house, toward one of the
knolls of rock and earth.

“Then I must wait!” she said, turning her look up
toward the sky, which did not hide or change its face.
Then Mrs. Barrè's strength seemed giving way.

“Come back into the house and sit a moment,” said
Miss Dare, who had her arm about her; “and Mrs.
Freney, will you get a little water, please?”

Mrs. Barrè, though unable to speak, mutely resisted the
invitation to go back into the house, but persisted in going,
with tottering steps, up the hill toward the path, and
still kept on, though almost sinking, for some rods farther,—
until she had got within the pass through the rocks,—
there she sank upon a stone.

“Thank you. Don't be afraid for me,” she gasped;
“I never faint.” Then resting her elbows on her knees,
she covered her face with her hands, and so sat. “Oh!
Fanny,” she said, “you saw that he was one very near to
me, though so utterly separated!”

[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]

At the sound of a hasty step approaching, she started
and looked forth. It was Mrs. Freney with a mug of
water.

“Here's some drink he bid me bring 'ee ma'am,” she
said, courtesying; “an' sure I'm very proud to bring it to
such a kind lady as y' are.”

Mrs. Barrè thanked her, but declined the water; and
the woman, expressing a hope “that she wouldn't be the
worse of her walk,” offered to procure a punt that
she might be rowed back, “if she'd plase to let her
get it.” This offer, like the other, was declined, with
thanks.

The ladies walked back more silently than they had
come, and more slowly, Mrs. Barrè resting more than
once by the way, and looking hurriedly backward, often.
At home she threw herself down, and lay long with her
face buried. At length she rose, and wiping away her
tears, said:—

“Ah Fanny, it isn't right that a bright, young spirit
like yours should have so much to do with sorrow. Your
day is not come yet.”

“You don't know that,” said her friend, smiling, and
then turning away. “Perhaps that was the very thing
that brought me to you.”

Mrs. Barrè drew her to herself and kissed her. The
tears were falling down Fanny's cheeks this time.

A sweet breath of summer air came through the open
window.

“You brave, dear girl!” said the widowed lady, kissing
her again.

“Never mind,” said Fanny, shaking the tears away;
“but will you let me be wise—though I haven't had
much to do with Roman Catholics—and ask you not to

[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]

expose yourself to this Romish priest, even if he's your own
brother! Let him go, won't you? You can't do him
any good, and he won't do you any.”

“Nothing can make me a Roman Catholic!” said
Mrs. Barrè, “and I can't help having to do with him.
I wouldn't for all this world lose my chance!”

“Ah! but we think our own case different from
others,” said Miss Dare.

“If you knew what was past, Fanny, you'd trust me
for what's to come, under God. If I come to too deep
water, be sure I'll ask Mr. Wellon.”

p638-059 CHAPTER VI. A FEW MOMENTS OF TWO YOUNG PEOPLE'S LIVES.

[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]

TWO or three days passed before our young people,
who separated at Whitmonday Hill, met again.

The night had been rainy; but the morning
was delightful. An occasional cloud floated, like a hulk
from last night's battle, across the sky; but the blue, where
it appeared, was of the very bluest; and the air fittest for
breathing and being glad in. The high, rocky walls of
coast, the ridges and the far-off woods, were as fresh and
clear as could be; the earth was cool and strong under
foot, and one might feel the wish-wash of the water where
he could not hear it.

Skipper George had part of his old father's garden, on
the slope below the ridgy boundary of the little plain
on which his own house stood, and Skipper George's
daughter, like other maidens of the land, was early busy
in it, full of the morning freshness and beauty of the day.
A step drew near, and James Urston, coming to the fence,
wished her “good morning,” and lifted his hat, gracefully,
as if he had had his schooling somewhere abroad.

“Oh, James!” said she, looking up, with her face all
glowing, “you hurt yourself the other day!”

“No. I've got over it before this; it was nothing.”
His face, too, had its fresh touch of brightness and spirit
from the morning.

[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]

“It might have been something, though. You shouldn't
have run the risk for such a trifle.”

“There was no risk; and if there had been, it wasn't
for little Janie only that I got the `shawl.'”

Lucy's bright eyes perhaps looked brighter. “Are you
going out on the water to-day?” she asked, changing the
subject.

“Yes, To-day, and To-morrow, and To-morrow, I suppose;
but I hope, not always!”

“Would you go to Bay-Harbor again?”

“Never on the old errand, Lucy; I can have a place
in Worner, Grose & Co.'s house; I think Miss Dare
must have spoken about it.”

“Did you know,” said Lucy, drawing nearer to the
fence, and bashfully hesitating, “that she had spoken to
the Minister about making me mistress in a school?”
The maiden blushed, as she spoke, and very prettily.

“And he will; won't he?” said Urston, interestedly,
but rather gravely.

“Oh! I don't know; he told me that he might be able
to soon; but I don't think there's any place for me,”
she answered, busying herself with the garden.

“Yes; and more than that, by and by!” said he, decidedly.—
A nice ear could have detected a little sadness
in the tone with which he said these words of happy
augury.

She looked hastily up.

“And some of these days you'll be a merchant!” she
said.

“Something, please God; something, Lucy, that wants
mind in it, I hope, and that one can put some heart in,
too; something that will give one chances to think, and
learn, after having once begun as I have.”

[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]

“Oh, you'll go on learning, I'm sure,” she said; “you
know so much, and you're so fond of it.”

The morning was fresh and clear, the water bright and
living.

“You think a good deal of my knowing a little Latin;
but only think of what other people know!—this very
Father Nicholas at Bay-Harbor. You know ten times
as much that's worth knowing as I do!”

“Oh! no,” said the maiden, “it wasn't the Latin,
only—”

“I know the `Hours,' as they call them,” he said,
smiling, “and some of the `Lives of Saints.'”

“Oh, no! all those books that the lawyer lent you.”

“If it hadn't been for those, I should have been worse
yet;—Father Terence hadn't many;—yes, I've read
enough to want to know more;—but the pleasantest
reading I ever had was reading your English Bible with
you those two times.”

“Was it, really?” the maiden asked, with a glad look,
in her simplicity, and then she blushed a little.

“Yes; I've got every word of what we read, as if it
were written in my mind deeper than ever those Northmen
cut their words in the rock.”

She was silent a moment, looking beautifully thoughtful
out into the air; but then suddenly recalled herself,
and said,—

“But they cut their words deeply, to stand till now,
ages after, with the sun shining on them, and the storm
beating against them, and the ice freezing over them,
year after year,—if they are there, as people say.”

“There are writings in the rock; but I don't know if
there are any of the Northmen's. It doesn't matter
much; no one sees or cares for them.”

[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]

“Men oughtn't to forget them!” she said, with glistening
eyes.

“Poor men!” said Urston, in his turn, “they hoped
for something better! But hopes are happy things while
we have them, and disappointed hope doesn't hurt dead
men. It's the living that feel.”

The young man said this as if he had begun a man's
life, such as it is, most often. Perhaps he thought only
of one disappointment, that at Bay-Harbor.

Lucy was busy again with the garden.

By and by she asked, “What do you think they
wrote?”

“Perhaps only their names; perhaps the names of
some other people that they cared for at home; and the
time when they came.”

“There may be grave-stones as old,” Lucy said, “but
this seems stranger, cut by strange men on a great cliff
over the sea;—I should like to look for it.”

“You know they say it's somewhere on the face of
Mad-Head,”* said Urston; then looking towards the
ridge, he said, “Here comes my father!” and wished her
hastily “Good-bye!”

p638-063 CHAPTER VII. A WRITTEN ROCK, AND SOMETHING MORE.

[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]

MR. SMALLGROVE, not jealous, had invited
Skipper George's daughter to come in, as often
as she pleased, to the school; and generally contrived
to make this something more than a compliment,
by getting her occupied, when she came, with teaching the
more advanced scholars, while Mrs. Smallgrove taught
the younger, and he, with calm authority, presided.

This day Lucy Barbury had sought the scholastic hall,
and there Miss Dare called for her, just as school hours
were over.

The haunts of childhood have an attractiveness of their
own about them, for those that were children once, and Miss
Dare, as Lucy came bashfully out, pointed, with a silent
smile, to the stain made upon the door-post by little hands
holding against it while little feet were lifted to the height
of the threshold; and read, with a smile, a legend traced
with tar upon a bit of board which leaned against the
school-house. It was a timely moral for the young votaries
of science, indicted by one of themselves, inspired:—

“I'm going down to make some drawings,” she said,
“would you like to go, Miss Lucy Barbury?”

[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]

“Yes, if you please, Miss Dare; if you'd like me to.
Are you going to Mad Cove?”

“No; I wasn't going to Mad Cove, but I will go, if
you'd like it.”

“I think that writing must be so strange, that they
say the Northmen left on the Head ages ago.”

“But why, out of all the ages, is it so interesting to-day?”

“I only heard to-day where it was. Do you think it
is their writing, Miss Dare?”

“So it's thought; but it isn't always easy to make sure
of such things. I saw an account of a stone dug up, the
other day, in the United States somewhere; and an Indian
scholar said that the letters were hieroglyphics, and
meant that `seven sons of the Black Cloud made three
hundred of the Wolf's cubs to fall like leaves of the
forest;' and a great Oriental scholar read it, `Here the
Brothers of the Pilgrim rested by the graves of the
dead;' and he said it was a trace of the lost tribes of
Israel; but a scholar in the Scandinavian languages, of
Sweden and Denmark, said it was a relic of the Northmen,
who went from those countries and discovered
North America; and that it meant, `In the rolling
fields we make our home that used to have a home
on the rolling waves.' And there it is, you see. This
writing on our rock is also said to be by those Northmen.”

“And it may be by Captain Cook, who set up the
stones at Sandy-Harbor,” said Lucy, smiling.

“Yes; it may be,” said Miss Dare, assenting to the
possibility suggested.

“But it may be by those men,” said Lucy again, returning
to the other possibility.

[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]

“Certainly,” answered Miss Dare, assenting again;
“and it may be by the Lost Tribes.”

Lucky kindled as if a spirit of the old time came over
her. Her eyes swelled and brightened, and she grew
pale.

“If it were, they ought not to leave it hanging out
there over the sea; but I suppose they'd be afraid to
move it,” said she. “And if it were those Northern men
had written there, I should almost be afraid to look at it
so long after they were gone; it would be almost as if
they had come back again to do it; but they did sometimes
write simple little things like a man's name, didn't
they, Miss Dare?”

“That's been a trick of the whole race of men in all
ages; writing their own names and other people's,” said
Miss Dare, “on walls, and trees, and rocks.”

It took them a good half-hour—though they walked
well—to get to the mysterious rock, over Whitmonday
Hill and by Frank's Cove and lesser neighborhoods; but
pleasant talking about many a pleasant thing, and frequent
greetings to the neighbors, as they passed, perhaps made
the time short.

By and by they stood on Mad-Head; the fresh wind
blowing in from the bay; the great waves rushing up
and falling back far down below them; the boundless
ocean opening forth, beyond Bacaloue Island; this cruel
sea close at hand being of the same nature as that without,
only a little tamed. They both stood, at first, without
speaking. At length Miss Dare recalled the object of
their visit, and said,—

“Now, Lucy, use your eyes, please; and see which is
this famous stone. I am rather impatient now we're so
near it.”

[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]

Lucy, too, was quite excited.

“This is the very rock, I think,” said she; and she
threw herself upon the ground, and holding by an upstanding
point of the rock, and by its edge, leaned over,
bodily, and looked down the hollowing face of the huge
cliff. Steady as a girl of her life was, in eye and hand,
she did this with the same composure with which she
would have leaned over her father's fence. Miss Dare
threw back her bonnet and let the wind do what it would
with her hair, while she got down upon her knees and
looked over also.

These two pairs of bright eyes had looked some time
before they could make out any thing like letters on the
great grained and wrinkled, and riven surface.

“There! there!” suddenly cried Lucy; “there is
something like an H. I see it! That long streak down
and the other, this side, and the cross-mark between
them.” She pointed with her finger to the spot, and
presently her companion saw it.

“Doesn't it seem terrible,” said Lucy Barbury, again,
“that that should stay, and the rock never change; and
yet the living hand that could cut that into the rock is
gone, and nothing left of it!”

“Ay, indeed!” said Miss Dare, “there's something
put into us, and while it's there we're greater than any
thing; and when it's taken away, —: but Lucy there's
nothing more there that I can see.”

“And that long mark,” said Lucy, “looks like a crack
in the rock; but then a man might save himself trouble
if he found one already made.”

Miss Dare helped the criticism by saying,—

“But the other one is only a great wrinkle. We
didn't think enough of one thing; we thought it might be

[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]

cut by Northmen, or Jews, or Englishmen, but we didn't
think enough, that there might be no writing at all.”

Lucy drew herself up from the great empty air, as
she felt the force of this chilling suggestion, and looked
disappointed. Her companion still stretched over and
searched.

“Ah! but I see it, after all! I'm the discoverer!”

“Where, please, Miss Dare?” said Lucy, easily recovering
her animation.

“Beyond you, there; just beginning at that turn in the
rock. I suppose it goes on, on the other face of it.
That's part of a letter that I see.” Here they began
again their search; and here it seemed rewarded.

There were, plainly, letters traced in the stone, about
an arm's length down, and yet so hidden by the over-browing
of the rock, as not to be seen without stretching
far over. Fearlessly, and full of interest, they leaned
over in turn; each, also, in turn, holding the other.

“If it should be Greek or Hebrew, it will be too much
for me: Roman, or old English, or German Text, I fancy
we may make out.—It's wonderfully fresh! Two words!
Some sayings of two words, have lasted thousands of
years without being cut in rock. These are not deep, and
there's black in them.”

“They might have been a good deal deeper and full of
that black, and worn down to this,” answered Lucy Barbury:
“I've heard of windows in England where the
glass was worn down by the weather, till it was so thin
you could put a pin through it anywhere.”

“Those are not Roman letters,” said Miss Dare, who
was intent upon them; “but they do look wonderfully
like German Text or Black Letter, and the old Northmen
were of the same stock that we are, and the Germans,

[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]

you know. It may be Hebrew.—I'll draw them at any
rate;” and she took out paper and pencil.

“Both words seem to begin with the same letter,” continued
she, “and there other letters alike. I can carry
one in my head, pretty well, till I can copy it—if my head
will stand this looking over.”

“They couldn't have reached over that outstanding
part to cut it,” said Lucy, who, having abandoned the deciphering
to Miss Dare, with her paper and pencil, had
her thoughts free for speculation.

“That's true; and it never could have been any easier,
for that part hasn't grown on,” said Miss Dare; “but,
then, no man could stand on that ledge and use both
hands to cut with, unless it was a good deal broader once
than it is now, and so it may have been.”

“But, at any rate,” said the fisherman's daughter, “if
they were used to the sea, they wouldn't mind swinging
over with a rope, if they had nothing but air to put their
feet on.”

“That's true again; and most likely they would stand
their writing upright, with the rock;—I was reading it upside
down, like those inscriptions in the Desert.—I'll
begin at my end;”—and she began drawing. “That looks
as if it would come out like the old Black Letter, or
German Text.”

“James Urston might have read it if he'd only looked;
he writes German Text beautifully, and knows all kinds
of writing I suppose,” said Lucy.

“Perhaps James Urston never heard of it,” suggested
Miss Dare.

“Oh! I forgot! he told me where they said it was, but
I don't think he had seen it,” said Lucy.

“Ah?—Well,” Miss Dare continued, keeping to her

[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]

work, “if we turn that upside down it looks like `L,'
certainly; doesn't it? We must allow a little for the
difficulty of cutting, and a little for difference of writing,
and a little for age. Why, if it all goes as well as this,
we shall make a noise with it in the world. Now you get
the next, please;—very likely a date!” added Miss Dare,
in fine spirits. “There must have been a letter before it,
but there's no trace of one now.”

“Here are two out here by themselves, Miss Dare!”
said Lucy, who had been looking over at another place,
while the drawing was made, and who was excited with
her discovery. “They're very plain: `I-V.'”

“What can that be?” said Miss Dare. “Four? Four
what? `I-V.' it certainly is,” she said, after taking her
turn in looking over. “Well, we can't make any thing
more of it just now. There are no other letters anywhere
along. Let us go back to our first work.”

The next letter they pronounced “n,” after getting its
likeness on the paper.

“That's no date,” said Miss Dare again: “`n?'”—

“`o,'” suggested Lucy Barbury; “it may be a prayer.”

“Well thought again! So it may be! Let's see,—
what's the next?—`r!' Good! But stay: this'll take
down the age of our inscription, mightily, if we make that
English. That other letter 's `u,' depend upon it. `L-u-r-'—
some sort of Scandinavian name—and—`y!'
`Lury.' That looks pretty well and sounds pretty well.
Why, that's a grand old Norse name! `Lury!' It sounds
like Rurie, the Russian conqueror, and `FURY,' and
`LURID.' That's an old Viking.”

“How strange!” said the pretty fisher's daughter,
thoughtfully, “that one name, of all, should be there; and
just the name makes us think of a particular man, and

[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]

how he looked, and care something about him—doesn't it?
He was the commander, I suppose.”

Miss Dare, full of eager discovery, was bending over,
in her turn. It was slow work, stretching over, looking
carefully, and copying a little at a time.

“We shall have more trouble about the next word,”
said she, “for that won't be a name; they only had one
name in those days. It may be `somebody's son,' though;
yes, it may be a name.”

“And, perhaps,” said Lucy, smiling, (for they really
had but a mere thread of conjecture to walk upon, across
a boundless depth,) “perhaps this is no man's name. It
may mean something.”

“We haven't got that third letter exactly, after all,”
said Miss Dare, comparing and correcting. “It's `c,' not
`r.' It doesn't make a man's name now, certainly.”

“There's a Saint Lucy, among the Roman Catholics,”
said her namesake. “I suppose they landed on her day,
just as they did at St. John's, and St. George's, and St.
Mary's, and the rest.”

“This is a Lucy that hasn't been canonized yet, for
there's nothing before her name; and I've got a key to
the other, so that it doesn't give me as much trouble as I
expected. I believe it does `mean something.'”

Lucy Barbury leaned over the rock again in silence,
but presently drew herself up as silently; and as Miss
Dare looked at her with a smile, she said, (and no pencil
could have given the prettiness of the blushing cheek, and
drooping lid, and head half held up,)—

“I'm sure I don't know what it is.”

“But I do,” said Miss Dare: “`B-a-r-b-u-r-y.'
That's more familiar than one of those hard old Norse
names, isn't it? It seems to be a woman's name; but it

[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]

makes you `think of a particular man,' perhaps, as you
said, `and how he looked, and care something about
him?'”

“Oh! Miss Dare,” said Lucy, quite overcome with
confusion, “I didn't know it was there.”

“Nor I; but since it's there, somebody put it there;
and somebody that understands German Text. But I
was only in fun, Lucy. Don't mind it. You didn't cut
it.”

Lucy would not have minded it, perhaps, if she had cut
it herself.

“I'm afraid somebody 'll see it,” she said.

There was, indeed, more than one body (female—and,
indeed, an old man too,—) hastily getting up along the
cliff's edge, looking over, all the way along. Few people
were in the Cove at the time, and the greater part of
the few had been busy; but still the long sitting, and
above all, the strange doings up at Mad-Head, had not
been unobserved, and at length it was impossible for the
beholders to keep away.

“I don't believe they'll see it,” said Miss Dare, as they
came near, “and if they were to they wouldn't make much
out of it; not many of the women understand German
Text. There are those Roman letters, beyond, that could
be made out more easily; but there again, unless they
were pretty familiar with such things, they wouldn't be
the wiser.”

“I wonder what they mean,” said Lucy, who, after the
revelation of the Black Letter, might be glad of a safe
subject for speculation.

“I fancy that they might be interpreted by one who
`understands all kinds of writing,'” said Miss Dare, with
a smile,—but speaking so that the approaching neighbors

[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]

should not hear,—but I and J used to be the same letter,
and so did V and U.”

Lucy blushed more deeply than ever at the intelligence
that lurked in this sentence.

“Oh! don't tell them, Miss Dare, please,” said she.

“Did 'ee loss any thing, Miss?” said the foremost of the
advancing inquirers.

“Yes; I'm afraid we've lost our time; haven't we,
Lucy?'”

“I thought, mubb'e 'ee may have alossed something
down the rocks.”

“No; we were looking for the old writing, you know,
that they say is cut in. Lucy here, had read about such
things and she was very anxious to see one.”

As Miss Dare said this, she looked gravely at her companion,
but that pretty maiden was, or seemed, altogether
taken up, with the tie of one of her shoes.

“Did 'ee find 'un,” inquired another of the curious, as
all their eyes wandered from one explorer to the other.

“No; we found some marks, but they don't look like
old letters.—How do the fish go to-day?”

“They'm ruther sca'ce Miss, but the bait's plenty.”

As Miss Dare and her scholar went home, they said
nothing more to each other of their discovery. The
neighbors, dispersing slowly, wondered “what made young
Lucy Barbury look so frustrated like,” and concluded
that it was because of her not being “so sharp about
they things as Miss Dare, and how could she?”

p638-073 CHAPTER VIII. TRUE WORDS ARE SOMETIMES VERY HEAVY.

[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]

EARLY next morning, whoever passed along that
part of the harbor, might have seen young Urston
standing under the Cross-way-Flake, which
covers with thick shade a part of the road beyond Marchants'
Cove, and the approach to the old unpainted house,
in which, with his youngest son and family, lived the patriarch
of his name, old Isaac Barbury, and his old wife.

From where the young man stood, the fair blue heavens
without, seemed like smooth walls rising about the earth,
over the top of which inclosure had now begun to pour,
and by and by would come in a flood, sweeping away the
airy walls,—the fresh and glorious day.

A step drew near, on the top of the flake, and the
young man left his standing-place and went forth. It was
a handsome woman, of middle age, who stood above, with
some fish which she was preparing to spread, and whom
he saluted respectfully, giving her the title of “Aunt.”

She returned his salutation kindly, but distantly; and,
as he lingered still in silence, addressed him again, while
she continued her work.

She asked, “Have you given up being a priest, Mr.
Urston?”

“Yes!” he answered, in a single word, looking before
him, as it were along his coming life, like a quoit-caster,

[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]

to see how far the uttered word would strike; then, turning
to her, and in a lower voice, added, “I've left that,
once and forever.—But why must I be so strange, that
you call me `Mr. Urston?'”

She looked at him searchingly, without speaking. He
kept his eyes fixed upon her, as if expecting her to say
more; but as she turned to her work again in silence, he
said—“I'm a fisherman, just now; I may be something
else, but it won't be a priest.”

“James Urston!” she said, abruptly as before. “Do
you know you're trifling with the very life?”

The young man started. “I don't understand,” said
he; “do you blame me for not being a priest?”

No; I'm glad of it: but what is there between you
and my daughter Lucy?”

The young heart, as if it had been touched in its privacy,
threw a quick rush of blood up into James Urston's
face. “Nothing,” he answered, much like a lover; being
confused by her suddenness.

“There ought to be nothing, and nothing there must
be!—I've told her, and I tell you, Mr. James Urston,
you must not meet any more.”

“But why?” he asked, not recovered from his confusion.

“You can see, easily,” said Mrs. Barbury. “I needn't
tell you why.”

Is there any thing so hard, or that goes in so deep, as
air made into words?

“No, I don't see,” he said. “I see how different she
is from any one else.”

How could he let himself see that wall, so suddenly
built up, but so surely?—It was not, yesterday.

“I know she is,” said the mother, “and I thank God

[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]

for it; He made her so: but her feelings are like other
people's, only they may go deeper.—They can't be trifled
with.”

“How could I trifle with her?” he asked, warmly.
“Trifling is not my character,—with man or woman!”
There was a strength in this self-assertion, in which every
feature took part with the voice, that must have impressed
Mrs. Barbury.

“I believe you don't mean wrong,” she said; “and
that makes it easier to speak plain to you. I haven't
language like yours, but I can say the truth. I'm her
mother, and must answer to God for what care I take of
her. It would be wrong for me to let you go on, and for
you to go on, against my forbidding.”

The young man's face was flushed. Happily, no one
but Mrs. Barbury was near; and happily, and rather
strangely, no one else was drawing near.

“If you forbid it, it's wrong; I don't know what else
should make it wrong,” he said.

“Difference of religion, James Urston,” she said, slowly
and gravely,—“as you must know yourself. I wouldn't
be unkind; but it can't be helped.”—It was plain that
she was thoroughly resolved.

He answered bitterly:—

“If you don't blame me for not being a priest, you'll
take good care that I never come any further. There
mightn't always be a difference of religion.”

Mrs. Barbury looked steadily at him, and severely;
she said:—

“I didn't think you'd given up being a priest for any
woman—”

Urston did not restrain himself, but broke in upon her
speech:—

[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]

“I never gave up the priesthood for any thing but conscience!
because I must be a hypocrite, if I kept on. I
can't believe every thing, like good old Father Terence;
and I can't be a villain, like —” (he did not give the
name.)

She answered:—

“You speak quite another way, when you say that I
ought to risk my daughter for the chance of making you
a Protestant! I've no right to sell my daughter's soul!”

Again the young man took fire. “We needn't speak
of trafficking in souls,” he said, “I'm sure nothing would
buy her's, and I wouldn't sell mine,—even for Lucy Barbury.”

“Then do right!” said the simple reasoner who was
talking with him. “You can't be any thing to each
other!”

Gentle as her face and voice were, the sentence was
not to be changed. It is not only in drowning, that the
whole life past,—ay, and the future's hope,—meet in an
instant's consciousness, as a drop reflects the firmament;
for, in any crisis which has power to quicken every faculty
to its utmost, all that is past comes with a sudden
sadness, and all that might have been; while, at the same
pulse, comes the feeling, that, between past and future,
we are losing hold and slipping down, forever; quitting
the results of what is gone, and the opportunity of what
was to come. Whoever has had the experience of love
discovered in his heart, only that it may be chased and
killed, may know what Urston felt.

“You can't help what she has been to me,” he said,
sadly. “You can't take away the memory, at least. You
can't take away noble thoughts she's given me. You can
take away what might have been, yet,”—he added,

[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]

bitterly, as well as sadly, “it's hard for a young man to
have to look back for his happiness, instead of forward!
I didn't think it was to be my case!”

No man living, and certainly no woman, could help
feeling with him. Mrs. Barbury and he were still alone
together. She spoke (and gently):—

“Happiness isn't what we're to seek for; but it comes
after doing what's right.—It isn't always easy to do right,”
she said.

“Not so easy as to tell others to do it,” he answered,
bitterly, still.

“And yet, it is to be done; and many have done as
hard things,” said Mrs. Barbury, “and even were the
better for it, afterwards.”

“When it takes away the very best of life, at the
beginning”—. The young man gave way to his feelings
for a moment, and his voice broke.

“We may live through it, and be the better for it,” she
said.

“Take away the best of life, and what is left?” he
asked, with his broken voice, which had been so strong
and manly only a little while before. “Or break the
heart, and what's the man, afterwards?”

Mrs. Barbury's answer was ready, as if the question
had come to her years ago.

“A `broken heart' is the very thing that God asks
for; and if it will do for Him, it may do for this world,”
she said. “I know what a woman can do, James, when
she must, and I think a man should do as much.”

“How do you know?” he asked. “Not by your own
feeling!”

“Yes, by my own feeling!”

The young man looked up at the fair, kindly face,

[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]

which, in familiarity with the free air, had given away
some of its softness, but had it's wide, clear eye unchanged,
and gentle mouth.

We, young, are often bewildered by a glimpse of the
unpublished history of some one of our elders: (for the
best of these are unwritten, and we sometimes catch a
glance at them.)—Ah! covetousness, or low ambition, or
earnest drudgery, as well as hatred of mankind, or madness,
or too early death, has taken many a one that led
another life, up to a certain time; and then it was broken
off!

So, too, a happy peacefulness and quiet strength have
taken place, like sunshine, and a new, green growth, in
many a heart where the fierce tempest had laid waste.
It may have been so with Skipper George's wife.

“You'd never know from the water, when it lays
smooth in the sun,” she said, presently, “what storms it
had been in, outside.—I was as young as you or Lucy,
once.”

She smiled, and it seemed almost as if her young self,
fair and happy, came, at a call, up within her, and looked
out at her eyes and glowed behind her cheek. Urston
could not help listening.

“I was brought up in England, you know, from a
child, in Mrs. Grose's family. I was a play-fellow with
the children, and then maid.—One time, I found I was
going to be wretched, if I didn't take care, for the sake
of one that wasn't for me; and so I went into my room,
and didn't come the first time I was called; but when I
did, I was as strong as I am now.”

“You weren't in love!” said Urston.

“I wasn't, afterwards: but I was much like you,
before—only, I wasn't a man.”

[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]

She was as calm and strong in telling her little story,
as if it had not once touched her very life. So the boat
swims, full-sailed and fearless, over the rock, on which,
one day, at half-tide, it had struck.

“Not every one can go through, so easily,” said the
young man, moodily.

“James Urston!” said she, looking steadily in his face,
“you're a man, and women's feelings are not the easiest
to get over.”

“Well, I can't stay here,” said he, looking out sea-ward,
as so many young lovers have done, before and
since; some of whom have gone forth wanderers, according
to their word, and helped to fill the breath of the
Northeast Wind with this long wailing that we hear, and
some of whom have overcome or been overcome by hard
things at home.

“Take it manfully,” said the woman, “and you'll conquer
it.”

He pressed his lips together, shook his head once, with
a gesture of anguish, and then, straightening himself and
throwing back his head, walked up the harbor.

So sings, most touchingly, the German poet, of love

[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]

with cruel scorn tossed back. He sang out of a heart
that knew what was the dreadful crush, and dizzying, destroying
backset of the life's flood, when its so many channels,
torn from their fastenings in another's being, lie
huddled upon themselves.

A little further up the road, there is on the left hand,
where the hill goes down—rocky, and soddy, and stony—
to the beach, a little stream, that loiters (as it leaves the
bosom of the earth and comes out into the air,) just long
enough to fill up a hollow with its clear, cool water,
and then goes gurgling on its short way to the salt sea.
There is no superstition in the regard the neighbors have
for this spring; but everybody knows the place, and some
have tender memories connected with it, from gatherings
of lads and maids about it in the clear summer evenings.
Har-pool, (or Hare-pool,) they call it.

If James had thought of this association, (perhaps he
did,) it would have given another touch, still, to his sadness,
to remind himself of it at the spot; but he crossed
over, and went down to it, and, where the streamlet fell
out of its basin, caught the cool water in his hand, and
bathed his brow, and drank.

His side was toward the sun, that came along, as he
does, in his strong way, not hindered by our unreadiness.
The young man's shadow, long and large, was thrown
upon the hill-side. Another shadow joined it. He
turned hastily, and saw the old parish-clerk, Mr. William
son coming. He went out into the road; met him, exchanging
salutations; passed under the Crossway-Flake,
and down the harbor.

p638-081 CHAPTER IX. SKIPPER GEORGE'S STORY.

[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]

IN the evening of that day, which had been beautiful
to the end, Skipper George's daughter seemed more
full of life than ever. In the last hour of daylight
she had given her lesson to her little sister, who was no
great proficient at learning, and who was, by degrees,
(like some other children, with other words,) getting broken
of making “c-o-d” spell “fish.” She tripped across the
even ground in front of the house, to meet her father, with
a lighter step than usual, and was busier than ever within
doors. When supper was over, and after the three-wicked
lamp in the chimney was lighted, she read, out
of a book that Miss Dare had lent her, a story of an
ancient mariner, and his strange voyage; while the mother
knitted a pair of woollen leggings for her husband, and the
stout fisher sat upright, with Janie on his knee, sometimes
looking at his daughter as she read, and sometimes looking,
musingly, into the fire, where the round bake-pot stood,
covered with its blazing “splits,” and tinkled quietly to
itself.

George Barbury was a large, strong-bodied man, more
than six feet in height, with a broad chest, and every way
a pattern of a stout, healthy fisherman. His rusty clothes,—
jacket, and vest, and trowsers,—patched evenly and
cleanly at the knees and elbows, had a manly look; so

[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]

had his shoes, with their twine-ties, and his strong, thick-ribbed
stockings, and thick woollen shirt, and plain black
'kerchief round his neck; but, above all, that weather-beaten
face of his, with grizzled whiskers half-way down,
and the kind, simple eyes, that looked out over all at one,
and the bald head, with grizzled, curling locks, of those that
always look as if they never grew beyond a certain length
and never needed cutting. All this great, massive head
and kindly face were open now, for, in deference to the
reading,* he sat uncovered. The little girl had listened,
at first, with great interest, to the wondrous rhyme, but
was soon asleep, with one arm stretched at length over
her father's, with the little, busy hand at rest, having
dropped the chip which, at first, had illustrated the story;
one wing of her cap was pushed up from her chubby face,
and one stout little leg was thrust forth, so as to show a
shoe studded with nail-heads all around the sole.

The daughter, by natural gift of God and happy growth,
was, in some ways, a different being from her parents.
Much beauty of outward things, much beauty of inward
thoughts, and an ideal world,—with its sky above, and
earth and boundless sea below,—which lies in the mind
of every speaking or mute poet, as the old Platonists supposed
it to lie in the divine mind;—these things this girl
saw, and her parents saw not; even her mother, only
partly. In the vision of these, the daughter was beyond
the one; apart from the other. But in how much more
had she deep sympathy with them and kindred to them,
because she had lost nothing while she had gained so
much! All human hearts and minds that have not
quenched that light of Christ “that lighteth every man
that cometh into the world,” can know and feel truth,

[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]

heartiness, manliness, womanliness, childlikeness, at sight,
much or a little; and the conscience which Lucy brought
to judge of higher things and things farther, was the self-same
that the rest of them applied to lower and near
things. Some sentences of false religion she quietly
changed in reading, and only spoke of them when all was
done.

The fisherman approved the painting of the icebergs,
and the bending over, and pitching and swaying of the
ship, and the shaking of the sails, and the dropping down


“Below the kirk, below the hill,
Below the light-house top,”
and the mother approved the moral that bade us love all
things, both great and small, after that more than once
the tears had come to her eyes as she sat knitting; and
Lucy's voice, as gentle and musical, and clear as the gurgle
of a brook that the rain has filled, would sometimes
run fuller, and sometimes break, and sometimes cease to
be heard for a while, and she would sit and gaze at the
burning lamp or the fire, or up through the wide chimney
at the starry sky; and they all thought that the words
about the silent sea, and the wondrous harmonies made
by the blessed spirits through the sailors' bodies, were exceeding
beautiful. And after it was done, the father and
mother, and the bright girl,—who had so many more, and
so much fairer, fancies than they,—all agreed in this judgment:
that no man had a right to bring false religion, or
a lie against the honor of God, into poetry, any more
than into the catechism.

“'Tis n' right to put in about `Mary, Queen,' and the
`Mother of Heaven,'—for I suppose 'e was a larn'd man
that could write what 'e woul', Lucy?” said the father, in
a tone of regret; “'e should n' help the wrong, when

[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]

there's so many taken by it, and mubbe lost forever!
We got no right to `make mention o' they names within
our lips,' as the psalm says.”

The mother spoke, perhaps not less sadly, but more
severely:

“Yes, child, it's just that part will do mischief;”—the
mother had been a Roman Catholic, it will be remembered.
“They can't go such a voyage, or see such sights,
but they can call her queen, and pray to her.”

“Yes, indeed,” said the bright-eyed daughter. “It's
all a wild thing, and one part no more true than another;
but I think it might do mischief.”

“And it's not well having much to do with Roman
Catholics,” continued the mother, more pointedly, while
her daughter looked with a fixed gaze into her face, dropping
her eyes when her mother raised hers from her
work.

“They'm not all bad,” said Skipper George, “though
they're all wrong in religion surely. Thou wasn't very
bad, Mother,” he continued, with a tender smile at his
wife, “when thou was one o' them; though 'ee 're better
sunce, that's a sure case. I walked a good piece wi' a
pleasan'-lookin' gentleman, (much like a reverend gentleman
'e seemed,) an' so 'e said we musn' think they'm all
bad.”

At him, again, the daughter looked with a long, fixed
gaze, holding her book upon her knees. Presently, the
fisherman got up, and, laying down his little load at length
upon the bench, went forth into the evening.

A full, round moon was shining in a sky so clear that
it seemed, really, as if space were empty. Half day it
was, and yet full night; and as the fisher, crossing the
green before his house, mounted the ridge and leaned

[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]

against a lone tree or mast that stood up from the earth
of a cleft in the rocks, the harbor-road below him was
shown plainly, and the houses at its side, and in the cove
not far off, stood plainly outlined,—larger and smaller,
dark and white,—some in their own inclosures, some as
if there were no land in any way belonging to them but
the public thoroughfare; yet was there no sight or sound
of living thing, except the frequent bark of dogs, and the
innumerable waves, rising and falling everywhere, in their
most glorious cloth of silver, which they wear only at
such times.

As he stood silently, a step drew near.

“A good evenun, sir!” said Skipper George, in a voice
of kindly courtesy, turning and recognizing the gentleman
of whom he had spoken a few moments before, who was
not immediately aware of his being addressed, but collected
himself, almost instantly, and turning aside from the path
that he was following, cordially returned the stout fisher's
salutation.

“I beg pardon for makun so free to hail 'ee, sir,” said
the latter, leaving his place, and coming forward to meet
the stranger-gentleman; “mubbe 'ee was in a hurry, or
thinkin' o' somethun particular.”

“I was thinking; but am willing to be interrupted. I
haven't forgotten our walk together, nor your story, nor
the lesson you drew from it.”

“It's very good of 'ee, sir, to mind me. There's
amany things happen that we may take warnun from, ef
we woul'; an' the Lard make men knowledgeable to take
notice an' larn from things, I suppose. We wants teachun—
amany of us, sir.”

“All of us,” said the gentleman, whom the reader
knows as Father Debree. I was thinking as I came

[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]

across here, with the moon before me, how we mistake
about ourselves! That moon belongs to this earth; that
we count ourselves masters of; it keeps going round it,
and can't get away; and yet in six thousand years we've
never been able to go, or send, or do any thing to it.”

While he spoke, and the fisherman turned his open face
broad to the fair, bright planet, the width of silent emptiness
between the earth and it might have seemed a real
thing, shown to the eye. Before Mr. Debree had finished
speaking his companion was looking, with the expression
of thought suggested by the words, into his face.

“There's one Master,” said he, after the words were
spoken; “we're servants, but we may be children;” and
his great, manly build, and the graying hue of his hair,
and the deep lines of his face, as the moon showed them,
gave a peculiar character to what he said.

“You had the best lookout in the neighborhood,” said
Mr. Debree, walking to the spot on which Skipper George
had been before standing and looking abroad from it.
“This tree didn't grow here,” said he, looking up at
the gray trunk glistening in the moonlight.

“No, sir; 'twas set there,” said the fisherman.

“Is it a landmark?”

“'Is, sir, it may be, in a manner; but not for s'ilun on
those waters. 'Twas set there when riches was taken
aw'y. Riches came agen, but 'twas laved, for 'e'd larned
partly how to value riches.”

The gentleman looked, as the moonlight showed, interestedly
at the speaker: “Another story with a lesson in
it?” he said. “If it were not for keeping you out so late,
I would ask you to do me the favor of telling it.”

“Ay, sir,” said Skipper George. “I said there were
amany lessons sent us. This one comed nearer to me

[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]

again than the tother. I hope I've larned somethun by
that story! Fishermen don't heed night hours much:
but it's late for you as well, sir. Mubbe 'ee'd plase to
walk inside a bit?” he asked, with modest urgency.
“It's a short story, only a heavy one!”

“Another time, perhaps,” said the strange gentleman;
“not now, if you'll excuse me; but if it wouldn't be too
much trouble I would thank you for it where we are.
One hour or another is much the same to me.”

At the first words of this answer Skipper George
turned a look of surprise at the stranger, and when the
latter had finished speaking asked,

“Be 'ee stayun hereabouts, then, sir?”

Perhaps he may have thought it strange that one who
looked so like a clergyman should be staying for any
length of time in the neighborhood without being better
known.

“I am a clergyman,” said the gentleman, frankly;
“but not of your church; and I don't feel free until I'm
better known.”

Skipper George apparently weighed the answer. He
did not urge his invitation; but his open face became
clear and kindly as ever.

“Then, sir,” said he, “ef 'ee'd plase to be seated here,
I'd tell the story. I know it well.”

Before beginning it the fisherman cast a look at his
house, and then gazed awhile upon the restless waves
which here glanced with the gleam of treacherous eyes,
and there were dark as death.

“Do 'ee mind about ten years ago, in Newfoundland,
sir?” began Skipper George, turning his steady eyes to
his hearer, and speaking as if the date or the years
since the date had been painful to him; “the hard

[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]

year that was when they had the `ralls,' they called
'em?”

“Yes; though I was in England at the time, I know
pretty well what happened in Newfoundland. It was a
sad time.”

“Ay, sir, 'twas a sad time. Many people suffered:
some wanted food, and more agen got broken in spirit,
(and that's bad for a man,) and some got lawless like.
'Twas a sad time, indeed!” Skipper George, having
lingered thus before his tale, began it abruptly: “Well,
sir, 'twas on the sixteen day of January,—a Thursday
'twas,—I was acomun down Backside from the Cosh,
hau'ling a slide-load o' timber, an' my youngest son wi'
me. It had abeen a fine day, first goun off, (for a winter's
day,) wi' just a flurry o' snow now and agen, and a
deal o' snow on the ground, tull about afternoon it begun
to blow from about west and by nothe, or thereaway,
heavy and thick, an' growun heavier an' heavier, an'
bitter cold. Oh! 'twas bitter cold! We did n' say much
together, George an' I, but we got along so fast as ever
we could. 'Twas about an hour or two before night,
mubbe; and George says to me, `Let's lave the slide,
Father!' 'Twas n' but we could ha' kep' on wi' it,
though 'twas tarrible cold, hard work; but 'twas somethun
else!

“So we turned the slide out o' the way and laved her,
and comed on. 'Twas blowun gales up over Backside;
we could sca'ce keep our feet; an' I hard somethun like a
voice—I suppose I was thinkun o' voices—an' I brought
right up into the wind. 'Twas just like beun at sea, in a
manner, and a craft drivin' right across our wake, an'
would ha' been out o' sight an' hearun in a minute. Then
I knowed by the sound 'twas the Minister—(we did n'

[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]

have e'er a reverend gentleman of our own in they days;
but 'e lived over in Sandy Harbor and 'e'd oose to go all
round the Bay.) We could sca'ce bide together, but I
was proper glad to meet un, (for a minister's a comfort,
'ee know, sir;) an' 'e said, `Is any body out?' `There's
two o' brother Izik's orphans, sir, I'm afeared, an' others
along wi' 'em,' I said. So 'e said, `God help them!'
`Where are your two other boys, James and Maunsell?'
`Along wi' brother Izik's two,' I said. 'Twas blowun
tarrible hard, and cold, and thick; an' the Minister
turned wi' us, and we comed up, ploddun through the
driftun snow, and over the rudge. When we opened the
door, first the mother thought there was four of us; and
so she said, `James!' for we was all snowed over; but
she sid there was only three, and 'twas the Minister wi'
us two. So she begged his pardon, an' told un our poor
boys were out agunnun, an' she was an ole punt they had.
We were all standun (for we didn' think o' nawthin but
the boys) when two comed into the door all white wi'
snow. 'Twas n' they two, sir, but 'twas my nevy Jesse
an' another. `Haven't they comed?' 'e said. `Dear,
what's keepun they?'

“Jesse had abin out, too, wi' Izik Maffen and Zippity
Marchant, an' they were all over to back-side o' Sandy
Harbor together; on'y our poor young men were about
three parts of a mile further down, mubbe. So, when it
comed on to blow, Jesse an' his crew made straight for
Back-Cove an' got in, though they were weak-handed,
for one had hurted his hand-wrist,—and so, in about
three hours, they got round by land, an' thought the
tother poor fellows would do so well. `What can us do,
Uncle Georgie?' 'e said; for he's a proper true-hearted
man, sir, an' 'e was a'mos' cryun. `First, we can pray,'

[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]

said the Minister; an' so he said a prayer. I make no
doubt I was thinkun too much over the poor young fellows;
and the wind made a tarrible great bellowing down
the chimley and all round the house, an' so I was ruther
aw'y from it more 'an I ought. Then the Minister an'
Jesse an' I started out. My mistress didn' want me to
go; but I couldn' bide; an' so, afore we'd made much
w'y up harbor agen the wind, an' growun dark, (though
twasn' snowun,) we met a man comun from tother side,
Abram Frank, an' 'e said last that was seen of our four
was, they were pullun in for Hobbis's Hole, an' then
somethun seemed to give way like, wi' one of 'em rowun,
an' then they gave over and put her aw'y before the
wind, an' so as long as they could see any thing of 'em,
one was standun up sculling astarn. (That was my
James, sir!”)

A very long, gently-breathed sigh here made itself
heard in the deep hush, and as Mr. Debree turned he
saw the sweet face of Skipper George's daughter turned
up to her father, with tears swimming in both eyes and
glistening on her cheek. She had come up behind, and
now possessed herself quietly of her father's hand.

“So we turned back, an' the Minister wi' us, ('twas a
cruel night to be out in,) an' the wind a'mos' took an'
lifted us, an' sot us down by the foot o' the path over the
rudge; but when we got atop here, and it comed athwart,
it brought us all down kneelun, an' we could sca'ce get
over to the door. The poor mother got up from the
chimley-corner and came for'ard, but she needn' ask any
thin; an' there was a pretty young thing by the fire
(this girl was a little thing, asleep, but there was a pretty
young thing there) that never got up nor looked round;
'twas Milly Ressle, that was troth-plight to James. They

[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]

was to have been married in a week, ef the Lord willed;
and 'twas for 'e's house we were drawun out the timber.
She just rocked herself on the bench.—She's gone, long
enough ago, now, sir!

“So the Minister took the Book, and read a bit. I
heard un, an' I didn' hear un; for I was aw'y out upon
the stormy waters wi' the poor young men. Oh, what
a night it was! it's no use! blowun an' bellowun an'
freezun, an' ice all along shore to leeward!

“Well, then, sir, about two hours o' night, there comed
a lull, an' then there was a push or shake at the door, an'
another,—an' another,—an' another,—(so it was, we all
thought,) and then the door banged open. There wasn'
a one of us but was standun upon 'is feet, an' starun out
from the kitchun, when it opened. 'Twas nawthing but
cold blasts comed in, an' then a lull agen for a second or
two. So I shut to the door; an' the poor mother broke
out acryun, an' poor Milly fell over, an' slipped right
down upon the hearthstone. We had a heavy time of it
that night, sir; but when the door banged open that time,
this child that was a little thing then, lyun upon the
bench sleepun, made a soart of a gurgle, like, when the
first sound comed to the door, and then when the flaws
o' wind comed in she smiled, and smiled agen, and
laughed, as ef a body m'y be sayun pooty things to her
in d'y-time. Jesse sid it, an' plucked me by the coat-sleeve,
and I sid it, too.

“Well, sir, night passed: 'ee may be sure we didn'
sleep much, on'y cat-naps; and once or twice I falled
into a kind of a dwall,* an' started, thinkun they was
speakun to me. Mornun comed slow and cold—colder
than night. So the nighbors comed in at mornun, and

[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]

sat by; and now an' agen one 'ould say they were fine
young men; an' after a bit another 'd say James was a
brave heart, and how he saved a boat's crew three years
ago, scullun them into B'y-Harbor; an' so they said how
he begun to teach in Sunday-school Sunday before; an'
how brave 'e was, when they sid the last of un, scullun
aw'y round the point and over the b'y, for t'other side,
or for Bell-Isle, or some place to leeward. So they said
James 'ould take 'em safe, plase God, an' we'd hear of
'em some place over the b'y in a d'y or two. Then
they said they wondered ef the young men could keep
from freezun their handès, an' said mubbe they wouldn'
git touched, for they was all well-clothed, an' James 'ould
keep up their spirits, an' brother Izik's little George was
a merry boy, an' great play-game for the rest; an' my
Maunsell an' 'e's tother cousin, John, were steady young
men, an' wouldn' give up very easy; but they were both
quiet, and looked up to James, though John was a good
bit older.

“Wull, sir, the day went on, cold, cold, an' blowun
heavy, an' the water black an' white, wi' white shores, an'
slob-ice all along;—an' more, agen, an' heavier, to leeward,
sartenly. We could n' stir hand or foot that day,
nor next; but the Lord's day came in softer, an' we got
a good crew an' a stout punt to sarch for the four
poor boys that had been three days a missun, and old Mr.
Williamson, the clerk that is now, sir,* made a prayer
over us before we laved. When we come to put off, they
left me standun; I make no doubt but Jesse maned to
spare me; but I called un back, for I said, why should I
be settun wi' my hands folded, or walking about, lookun
out over the water, and I may just so well be doun

[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]

somethun like a father for my sons an' for my brother's orphans?

“We made for Broad Cove; for so we thought the
wind would ha' driven the poor young fellows a-Thursday;
but we couldn' get into Broad Cove, for the slob an' cakes
of ice. The shore looked tarrible cruel!”

Skipper George sate thoughtful a moment, and then
began again.

“At Port'gal Cove,” he continued, looking over the
water, “they did n' know about e'er a punt, an' no more
they did n' at Broad Cove, nor Holly-Rood; for we staid
three days, an' walked an' sarched all over. An' so a
Thursday morn agen we comed back home;—'twas cold,
but still. So when we comed round Peterport-Point,
(that's it over at the outside o' Blazun Head, yonder,)
every man, a'most, looked over his shoulder, thinkun
mubbe they'd got in; but 'twas n' so. They had n' come,
nor they hadn' been hard from. So my mistress, an'
Milly, an' George, an' I, an' this maid kneeled down after
I'd told 'em how 'twas, an' prayed to the good Lord.

“An' so we waited, an' did n' hear from the four poor
boys, not for a good many days!”

Skipper George stopped here again for a while.

“Awell, sir, then there comed word over, that some
men had abin found at Broad Cove!—It was n' known
who they were; but we knowed. So they got Mr. Worner's
boat, an' a crew of 'em went round, an' Skipper
'Enery Ressle, an' Skipper Izik Ressle (that was Milly's
father,) an' Skipper Izik Marchant, ('e was n' Skipper
then, however,) but a many friends goed in her,—I could
n' go that time, sir.

“'Twas about sun-goun-down, she comed in. Never a
word nor a sound! She looked black, seemunly; an' no

[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]

colors nor flag.—'Twas they! Sure enough, 'twas
they!

“A man had sid a punt all covered wi' ice, an' hauled
her up; an' when he comed to clear away the ice, there
was a man, seemunly, in the for'ard part! He called
the nighbors; an', sure enough, there 'e was, an' another
one, along wi' un; an' both seemunly a-kneelun an' leanun
over the for'ard th'art. They were the two brothers,
John an' little George, frozen stiff, an' two arms locked together!
They died pr'yun, sir, most likely; so it seemed.
They was good lads, sir, an' they knowed their God!

“So, then, they thought there was n' no more —”

The fisherman here made a longer pause, and getting
up from his seat, said “I'll be back, after a bit sir;” and
walking away from Mr. Debree and his daughter, stood
for a little while with his back toward them and his head
bare.

The maiden bent her gentle face upon her knee within
her two hands. The moonlight glossed her rich black
hair, glanced from her white cap, and gave a grace to
her bended neck. At the first motion of her father to
turn about, she rose to her feet and awaited him. Upon
him too,—on his head, bared of its hair, above, on his
broad, manly front, and on his steady eye,—the moonlight
fell beautifully. Mr. Debree rose, also, to wait for him.

Skipper George came back and took up his broken
story.

“Bumbye, sir, when they comed to the after-part of
the boat, there they found a young man lyun in the starnsheets,
wi' no coat, an' his—an' his—his poor, lovun arm
under 'is brother's neck;—an' the tother had the jacket
rolled up for a pillow under his head, an' I suppose 'e
died there, sleepun upon the jacket, that 'is brother rolled
up for un.”

[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]

The voice of the father was very tender and touching;
but he did not give way to tears.

“So, sir, that young man had done 'is part, and sculled
'em safe right along wi' the tarrible cruel gale, aw'y over
a twenty miles or more, to a safe cove, an' his hand-wrist
ès were all worn aw'y wi' workun at the oar; but 'e
never thought of a cruel gate of ice right afore the cove;
an' so we made no doubt when 'e found that, in dark
night, and found 'e could n' get through, nor 'e could n'
walk over, then 'e gave hisself up to his God, an' laid
down, an' put his tired arm round his brother; an' so
there they were, sir, in short after that, (it couldn' ha'
been long,) there was four dead men in their boat,
awaitun, outside o' Broad Cove, tull some one 'ould come
an' take their poor bodies, an' strip aw'y the ice from 'em
an' put 'em in the ground, that comes more nat'ral, in
a manner, sir!

“—They did n' find e'er an oar,—whatever becomed
of 'em; but they found their poor guns, an' the two orphans
had their names cut `John Barbury,' an' `George
Barbury,' an' one of 'em had `Pet—' for Peterport, an'
couldn' cut no more, for cold—an' death.

“There was three guns cut; an' one had `James
Barb—,' that poor Maunsell must ha' cut, poor fellow,
afore the deadly cold killed un. So the kind people that
found the poor boys, they thought James was a respectable
young man, an' when they comed to lay 'em out, in the
school-house, (they were proper kind, sir,) they put a
ruffle-shirt on him, o' linen.

“So, sir, the Minister comed over an' buried the dead.
Four coffins were laid along the aisle, wi' a white sheet
over every one, because we had n' palls: James, an'
Maunsell, of George, an' John, an' little George, of Izik;

[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]

an' we put two brothers in one grave, an' two brothers in
another, side by side, an' covered them!

“There was two thousand at the funeral; an' when the
Minister couldn' help cryun, so I think a'most every one
cried, as ef 'twas their own; an' so we hard that people
that lived on Kelley's Island hard singun goun by in the
dark, like chantun we haves in church. They said 'twas
beautiful, comun up an' dyun aw'y, an' so, goun aw'y
wi' the wind. It's very like, sir, as Paul an' Silas sang
in prison, so they sang in storm!

“Then Milly, poor thing, that never goed back to 'er
father's house, took a cold at the funeral, seemunly, an'
she died in James's bed a three weeks after! She was
out of her mind, too, poor thing!”

After another silence, in which Skipper George gazed
upon the restless deep, he said,

“I brought home wi' me the best stick from the timber,
and laved the rest, an' no one ever touched it, an' there
it staid. So next winter, sir, my tother poor young man
died in the woods, o' masles; (—thank God! we never
had to move in* till I lost my fine boys,) an' the next
sixteen day of January I set up my pillar, as Jacob set
his pillar, an' this is my pillar, sir. I said the Lord gived,
an' the Lord have tookt away; blessed be the name of
the Lord.—All the riches I had I thought 'twas gone.”

“You said riches came again,” said Mr. Debree, deeply
interested and affected.

“Ay, sir. My maid is gone back to the house. I can'
tell 'ee what she is, sir. There's a plenty in the harbor
will speak o' Lucy Barbury, sir. I hope 'ee'll excuse me
for keepin 'ee so late.”

“I thank you, with all my heart, for that beautiful

[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]

story,” said Mr. Debree, shaking the fisherman's hand.
“Good night, Skipper George! You have learned a
lesson, indeed, and, with God's grace, it shall do me good.
It's a noble lesson!”

“The Lord showed me where to find it in my Bible
an' my Pr'yer-book, sir. I wish 'ee a good evenun, sir.”

—So there was a historic beauty (to those who
knew them) about the girls in that house.

They were the only remaining children of George
Barbury. Skipper George, as he was called, though he
neither owned nor “sailed” a schooner, had lost his
greatest wealth (as things go here)—three fine sons,—all
three in early manhood; two at one time, and afterward
his last. This was a great loss. It made the father
stronger in himself, standing alone and stretching upward;
but it desolated this world very much for him. Those
sons would have enlarged his family; with them and
theirs he would one day have manned his schooner for
“the Larbadore.”* He would have been another man at
the head of such a race.

They were all gone now; and the father was, perhaps,
the better man for it; (a brave, good, kindly man he
was;) and the people respected him, and they called him
“Skipper” as a token of respect.

One of these girls remained, and one was given to him
after his loss; and Lucy had grown into a young woman;
and in her case, most certainly, it was a good thing that
her father had made up his mind never to set his heart
on any human thing. He had her with him often on the
water, and he was glad to watch her at her work at home
and hear her read; yet steadily he threw her on herself,
(in his homely wisdom,) to make a woman of her; and

[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]

himself looked out of his more lonely life, with great
fatherly eyes upon her; rejoicing in her beauty and
goodness, and thoughtfulness, and hoping much from her;
but counting her as not altogether belonging to himself.

She had her own end before her from her childhood,
which seemed to be do her utmost work in the world;
and, first, to fill her brothers' place. She did not ask or
talk; but she took heed, and heard, and saw, and felt
and thus grew and learned. At ten years of age she first
made up her mind that she would never grow into a man,
and so fill up her father's loss. When some chance conversation
first brought her to this point, (which, very
likely, she had feared before,) there was seen a flow and
ebb of blood; and tears got as high as the level of her
lids; and then, without asking or saying, she knew that it
was a woman's place she was to have. So in all girls'
ways she did her utmost, and into whatever she did or
learned, she threw herself with all her might.

Her mother was a most sensible woman, with much the
same spirit as her husband's; and being younger, by ten
years or so, than he, was, for that reason, more a companion
of her daughter. For other teaching than she got
at home and on the water, there was the school which
Mr. Wellon had succeeded in establishing, where Lucy
Barbury outlearned every thing; and Mr. Wellon, finding
this quiet, pretty little girl so bright, taught her himself, in
some things, and lent her books. Miss Dare made much
of her, too; talked with her, and listened to her, and encouraged
her, and read with her; and Lucy grew astonishingly
in wisdom and even in what is learned from
books.

This night, within the house again, for a while, Lucy
Barbury sate looking, with absent eyes, at her father, who

[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]

himself sate late; then she trimmed the lamp, and busied
herself with paper and pencil.

It was all silent till their evening prayer-time; then,
late as it was, Lucy read the New Testament lesson for
the day; and the father used the evening collects of the
Common-prayer-book, holding little Janie again in his
arms; and then the little gathering was broken up.

It was the parents' way to leave their daughter to her
own times, and she trimmed her lamp and sate in the
chimney after they were gone to bed.

The next morning they found her lying, in her clothes,
upon her bed, burning with fever.

Dr. Aylwin was sent for, from Brigus, and said that
“it was severe, and would not be over in a day—or two.”

p638-100 CHAPTER X. A MEETING.

[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]

DAYS, fair and foul, went by; the fever kept about
its slow work in Marchants' Cove, and Skipper
George's daughter was sick. There came a very
beautiful afternoon, on the twelfth of that August. All
was fair, as if there were no provision in either sea or
sky for rain.

The wind from the sea was sweeping steadily over the
“gould” bushes on the Backside; the sky overhead was
clear, and if a cloud floated, it was above the wind; and
there it sailed slowly, as if it were a barge from which
some lovely spirits gazed upon the happy earth. The
little breakers played quietly, (at this distance no sound
comes up from them,) rejoicing, apparently, among themselves,
as if they were, what they are often called, living
“white horses.”

The wind took little notice of the childish trees that
lifted up their heads among the bushes, but scarcely yet
above them, and swept on toward the farther woods and
inner barrens, there to lay by what it was bringing of
health and freshness from the main.

The day was such as often draws one's longings forwards,
forwards, as the sweet wind goes, and brings into
the mind a gentle sorrow, because it cannot go along
farther or faster than the heavy body.

[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]

This neighborhood has seldom any stir of human life,
and birds and insects are not frequent here. The paths
are travelled most in winter; for they lead over to the
woods, crossing some swamps and ponds, perhaps, in the
way; and these are frozen at that season. They can be
traversed, however, (some of them,) at other times, by
those who are familiar with them, with no worse risk than
that of getting a wet foot at a careless moment, and they
are shorter ways of communication between the houses
on the harbor-road in Peterport and the next settlement,
towards Bay-Harbor, than is the main highway.

Some simple flowers grow here among the stones and
shrubs, and berries in their season. The linnæa borealis
puts up its pretty pinkness, (confounded with the blossom
of the cranberry by the people;) spiked willow-weed;
golden-rod; the sweet flower of the bake-apple, and other
pretty things grow quietly upon this ground, which is
scarce habitable for man. The graceful maidenhair, with
its pretty, spicy fruit; plumboys, bake-apples, crackers,
partridge-berries, horts, and others enrich the barrenness,
and make it worth the while for women and children to
come and gather them.

On this particular day, at this particular time, the
single figure of a gentleman in black dress was crossing
the surface of the shrubbery, just about midway between
the harbor's head and the outer point. He was walking
moderately, and any one, who saw him nearly, would
have seen his hands clasped before him, and a thoughtful,
serious look upon his face. Whoever knew him would
have known afar that it was the new Romish priest.

Just as he turned a short corner, where the growth of
little firs was rather thicker than elsewhere, there started
up at his step a pretty thing; no bird, but a sweet little

[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]

girl, with the flushed face of one who had been stooping
long, and the loose locks, that were a fairer covering for
the lovely head than the straw-hat which hung adown
her shoulders. The little thing, before collecting herself,—
before seeing fairly the person who had come so
suddenly upon her,—said in a startled way, “Who are
you?”

After looking at him for a moment, however, she came
straight up to him, with her eyes fixed on his face, and said,
“I've got a great many berries.”

At the same time she held up, in a sweet way, still
looking straight upon his face, her apron, heavy with the
load that she had been gathering.

“Thank you, my little child; I don't want any of
them,” answered Mr. Debree, scarcely heeding the child,
who was looking up so steadily upon him. Then, as the
little creature was about to turn away, rebuffed and distanced
by his manner, he recalled himself from his abstractedness,
and, condescending to her, asked,

“Do you wish me to take one of your berries?”

“Yes, if you please, a great many. Were you looking
for me when you came here?”

“No, my child,” answered he again kindly, “I didn't
know that you were here.”

“Oh! yes. I've been here a great while; I've been
here a great many hours; I don't know how long I've
been here. Do you know my mamma?”

“No. I don't know your mamma,” said he, patiently
keeping up the conversation with the talkative little thing,
whose voice was as pleasant as her look, and who evidently
wished to become better acquainted.

“Does your mamma let you come and stay here so
long all alone?” inquired he on his part.

[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]

“Why, no! I'm not alone. Don't you see?” said the
young thing, with that directness and satisfaction of having
the advantage of a “great man,” which also grown-up
children show in the same way when they find themselves
better informed in some particular than some others
are.

As she said these words, there rose from the near
bushes a merry laugh of little ones, who had been hearing
all, unseen, and had been, very likely, on the point of
breaking out before.

“Don't you hear those children? They are with me;
and there's a woman over there, with a pink ribbon round
her neck, sitting by that rock; don't you see her? She'll
see that we don't get into any mischief.”

Mr. Debree smiled as she reported so glibly these last
words, words which sounded as if they had made a part
or the whole of the request or injunction given when
the children set forth from home. In the direction to
which his eye turned, as she spoke, the woman “with the
pink ribbon,” was plainly to be seen at no great distance.

These are tenacious little things these children; and a
kindhearted man, though he be a childless Romish priest,
cannot rudely break away from one of them that wishes
to detain him. Father Ignatius, though a little reserved,
was very gentle in his manner, and his voice had no
repulsive tone in it; the child seemed, as children do, to
draw towards him. She took his hand, although he had
several times turned to go on his way, and prepared to
lead him back again over his steps. He gently resisted.

“Where do you mean to lead me?” he asked.

She hesitated for a moment, as if abashed, and then,
loosing her hold of his hand, and turning one little foot

[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]

round upon it's toe, swaying her body, at the same time
a little away from him, asked timidly,

“Don't you want to go and see my mamma?”

“But I don't know your mamma, my child,” he answered,
taking this opportunity to effect his purpose of
keeping on his path; so saying “Good bye!” he walked
away. He turned his head ere long, and saw the child
unsatisfied standing still upon the same spot; her hands
holding up her loaded apron, her head bent forwards, and
her eyes fixed upon him. He stooped hastily, and hastily
came back, saying: “There's a pretty little flower
for you that I found under the fir-tree yonder.”

“Mamma said I was a little flower that grew in the
shade,” said the child, and then, as if trying again to
establish an intercourse between herself and her chance-companion,
asked him suddenly,

“Are you a minister?”

“Yes. What made you think so?”

“Do you know Mr. Wellon?” continued she in her
course of interrogation.

“Yes, I know him,” he answered, once more turning
to be gone.

“Do you love Mr. Wellon?” she went on, following
out her own little train of thought. “I know him, and
I love him very much; do you?” She put the second
interrogative at the end of the sentence, to compensate
for the diversion, in the middle clause, from the opening
question, as one brings up, to its first level, a rope that
has sagged in its length midway.

“Yes,” said he, as kindly and quietly as before, and
not persisting now in going on.

“Mr. Wellon hasn't any little children; have you got
any little children?” she asked.

[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]

“No,” answered he, turning away.

“Are you a Romis' pries'?” was her next inquiry,
using the words (except for childishness of pronunciation)
as familiarly as if she had been reading and spelling out
of a book of controversy, the little thing!

Seeing the gentleman change color slightly, or noticing,
perhaps, some other slight change which a child's eye so
readily detects and a child's mind interprets as well as it
knows how, she hastened to ask him, looking abashed,

“Is that bad?”

“Oh, no. But what made you think of it? Where
did you hear about Romish priests?”

“I don't know where I heard it. I heard it somewhere,”
answered the little one, in her simplicity. “I
heard mamma say it, and Mr. Wellon.”

“Did they say that I was one?” said he, in a lower
voice than before.

“No; they didn't say you; they said some men were
that.”

“And what sort of man do you think it is?”

“I think it's a man like you.”

“And why do you think it's a man like me?” he asked
again, smiling.

I don't know; I think it is,” the little thing said, giving
a child's reason.

“And is it somebody like Mr. Wellon, do you
think?”

“Oh! no. It isn't a man like Mr. Wellon,” said she,
decidedly.

“What is Mr. Wellon, then? Do you know?”

“Oh, yes! I know Mr. Wellon is a minister of God,”
she answered, looking up to him.

“Who is your mamma?”

[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]

“Her name is Mrs. Barrè, and my name is Mary
Barrè. I'm her little daughter.”

“And how old are you, child?” he inquired, looking
away, over the water.

“I shall be a big girl pretty soon. I'm going on six.
That's pretty big, isn't it? Mamma says I shall be a
woman pretty soon, if I live, because my papa's gone.”

Mr. Debree, at these words, looked back at the child,
and said, “Where is he gone?”

She answered as if she were sure of having made a
friend of him, “I think he's gone up in the sky; for my
mamma wears black clothes, and cries sometimes; and
that's what people do when some one goes up in the sky.
I think he's been gone about thirty years.” This last she
said with the same innocent confidence as the rest; lavishing
the time like any other treasure of unknown worth.

Her companion did not smile, but stood and looked at
her, and then turned again and walked away; and the
little thing, as if satisfied with having established so much
of an acquaintance as to have let him know who she was,
and how old, turned up the path, without looking back.

Presently she was singing at the top of her voice, as
she sat upon a stone:—

Then as if her little rhyme had been a sacred hymn, from
Holy Writ or the Church Service, she added, “Glory be
to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost,—in
the beginning,—ever shall be, world avout end, Amen.”

The children, who had been playing or picking berries,

[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]

close at hand, started up like a covey of birds, and joined
little Mary, and the “woman with the red ribbon,” who
was not far off, came at almost the same moment.

“What was 'e saying to 'ee, lovey?” and “what did 'e
come back for?” and “what did he tell 'ee about a
praste?” “Do you know him?” and other like, were the
cloud of questions that swarmed about little Mary from
the woman and the children; the woman not forgetting at
the same time, to put the straw hat which had been hanging,
as we said, from our little acquaintance's neck, into
its proper place upon her head.

From amidst this swarm of sharp interrogatories, Mary
started off to flee. She fell and scattered a good many of
her berries before she got far, gathered up as many as
she could, before the company, which followed slowly,
overtook her, and then managed to keep in front of them,
and then of such as were left of them, (for they dropped
off by degrees,) until she reached her home.

Mrs. Barrè, in receiving her, thanked the woman who
had kept her in sight, and bought, at the same time, some
quarts of berries, by way of returning a favor; then took
Mary up in her arms, and hurried to hear her account of
her doings.

“Please ma'am,” called the worthy neighbor after her,
“there was a gentleman stopped and talked wi' she some
while. He said no harm, I don't think, for I kept anighst
'em, but 'e was this 'am' handsome-looking praste that's
comed, as they says, to live in the harbor; 'is name's
somethin, I don' rightly mind; and he gave her bit of a
posey, ef she's a-got 'n now.”

The mother thanked her again, and for informing her
of the child's talking with that gentleman, saying she
would ask about her afternoon's adventures.

[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]

To this the little adventurer herself, fresh from the excitement,
assented very cordially.

“I talked very kindly to him, mamma,” said Mary,
when they were alone together, inside. “I told him I
was your little girl, and he wanted to know what a Romis'
pries' was, and I told him I thought he was a Romis'
pries'; and he asked me whether my papa was gone up in
the sky.”

“Are you sorry that your papa is gone?” asked Mrs.
Barrè.

“Yes, I always am sorry; why do you ask me that a
great many times, mamma?”

“Sometimes I forget; and I want you to love Heavenly
Father very much, and pray to Him. Where is the
flower he gave you, darling?”

“There it is, mamma, and I'll give it to you,” said the
little one, dragging it forth from among her berries.

“Thank you, love,” said her mother, kissing her, and
taking the flower, which she did not return.

p638-109 CHAPTER XI. SOME GOSSIP AND SOME REAL LIFE.

[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]

IF an outlandish frigate had come in and furled her
broad sails, and dropped her heavy anchors, and
swung round to them, with her strange colors flying,
and lowered away a half dozen black boats, and held them
in tow at her side and astern, and lay there, with foreign-looking
marines pacing in her main chains, and a crowd
of foreigners swarming on her decks, there would have
been some stir in the quiet little town of Peterport, and
its quiet neighborhood. The people would, probably,
have managed to go out to the ledge to fish, and the
women would, probably, have contrived to spread and
turn their fish on the flakes, and hoe their gardens,—all
besides gratifying their curiosity; and those who might
come from afar to gaze upon, and ask, and talk about, the
outlanders, would, probably, get through their usual day's
work besides; but, far and near, and for a long time, the
thing would be in their thoughts and in their talk, on
land and on water, at flake and at fireside.

So it was with the coming of the Romish priest to
Peterport. The people talked, and wondered, and feared;
and some one or two of the warmer-spirited wives proposed
to have him driven off.

Mr. O'Rourke, the Roman Catholic merchant, was

[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]

either seen more, or more observed, and the remaining
people of his persuasion, planters and others, were thought
to have (very naturally) an air of more than common
confidence and satisfaction. Still more was this supposed
to be the case in Castle Bay, where, though the place
itself was less considerable, the number of Roman Catholics
was twice as large.

Young Urston's case, and the epidemic that had settled
itself in Marchants' Cove, and seemed, now, to have laid
hold on Lucy Barbury, divided, with the other topic, the
public mind of Peterport. There was a general wish
that the Minister were in the harbor, as well for the sake
of the sick, (of whom, though none died, yet several were
affected with a lasting delirium,) as for the safeguard of
the place against the invasion of the adverse Priest.

The upper circle was a small one:—The Minister, the
widowed Mrs. Barrè, the Warners, and Miss Dare; the
merchant, stipendiary-magistrate, and churchwarden, Mr.
Naughton; Mr. Skipland, a merchant; Mr. McLauren,
the other churchwarden, living near Frank's Cove,—a
worthy Irishman,—(the three latter being unmarried
men,) and, lastly, the O'Rourkes, Roman Catholics, made
the whole round. The members of it had some subjects
of interest beside, but they had chiefly the same as those
that occupied the planters.

Of course the harbor heard, from open mouth to open
ear, the story of the widowed lady's strange interview
with the Romish priest; nor was there little speculation
about the unknown tie that bound, or had bound, them to
each other. They had not met again, and he was seldom
seen by day; sometimes, at night. Some said, of course,
that “he walked in darkness.” She, too, was not seen
often.

[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]

Miss Dare came and went as ever. Only what follows
of what was said and done between her and Mrs. Barrè,
concerns our story.

As she came in, late on the afternoon of little Mary's
walk, her friend answered her first question, which was
rather anxious,—

“I'm well enough, Fanny, thank you: but you're looking
pale.”

“Well enough?” asked Miss Dare, again; for the
covering over the blood in Mrs. Barrè's cheeks was very
thin, and her eyes were hasty and anxious; her two
hands, which Fanny held, were hot.

“Yes; well enough for my need, Fanny.”

“Yet your life is wearing out,” said the girl, earnestly,
“as you said.”

“I have to use a good deal of it. It goes into the work
I have to do.”

Mrs. Barrè tried to smile as she said this, but made no
great effort for it.

Again her friend asked, anxiously, “Does it go on?”

“I don't know how it goes;—perhaps like piling up
water; and my chances are as rare as spring-tides. But,
pray tell me, how is Skipper George's daughter?”

“There's not much change yet, I think. Dr Aylwin
was there last evening, while I was with her, and told
me he thought the fever like that in Marchants' Cove,
but with many symptoms of inflammation of the brain.
He says they vary very much, in different cases, according
to constitution and other things; scarcely any two are
alike. I fancy the poor child may have suffered some
severe disappointment! she wouldn't tell of it, if she had.
He doesn't say what he thinks of her, except that she's a
very sick girl. She's perfectly crazy.”

[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]

“Poor thing!” said Mrs. Barrè. “I do hope she'll
get over it!”

Fanny Dare went on, without sitting down,—

“Her father keeps up his stout heart, and speaks
cheerily; but he must have hard work to do it. As soon
as he comes in, he goes straight to her bed, and stands
and looks at her; and he does the same before he goes
out: and always finds something or other to do about her.
I think his wife gives him a chance, on purpose; you
know what a delicate sense she has.”

“Is she crazy all the time?” asked Mrs. Barrè.

“I believe so: she was, all night. When she was
awake, she raved the whole time; and in her sleep, kept
talking incoherently. Her raving was very sad, but
it was beautiful. She talked of twenty things that I
shouldn't have thought she knew. Sometimes, she fancied
herself out at sea, and called to the winds and sea-birds,
and clouds, and waves, and stars—if I could only remember
some things she said; and sometimes, she fancied
herself inland, among mountains and caves, or meadows,
or streams. Then she'd answer some person, perhaps,
and argue. It was very different from herself; but all
was so good and innocent, even when it wasn't at all like
her.—I want to sit up again, to-night; for the doctor
means to come over again; and he expects the crisis.
She needs close and intelligent care.”

Mrs. Barrè looked up, with a faint smile:—

“I'm afraid that's not the only reason why you want
to go, Fanny,” said she. “To-night, you're to stay here,
as you promised, with Mary; and I'm to watch with
her;—and do sit down. I'm sure you ought to be tired.”

“I'll tell you the very truth,” answered Miss Dare,
complying; “it is not only because I want to see the

[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]

doctor, but I really think I'm fitter to watch at night than
you are.”

“And you were up last night!—Oh! no: I shall keep
you to the first arrangement. It isn't much for me to
lose a night's sleep; but you're not used to it.”

“You think you're getting used to it?” said Fanny.
“Do you know, my dear Mrs. Barrè, how you've changed
within a few days? You must try to rest; certainly not
undertake new labor.”

“I don't know,” answered Mrs. Barrè, “that I'm not
as well as usual;” but there was an anxiousness in her
eyes, and a careworn look about her face, as well as a
nervous agitation in her manner.

“You won't insist, now, upon watching with Lucy
Barbury?”

“Yes; I would really rather. It would be a relief, as
well as a satisfaction to me,” said Mrs. Barrè.

“Well; then, I'll go back to my aunt's, and come down
after tea.”

So saying, Miss Dare took her leave.

Late in the moonlight evening, she walked with her
friend (there is no danger here) towards Skipper George's.
There were no people in the road; but as Miss Dare felt
a quiver in the hand that lay on her arm, she noticed, a
good way off, a man whose gait and figure were remarkable,
and, as they drew nearer, recognized him as the
Romish Priest. No greeting or sign of any sort passed
between them.

As the lady came, pale and thoughtful-looking, out of
the night into the house where Lucy Barbury lay sick,
the father, with his manly and dignified respect, welcomed
her from his heart. The mother, overwatched and over-wearied,
was persuaded to go to bed; but Skipper George
kept his place, quietly.

[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]

There was scarce any sound, except from the sick
maiden, who very constantly spoke or strove to sing.

As once a light was carried in and used about her, it
was a touching sight to see the girl who lately was so glad.

A wet cloth commonly lay on her forehead, shading
her eyes and hiding a good deal of her face. When it
was taken off, it could be seen what work the fever had
been doing. To be sure, her rich black hair poured out
from under her white cap like a stream, and the soft, long
fringes of the lids spread over her half-closed eyes like a
soft fern-spray over the little pool at the tree's foot; and
the bending neck and sloping shoulders, over which her
white night-dress was drawn and held by a button, were
still beautiful; but the eyes were deeply sunk, and the
face was thin, and the lips chapped and parched.

Her kerchief and other things, that had looked so
prettily upon her, lay with her prayer-book on a chair at
hand.

During the night she dozed, sometimes, and generally
her voice was heard in the low raving of half-sleep. It
poured forth as steadily as water in a stream, and as
changing and as formless; bright thoughts and strange
fancies, and sweet words; being and hope, and beauty
and happiness, and home and sadness; prayer, song,
chant; things far off and things near, things high and low.

So the slow hours of night passed; and the pale, sad
lady, the body of whose child had been so lately laid
deep in the earth, ministered.

In the earliest morning, about four o'clock, a neighbor-woman
came, and the fisherman gently insisted on seeing
Mrs. Barrè home.

She slept late into the day.

p638-115 CHAPTER XII. TWO MEET AGAIN.

[figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]

MRS. BARRÈ had rested, after her watch, and
early in the afternoon she walked out, down
the harbor; this time alone. She passed Marchants'
Cove, and turn, and hill, and narrow way, to
Franks' Cove; and crossing the stile, and going along
the meadow-path, and through the gorge of the mountain
of rock, she stood in Mad Cove. The stony slope went
steeply hollowing down to the little shelf of land at the
water-side; the ridge of rock went along to the left, and
ended in the tall cliffs at the sea; near her was the
widow Freney's house; a little farther down, to the left,
the hovel of Tom Somerset; and down at the bottom of
the slope were the eight or ten houses of the other people,
and the flakes of the whole colony.

What difference there is between yesterday and to-day!
The great earth has turned over its twenty-four thousand
miles of land and sea, cities and woods and deserts, between;
twilight, darkness, day, have come between;
where a breath would have reached yesterday, there may
be, now, wide waves and storms between.

Mrs. Barrè stood thinking or remembering at the verge
of the cove.

By and by she drew near to Mrs. Freney's house, and
knocked.

[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]

The priests of the Roman Catholic denomination do
not visit generally among their people, unless to administer
sacraments; but as the door opened, Father Debree
was standing facing it, as pale and sad as the pale sad
lady who unexpectedly confronted him. She started at
the suddenness of the sight, closed her eyes for an instant,
but stood where she was.

There was a likeness of face and expression, beyond
that of the sadness and paleness, and of figure and bearing,
also. There was the same high forehead, and (except
that hers were darker) the same full, thoughtful, feeling
eyes.

“Must this be?” said the Priest.

“It IS; beyond all hope!” she answered.

“How can you hope it?”

“How can I any thing else?” she said; “I have but
one chief object in life.”

“But what should bring us together, if there be no
longer a common faith?”

“That there may be!”

“I did not know that I must meet this, in coming
to this far-off place!” the Priest said. “I cannot feel
the drawing of old ties!—I cannot see you!”

There was nothing like sternness or hardness in his
way of saying this, but of gentle, fixed resolve.

“I must! I must, while I have life!” she said, not
loudly but most earnestly.

Mrs. Freney stood, a silent and amazed listener; and
the children looked up, wondering.

“I beg pardon, Mrs. Freney,” said the lady; “I came
to ask about your child.”

Mrs. Freney was so bewildered, that she scarce knew
what to answer:—

[figure description] Page 110.[end figure description]

“She's doing well, thank'ee, Ma'am;—I mean, he's
much the same.”

Father Debree said, turning to her (not without agitation):—

“If you can send your eldest child with me, I will send
back by her two or three little things for her brother!”

Again Mrs. Barrè spoke:—

“And I shall not follow you farther than just outside
the door; but I must say something more, now God has
given me opportunity.”

“Certainly,” he answered; I cannot be harsh or rude
to you. I will hear, this once, and bring all to an end.
Come, child! go on!”

The girl opened the door and passed out; the lady
gravely bowed to Mrs. Freney and followed, and Father
Debree, leaving a blessing in the house, went last.

He bade the girl sit down upon a stone, and walking a
few paces onward, stopped to talk with Mrs. Barrè.

“Why should we meet?” he asked.

“Why should we meet! How can we help meeting,
if there be heaven and hell hereafter, and if our Life and
Death depend upon our duty done or undone? I have
not changed; what I was, I am.”

“All human ties are loosed from me,” he said. “To
do a priest's work is my only duty, and my only wish. I
cannot, even in memory, recall any other tie.”

“What! is all common life and happiness and hope
and duty—is every thing that bound us together, perished
forever? Can you strike it away, because you will not
have it?—It all lives, here,” she continued, laying her
two hands on her bosom, “and will not die!”

“But it is dead with me!” he answered.

A pang, as from a winged arrow, seemed to shoot

[figure description] Page 111.[end figure description]

through her; but when she spoke, her voice was little
broken.

“It may be so!” she said. “O Walter! I claim no
love. I do not ask for it. I only ask that there shall
not be a wall harder than iron between us! I only ask
that I may have leave, from time to time—only from
time to time—to speak to you, or write to you, and that
you will hear and answer me! That is not much!—not
much from you to me! If you are as you say, it cannot
hurt you!—Walter! Walter!”

Her eyes were only full of tears.

His face quivered; his frame was shaken.

“No, I cannot!” he said; “it must not be! It is impossible!”

“But I beseech you, for God's sake!” she said, clasping
her two hands to him.

“No!” he answered. “For God's sake, I must not!”

Tears stood in his eyes; how could he hinder them!

“Oh!” she cried, closing her eyes, and casting down
her face.

“Even as a priest, you might grant me this!”

“As a priest, I cannot do it! Oh! do not think it
cruelty or hardness of heart; my very heart is being
eaten out;—but I cannot!”

She left him, instantly, and walked very hurriedly
away.

On, on, on she went; up the harbor, as she had come;
into her own pretty little yard, into her house, up to her
chamber.

Little Mary came running into her mother's room, but
stopped; for her mother was kneeling at a chair, holding
a letter.

The child went down upon her little knees at another

[figure description] Page 112.[end figure description]

chair, laying her cheek down upon her arm, with her face
toward her mother, and pretty soon beginning to play
gently with the coral beads about her neck.

As Mrs. Barrè rose, she came across and set her lips
upon the forehead of her pretty little daughter, and
smoothed her hair.

“Now, darling,” said she, “do you think you can do
an errand for me exactly as I tell you?” As she spoke
she folded the letter in white paper.

“Oh yes, mamma!” said Mary, eagerly, “I'm sure I
can.”

“There's a gentleman coming along, and you're to run
after him and give him this, and tell him it belongs to
him; and then you're to run back as fast as you can;
and don't stop for any thing. Can you?”

The little ambassadress was sure that she could do just
as she was bid, and Mrs. Barrè reiterated her instructions:—

“Mind; you're not to stop for any thing. If he
speaks to you, or calls you, you're to run back to me as
fast as you can.”

The child assented, and repeated her mother's words.

“It's a costly thing!” said Mrs. Barrè, looking forth,
as if from the quay her eyes were following towards the
far off, fateful ocean, the full-sailed ship that bore her all
in one venture.

“Now, dear! Quick! There he's going—don't forget!”
she exclaimed, breathless. “Run! and come
straight back!” The priest whom she had met in Mad
Cove was just passing.

Little Mary ran down stairs, and then out upon the
road, with her golden curls shaking and shining in the
sunlight. The gentleman turned and took the parcel

[figure description] Page 113.[end figure description]

from her hand; then, having opened it, looked after her,
as if he would call; but presently he turned again and
walked on.

Little Mary only varied a little from her orders. Having
run away from him as fast as she could run, she
stopped, as a bird might stop, and looked back; but he
did not turn again, so she came in.

This time, too, as before, her mother was upon her
knees, and the child stood looking out of the window.
As her mother rose, she said:—

“That's the same one I saw the other day, mamma!”
Her mother was thinking her own thoughts.

Mary had a child's way.

“Why do you cry so much, when my papa's gone up
in sky, and brother Willie?” she asked.

Mrs. Barrè wept silently. The little prattler went on
prattling.

“If I could go up there, I'd ask Heavenly Father
where my papa was. He'd know, wouldn't He, mamma?
Heavenly Father would know, because He knows every
thing. He'd show me my papa; and I'd go up to him
and say, `I'm your little girl Mary, that you left at
mamma's house when you came up here,' and then he'd
know me.”

The little thing was not satisfied with the silent acquiescence
that she got.

“Mamma! Mamma!” she exclaimed, “I saw little
brother Willie!”

“When, dearie?” asked her mother, now heeding
her.

“Just now,—a little while ago,—and he leaded me by
my hand near to where Heavenly Father was sitting
on his great chair. Then Heavenly Father got up and

[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]

opened his closet and took down one of our little boy's
playthings, and gave it to our little Willie;—(He didn't
give any to me;) but He looked at Willie's little sister
as if He was glad to see me. Little Willie knew who I
was, mamma, because he saw my paper.”

“What paper, darling?” asked her mother, entirely
occupied with the child's story.

“My paper—don't you know? That you writed
`Mary Barrè' on, for your little girl. I throwed it away
up in sky, and wind blew it away up, so Willie could see
it; and Willie knew what little girl it was.”

“Come with me, you dear little dreamer!” said Miss
Dare, who suddenly appeared at the door; and, snatching
up Mary, she carried her off.

She set the child under the bowery branches of a
seringa, and stood among the shrubs and floating sprays
of creepers, which she had a year before gathered about
the house, a fairer thing than the sunshine that was playing
among them; and she sang for the child's pleasure a
song broken into pauses now and then, much as the sunshine
was, here and there, broken into shade. Perhaps
our readers have seen or will see how the song may have
been suggested.

Her voice was a fine, full alto, never needing any
effort, but now apparently kept low, for Mary's ear. The
air which she very likely adapted to the words, was

[figure description] Page 115.[end figure description]

much the same in general as that of the `Bonny house o'
Airlie;' and her voice flew upward and flitted from part
to part among the words, as a bird from bough to bough;
but the song all lived in the singing.

The shriek seemed to split the air, and the shudder to
be shaking strong hearts, and a wail to wander sadly
over the sea, where the good ship had foundered. She
paused here for a while, and then began again in a sweet,
tripping measure:—

However it was that she fitted the music to the words,
it seemed much as if every line took its own form in
leaving the singer's lips, in the fittest melody.

A straying lock of her own hair was tossed by the
playful wind between her lips, and she stood silent again;—
the little girl clambered to the top of the fence and
seated herself there.

“Please sing, cousin Fanny!” she said, when she was
seated. Miss Dare sang again:—

[figure description] Page 116.[end figure description]

“Here comes Mr. Naughton!” said the child from her
perch, like the topman from his lookout; “and somebody's
with him,—it's James Urston!”

Miss Dare hastened to take the little one down; and
as she was retreating into the house, the voice of the merchant-churchwarden-and-magistrate
was heard, urging
upon the young lover, who had abandoned his preparation
for the Romish priesthood, the excellence of, a life of celibacy;
and regretting that Mr. Wellon (though he was
unmarried, certainly) was not under the obligations of a
vow.

Miss Dare's song was broken off.

p638-124 CHAPTER XIII. A SAD YOUNG HEART.

[figure description] Page 117.[end figure description]

THAT quiet day was passing down to quiet night;
the sun was near his setting, as young Urston
came alone along the road and took one of the
paths that led up over the hill to the Backside.

He started at his name, called in a cracked voice, like
that of a parrot, at his very shoulder; and, turning his
head, saw that he was passing unaware a group of two
old women, who were standing against a fence, probably
chaffing about the gossip of the harbor, or croning over
memories of the time when they (old withered bodies!)
were the young. There are more of these old people
here than anywhere, almost, so many overlive the threescore
years and ten. One of these elders was the Granny
Pilchard, a woman whose quickness and activity were
not exhausted yet, by a long use of eighty-one years of
changing seasons, and as changeful scenes of life. The
other gossip was “Old” Granny Frank, as she was
called, though younger than her comrade by full seven
years. The title “Granny,” common to them both, is as
well a medical and professional distinction, in Newfoundland,
as one implying age. Granny Pilchard held at
this moment a pitcher in her hand, which the young man
knew out of a hundred,—a little white one, with just a

[figure description] Page 118.[end figure description]

slender line of blue along the brim. At least he might
have known it, and what fair hand had often borne it.

“Good morning, Granny, and you, Granny Frank,”
he said, rather impatiently, as if he did not wish to stop.
When we have met with such a thing as had lately happened
to young Urston, and wish to be alone, we have at
the same time (at all events the young have, if not all
of us) an apprehension that it is all written in English
on our faces, or has been overheard, or carried by the
wind or winged birds; perhaps James Urston thought
so.

“Thou'rt goun up over, Mister Jemmie Urston, I
think,” continued Granny Palasher, (this was her vernacular
name,) in pursuance of her object in addressing him,
“and 'ee'll most likely want to stop and hear for 'eeself;
and so Missis Frank says I'm wantun up at Riverhead,
she thinks, and 'ee'll plase take this pitcher up to she. It's
a marsel o' water out o' Har-pool she wanted,” (it will be
remembered, as James, no doubt, remembered, how he
drank out of that spring that morning,) “and I've abin
and got un. 'Ee see he's so fresh and clear as the blue
sky, in a manner. I wouldn' lave her, only the mother
'll be up, in short. I s'pose 'ee baint afeared to see her
lovie? an' nobody wi' her but the tother little one? Lads
didn't oose to be fear'd o' maaids, when I was one.”

Old Granny Frank, at this allusion to young days and
their doings, gurgled in her throat with a cracked laugh,
and, when she could recover the poor little wheezy remainder
of her voice from its employment in laughing,
uttered a few shrill and grating, though not loud, words
with it, in confirmation of the last remark of her companion.
These came, one after another, as if they were
stamped and thrown out.

[figure description] Page 119.[end figure description]

“They'd—oose—to be—tar-ri-ble—boy-ish—when—I—
know'd—'em.”

One of the laughy gurgles came after the words, like
one that had been separated from its companions.

The more vigorous Granny Palasher proceeded.

“Now, will 'ee be so well plased as”—

“I'm in a great hurry, Granny,” interrupted the young
man, not changing color, or seeming disconcerted, but
with a look of grave determination, “and I can't very
well call there this evening.”

“Oh! 'Ee haven' agot time; have 'ee?” said the
old woman; then explained to Granny Frank: “That's
that pretty Lucy Barbury, Granny!” Upon which the
latter urged another laugh up her dry throat, and a few
more words.

“'Mm! So—I've—ahard!”

“I do'no what soart thes'am' young folks are, now-a-days,”
said Granny Palasher. “Go thy w'ys, then,
Mister James Urston. I feeled for 'ee, but mubbe I'll
get another young man I knows of, in a minit.”

The young man did not stay for parley.

“You may get whom you like, Granny Palasher,”
said he. “I thank you for your goodwill; but I'm in a
hurry just now. Good-day!” And, leaving the pitcher
in the bearer's hand, he mounted the hill as fast as before.

The granny made this comment on his speech:—

“This'am' young chap thinks a body that's abin through
wi' everything, don' know the manin' o' things!”

The thin, cracked voice of old Granny Frank went up
after him as he mounted, jerking its words:—

“Isn'—'e—a—Ro-man?”

He was not yet beyond hearing, when Granny Palasher
answered:—

[figure description] Page 120.[end figure description]

“'Is; but there's no danger o' she.”

He hurried on, and left the old gossips to themselves.
Up the path he hastened toward the ridge bounding the
meadow, at the farther side of which stood Skipper
George's house.

Mounting, as the sun mounts up, seems fit work for the
morning. There is a spring in the strong, young body,
that almost throws it up into the air; and airy wings
seem to lift one at either side. But it was evening, and
this young Urston had been, and was now going, through
a terrible trial, and there was a heaviness about his motions,
and a sad paleness about his face, that did not
belong to him.

As he got up to the edge of the little meadow, and it
lay before him, with its several less-distinguished tracks,—
looking not so much like different ways, as the same
one unstranded,—and the house, backing against the little
cliff, he paused; and it is no wonder. They say that on
some table-land, among the mountains of Quito, lies a
gorgeous city, in which the old Indian race still holds its
own. The roofs and battlements glitter with gold; for
the people have kept, from father to son, the secret of
richer mines than any that the whites have found in California.
Now, fifty yards across the meadow, at the edge
of which James Urston stood, glittered with many sheets
of glowing gold, the house in which Skipper George's
daughter was lying sick. It was a plain, unpainted
house, and, at any time when the gold, which the morning
or evening sun laid on it, had been taken off, was but the
dwelling of an honest, poor man. Yet he looked long;
and it seemed as if he dared not set foot upon that meadow,
any more than if it and the house were an enchanted
scene. There was not a hundred yards of space between

[figure description] Page 121.[end figure description]

him and the house; but what a world of separation lay
between him and Skipper George's daughter! The very
golden glare of the sunlight from it in his face—now
fading—increased the separation. The reflected glow
faded from his person, and he hastily crossed the ridge,
and passed on.

p638-129 CHAPTER XIV. A GREAT LOSS.

[figure description] Page 122.[end figure description]

ON the night of the day of which we have been
writing, (that fifteenth day of August,) Mr. Wellon,
who had come across, in his way home, from Portugal
Cove to Sandy Harbor, in a boat belonging to the
latter place, was sitting late in conversation with Mr.
Kewers, the clergyman of Sandy Harbor, when suddenly
the `Society'* schoolmaster, a man of an inquiring and
excitable turn of mind, came knocking at the door, and
announced, eagerly, that some strange work seemed to be
going on in Peterport. He said the lights were moving
about, and there was an unusual noise; something must
be the matter there.

At this intelligence the two clergymen hastily started
forth, in company with the schoolmaster, for Blazing
Head,—the lower and back part of Sandy Harbor,—from
which a view of Peterport (when it was to be seen) could
be had. They reached, after a few minutes' walk, a high
point, and saw the lights, like running sparks in chimney
soot, and heard plainly, over the water, in lulls of the wind,
the sound of human voices. At this hour of night, and
with the wind bringing in the great murmur of the sea,

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the far-off sound of human voices was more than commonly
impressive.

The schoolmaster, who had been in the island for a
good many years, said that the scene “reminded him of
the `Ralls'* they had years ago.” “There may be a
child lost,” the Minister said, but none of the three pretended
to explain or understand the singular circumstance.
Mr. Wellon determined to go home as fast as possible.

The distance by the road through Wantful, (a little
hamlet adjoining Sandy Harbor, on the same tongue of
land,) and round the Riverhead of Peterport, is about six
miles or seven, and the way is a picturesque and quaint
one; down steep descents, along a narrow beach; round
sharp turns, under wide flakes, blocked up by a storehouse
standing square across it; passing by the little, humble,
holy-looking church of Wantful, on the hill. In the daytime,
and for one who has an eye for scenery of that kind,
and is not hurried, a ride or walk over that road might
not be tiresome; but in a case like this—at such an hour,
and with the rain beginning to fall from clouds which had
been gathering for hours, and with the prospect of a wet,
dark night and morning, the thought of walking round, for
Mr. Kewers kept no horse, (and it was too late to borrow
one,) was not inviting.

Across from Back Cove, where two coopers, John Bissell
and his son, are in the habit of ferrying chance passengers,
the distance is but a mile or so, and the schoolmaster—
whose curiosity was rather eager, undertook to
make arrangements, for he himself meant to go, (if Mr.
Wellon had no objection,) in case he could be of service.

Nearly another hour passed, and then he came again

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with the intelligence that he had made arrangements with
Mr. Bissell and his son, promising them a double fee—
four shillings each; (an amount which Mr. Wellon immediately
claimed to pay, with all charges.) This news was
a great relief, after the long, tiresome hours of waiting;
a lantern was borrowed of Mr. Kewers, and in a quarter
of an hour Mr. Wellon and his companion were in Back
Cove; and very soon, under the steady rain, were crossing
the water, in charge of Bissell and his son. It was
so dark that a great, round, peely hill of rock which forms
one side of Back Cove—close to which they were—could
not be seen. They set their lantern in the bow of the
punt, and with a strong, and steady, slow stroke, the boatmen
cautiously felt their way along. The Minister steered,
the schoolmaster, by way of making himself useful, as he
had proposed, armed himself with a spare oar, and undertook
to row, a way of being useful, which, after several
times “catching crabs,” as sailors call it, and once nearly
demolishing the lantern in falling over backwards, he exchanged
for that of holding the light and looking out.

The rain poured straight down, drenchingly; and
(though a good, thick overcoat is almost water-proof,) its
steady falling brought the whole company to silence, as it
had already deadened the wind, and smoothed the waves
down to the ground-swell. In about three quarters of an
hour they made the shore of Peterport, below their point
of destination, and worked up to it.

Marchants' Cove was all still and dark, except a light
in Mr. O'Rourke's house; the lights and sounds were
further down the harbor. The Minister left his companions
here, (the schoolmaster keeping the boatmen's company,
to be sure of his passage back,) and alone went
down the road, and took the first considerable path over

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to the Backside, the place to which they had some hours
before been straining their eyes so eagerly, from Blazing-Head.

On the road he met no one as he had met no one in
Marchants' Cove; but as he drew near the meadow in
which Skipper George's house stood, he heard women's
voices, and by-and-by came upon a company, whom by
the ear, not by the eye, he could distinguish as Old Granny
Frank and others of the neighbors. They recognized
him, and announced among themselves, as he drew near,
“the Pareson!”

People in this country take no heed of weather, (when
they have good reason to be out,) except to dress accordingly.

“Well, Mrs. Frank!” cried he, addressing the eldest,
(as Œdipus addressed the old man of the chorus,) but
turning for answer to the others, “what has happened?”

The old woman was doubtless making up her mouth
to speak, but, happily, her grandson's wife spoke for
her.

“Haven'ee hard about Skipper George's darter, sir,—
that's Lucy Barbury,—how she's been atookt out of her
father's house, ever sunce last evenun, and never a word
comed about her, sunce, whatever?”

“Taken away!” exclaimed the Minister, turning from
one to another in amazement, “How do you mean?”

“'Is—sir,—an'—her—bed—wi'—her;” gurgled the
Granny, gaining her speech.

“They'm bin sarchun all over, sir,” added Patience
Frank, “an' Skipper George 's inside now, w'itun for
'ee.”

“Let me see!” said the Minister, staying for no further
talk, but hurrying towards the house.

[figure description] Page 126.[end figure description]

The old and young women, and others, loitered for a
little gossip, and to hear the end.

“Did 'ee see the Pareson, Grannie, when I told un?
Did'ee see un shake his head?”

“To—be—sure—'e—would,” answered Old Granny
Frank oracularly.

“'E did then; shookt it just this w'y,” continued
Patience. “What do 'ee think, Granny?”

“It—'ll—be—sid,” answered the granny, in her jerky
way. “'E—doned—I—two—shillun—worth—o'—good—
wi'—a—pr'y'r—e'—made—t'oth-er—d'y.”

“Did um, then? I shouldn' wonder!”

“Wull! — some—says—an-gels—an'—some—says—
faa-ir-ies;—but—I — knows—what—I—thinks,—” said
the possessor of threescore years of observation and experience.

“All so, Granny!” assented Patience, who, if she
should live so long, was in a fair way to be as wise, “I
thinks gezac'ly the same.”

“Ay,— child,— it—'ll — be — sid — a-fore—ma-ny—
d'ys—be—up;” and the old body hurried away, while
she had her mystery entire.

As the two speakers separated, the little gathering drew
nearer to the cottage-door, with new food for speculation
in the granny's utterance, which had, somehow, invested
the subject in a more ominous perplexity than before.

The clergyman passed straight to the chimney, where
the afflicted father sat, among many others, indeed, but
the one of them all. There he was; not even smoking
the accustomed pipe, but with his hands upon his knees
and his chin buried in his breast, looking upon the kitchen
fire. He did not sit despondently and slouchingly, but
upright like a man; and like a man who, having done

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whatever could be done as yet, was waiting to set forth
again and do whatever might be left for man to do. A
crowd of neighbors made their way in after Mr. Wellon.
All rose, except the father, at the sudden entrance of the
Minister; the father did not notice it.

At the sound, however, he immediately turned round;
and a more honest, manly, kind, true face than his, has
seldom met the open air, and the broad sunlight, or fronted
tearing wind, or drenching rain, or driving snow; had
seldom met warm welcome from the wife, as it was seen
through the half-opened door, or beamed complacently
upon the frolic of the children at the hearth;—but it was
clouded now. He took off his weather-worn straw hat, in
rising to receive the Pastor.

“Sarvant, sir; you're very welcome home again,” said
he.

“Why, Skipper George!” said the Minister, “what is
it my good friend? Do tell me!” Then pressing him
silently to a seat, the Minister sat down to listen.

“Ah, sir,” the father said, “I've a-sid heavy misfort'n
sunce the last sun as ever rose. It's my Lucy, sir; you
know'd her sir,”—his voice breaking,—“so well as I
a'most, and oh! how she did love the Minister to be sure!
well, sir, she was sick from short after you laved the
harbor tull this evenun: that's 'isterday evenun, I should
say.”—He sighed as he thus reminded himself of the
time already gone, by which the separation had been so
much widened.—“She was goun through the worse of it,
and we thowt, naterally, that as she didn' get no worse
she would get better, if it was His will, and so the doctor
said, (that's Dr. Aylwin, sir, of Brigus.) So when I turns
out in the marnin 'isterday,—which I doned nearly about
wi' the first sun,—after I'd said my bit of a pr'yer, I says

[figure description] Page 128.[end figure description]

to myself, as a body will, you know, sir, I says, now I
think I'll jes go down to B'y Harbor, mubbe, after I got
through fishing, and get a marsel o' figs,* or sech-like, for
my poor, dear maid; hopin, mayhap, the faver m'y take
a turn, and then they'd help her to goody a bit; and anyhow
I had a two and sixpence that I'd a-kep this many's
the d'y against I may want it, and a body likes to do
summat cheery for a sick darter when he can; so I goes
and I looks upon her, and, to my seemin', she looked jest
as ef it wus an angel a layin' there, that had put on my
gal's look, and her face, and her hair. She looked so
bright somehow,—so oncommon bright, I was a'most
afeared to kiss her; but I did, sir, thank God; I did, sir,
and it seemed in a manner, to bring my darter back; for
she says, very low like, `Father!' she says, `What lovey?'
says I; `Dear father!' says she, and nothin' more; and
I couldn' help it, but I cried much as I'm doin' now, sir;
but I do'no why I'm so long a tellin' it, on'y I'm afeared
to get upon the rest of it. However, I went out and
comed home wi' my few fish, and hurried and got off and
went over to Backside, and got myself put over to Bread
an' Cheese Cove, and so travelled afoot the rest part o'
the w'y, and got the trifle o' things, and came round by
Castle B'y river-head. I s'pose I might be gone a matter
of six hours, most likely; when I got to the top 'o the
hill by the church and sid the house, I s'pose I might 'a
felt it was empty; but I didn't, sir. It seemed, in a
manner, as ef strength blowed out of it, somehow, to me,
I growed so much livelier; and I stowed aw'y my little
parcels in my pockets, thinkin', perhaps, she'd feel in 'em,
pl'ying like, as she'd oose to do, when she feeled herself
better. So I walks up to the door, and lo and behold it

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was open; but I thought nothin' strange and I went in,
and right into the place where I'd aleft her, sir, and she
wasn't there. `Mother!'—says I; but my missis wasn't
there: `Granny!' says I, but she wasn't there; then my
t'other little gal that was sittin' down by the door, tryin'
to tie her shoe, and cryun', said, `Daddy, she's gone aw'y,
Daddy,' she said, `Daddy, she's gone aw'y, Daddy;' and
my heart went once jest as a fish would go, and I never
asked her who she maned, but I sid there was somethun
tarrible strange; and so I sat down on the binch and gave
one great sigh like, that seemed to ase me; and then I
got up and tookt my poor little papers and put them on
the bed, and follyed right out to see ef I could find what
had becomed of her. So we sarched all evenun, and we've
asarched all night; and so—I'm sittun here, as I be
now, sir,—'Twas a bad night for she!—Ah, well! God
knows.”

As he said this the bereaved man sat and wept, openly
and steadily, in silence. Not a motion was made nor
a word said until he wiped his eyes with the back of his
hand, and turned his honest, manly face again, and said:—

“I found my mistress; an' I found Granny Palasher;
an' I sid Miss Dare that was just comun up; I could find
every body; but we never found my dear young maid!
It isn' like we woul', sir. God's will be done, however.
'E'll do what 'E sis best.”

The simple story ended, he turned quietly away from
his hearer, as if there were nothing more for him to say,
and he would listen now.

The Minister came up and took his hand in both his,
and said “Amen!” There was a general motion among
the company, and many repeated the word. The Minister's
voice trembled as he said—

[figure description] Page 130.[end figure description]

“God bless you! Skipper George; we must find her,
or find —” He paused.

The fisherman made that most expressive gesture of
head and hand which is read in all languages, and touches
any class of men, meaning—

“Ah! you needn't say it, sir! I know.”

“Let's see where we are,” said the Minister, and he
turned toward the company, among whom was the constable.
“Mr. Gilpin, you know all about it?” he asked
of this worthy man, who was, also, one of the two smiths
of the place. Charles Gilpin—“Mr. Galpin,” “Mr. Gulpin,”
“Skipper Charlie,” as he was variously called, was
an Englishman, middle sized, with a face dark by nature,
and always wearing a shade of grime from his “forge,”
and slightly pitted by the varioloid. His right eye was
wanting, having been destroyed by an accident in firing a
salute on the king's birthday, in one of his own younger
hours. The remaining orb in that firmament seemed as
much brighter as if the other had been absorbed into it,
and had joined its fires. He was an intelligent, pleasant
looking fellow, with that quick motion of the muscles
about the eye that marks the possession of humor.

“I've done my best at it, sir,” answered the constable,
with modest brevity.

“Who saw Lucy last?”

“I can tell 'ee, sir, ef 'eell plase to let me,” said the
brave old fisherman. “I've got it all by heart, in a
manner. 'Twas Granny Palasher happened to be bidin
wi' her, (for we didn' oose to have reg'lar watchers d'ytimes,
sir, only we never laved her long,) an' so Lucy
waked up and called for a drink, granny says; an' she
didn' want tay, an' she did'n want spruce,* an' she wanted

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a drink from the Harpool—that's it in the hollow under
the bank, t'other side o' the church, you know, sir; an' so
the granny went aw'y to fetch it, never thinkun o' nawthun,
of course, an' nobody's sid a sign of her sunce, only
poor little Janie said she goed round the corner.”

“How long was the granny gone?”

“I can' be exac'ly accountable, sir, how long she was
aw'y; she m'y ha' stopped to pass a word wi' a nighbor,
sartainly, but 'twouldn' be long, it isn' likely.”

“Who lives nearest on the Backside? The Urstons, I
think.”

“Is, sir; Mr. Urston that married my missis's niece.”

“The father of the young man that was going to be a
Romish priest?” asked the Minister.

“'Is, sir; but 'e've knocked off beun' a good while sunce,
and 'e's a good lad,” said the father, shutting off all suspicion
in that quarter.

“How do things stand between your family and their's,
now?” asked the Minister.

“Mr. Urston's wife was my missis's sister, 'ee know,
sir,—that is, half-sister,—and then my missis is a good
bit younger, and was abrought up in England, mostly,
tull she was a woman. 'Twas Mr. Urston an' his son put
me over from Backside to Bread-and-Cheese Cove. I
maned to ax Tummas Turtas,—lives a bit beyond they,—
when they were goun down to waterside, and offers me a
passage, an' I could n' deny 'em. Ah!” he said, coming
back to his great grief, “she's alossed now, that I would n'
loss for all the fish in the sea, and swiles on the ice, and
fruits o' the land! Thank 'ee, kindly, sir; I ax pardon
for bein' so troublesome. 'Ee'll plase to excuse me,
nighbors.” So saying, Skipper George prepared to go
forth again.

[figure description] Page 132.[end figure description]

“It isn' d'ylight, yet; is it?” he asked, putting great
restraint upon himself.

“Light's beginnun to come up over, Uncle George,”
said Prudence Barbury.

Here the memory of the pleasant times and pleasant
words that were gone, or the thought of sadness present
or to come, again overcame him, as also his words and his
condition were more than some of his sturdy neighbors
could bear.

“She was too good for this world,” said one; “an'
that's where she's gone, most like.”

“No, Nahthan, it won't do for 'ee to say that,” said the
father; and then explained. “They manes that God
have tookt her, sir, (blessed be 'E's name!) as 'E tookt
Enoch, in a manner, because o' what Jesse sid; (that's
my nevy, Jesse of Abram,—lives under the brow o' the
hill,—Jesse Hill, we calls un;) I didn' tell 'ee, sir. 'E
was over on the water against Backside, wi' another,
jiggin' for squids,* an' 'e sid somethin' like a maid or a
'oman, all dressed in white, like an angel, goun over
Backside-w'y; and, all of a suddent, she was gone right
aw'y like. 'E couldn' tell ef the groun' was stove, or
parted under her, or how, 'e said; but it seemed to be
gone right aw'y, an' they never sid her come, no more;
and so 'e comed right aw'y home, and told the people 'e
thoft 'e'd asid a spirit; but sure, there's nawthin' in that,
sir; is there? On'y, mubbe, it might be a kind of a
visage,† like, that my poor child would never come
back.”

“There may be a good deal in it,” answered the Minister.

[figure description] Page 133.[end figure description]

The eyes of all were intently fixed on him, and the
father, even, lifted his from the fire.

“I don't think it was any spirit,” continued their Pastor.
“What clothes had Lucy on, most likely?”

“Oh! nawthin', sir, but just as she was in bed. It 'ud
make a strange body cry, a'most, to see 'er poor frock
hangin' up there, and 'er two shoes standin' by the side o'
the bed, an' she aw'y, an' never comun back, most
likely. Many's the time I've alooked at they, sunce, an'
cried; it looks so heartless, like.”

The people about Skipper George were no “strange
bodies;” and some of them could not help doing as he had
done, and as he did.

“Now, sir,” said he, rising to depart, and holding his
weather-worn straw hat in his two honest hands, “I think
'ee knows all.”

“I wouldn't have you go out again, just yet,” said the
Minister. “I'll take my turn, now, and any fresh hands
that I can find.”

“Here's one, then, sir,” exclaimed the constable, starting
to his feet.

“Haven't you been out all night?” asked the Minister.

“Yes, sir, but not all day yet; we've got the day before
us. I can sleep when we've got done.”

“Then I'll be back, God willing, in little more than
half an hour; and, if you please, we'll go as far as we've
any thing to guide us. I want to go over the ground, at
least, if nothing comes of it.”

“I'm sure 'ee woul', sir,” said the father, in a very
kindly way. “It's no use; I can't lay out plans now.
I've got my handès, and something to make 'em work;”
(one might almost see a great, grieving heart heave, as

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he said this.) “I'll bide 'E's will; an' ef I never sis her
walking on this land, I may in a better, ef it's 'E's will.”

As he spoke of not again seeing her, in the body, he
brought up, with the palm outward, his honest, hard hand
whose fingers were bent with long years' toil, and thrust
away some too attractive vision, and, as he said the last
words, brought it down again to its former occupation of
holding the rim of his hat.

He stood still with his grief; and, as Mr. Wellon
pressed his honest, hard hand, he lifted to his Pastor one
of those childlike looks that only come out on the face of
the true man, that has grown, as oaks grow, ring around
ring, adding each after-age to the childhood that has
never been lost, but has been kept innermost. This fisherman
seemed like one of those that plied their trade,
and were the Lord's disciples, at the Sea of Galilee,
eighteen hundred years ago. The very flesh and blood
inclosing such a nature keep a long youth through life.
Witness the genius, (who is only the more thorough man,)
poet, painter, sculptor, finder-out, or whatever; how fresh
and fair such an one looks out from under his old age.
Let him be Christian, too, and he shall look as if—shedding
this outward—the inward being would walk forth a
glorified one.

“Sit here, among your neighbors, Skipper George,”
the Minister said; “I mean to be back shortly.—Another
great grief and mystery in our little harbor!” he added,
as he turned away.

With these words, he left his sorrowing parishioner's
house, and went forth.

p638-142 CHAPTER XV. A NEW MAN.

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AS Mr. Wellon left the room, the attention of the
company was drawn to a new voice, that seemed
almost to have been started mechanically by the
general rising, so suddenly, and without warning, it began,

“Why, she's cleared out 'n one 'f her hot spells, an'
when she'd got light-headed; 's no kind o' doubt o' that
'n my mind,” said the strange voice.

The speaker was an under-sized man, of thirty-eight
or forty years, with well-looking features, and bright, intelligent
eyes. His scanty hair went curling downwards
from a bald spot on the top of his head, for which, also, a
part of the neighboring locks were compelled to furnish a
thin covering. The baldness had been worn rather by
the weight of the months' feet that had gone over it, than
by their number, or had been dried by inward heat of
busy thought; his dress was such as would become a
higher sort of mechanic, or a trader on a modest scale.

The sentence seemed to be delivered forthright into the
middle of a world all full of opinions, and questions, and
determinations, to find itself a place. He looked before
him, but with eyes that seemed to look at the same time
to either side, and his tone had a character of continuance,
as if—having begun—it rested with circumstances
when his ending would be.

[figure description] Page 136.[end figure description]

The company having composed itself, after the Minister's
departure, the new speaker was seated, tilting back
in his chair, with his right ancle resting on his left knee,
and his hat in his lap.

“Wall then,” he continued, “question is, which way d'd
she go? 'F course every body's got to judge f'r 'imself
'n that point, but I guess w' might come p'ty nigh it, 'f w'
were jest t' talk it over a little.”

While saying this the speaker took an opportunity to
glance at each of the remaining speakers of the former
dialogue, and at the rest of the company generally, and
meeting with no let or hindrance, seemed to think that he
had found a place for his opinion, and went on more confidently
than before. He did not look at Skipper George,
at whom he chiefly talked, but looked to the left hand of
him.

The father regarded him with grave earnestness. The
constable, after flashing his eye at Skipper George,
watched, curiously, the new interlocutor; and the other
neighbors listened with different degrees of eagerness.

“'S I understand f'm what's ben said t'-night, 'n 'f'm
what I've heard before I come—('m pooty much t' home
'n Peterport, ben here twelve hours o' daylight, an' 'taint
a large place)—'t's pooty gen'lly und'stood, I guess, 't
this young lady, 'r gal—whatever ye may call her—'Ster
Barbury's daughter, here,” (turning to the fisherman, who
said, “Is, sir, thank'ee, my darter, an' more than darter
for the like of I;”) 's be'n sick 'f a sort 'f a—typhoid
they call 'em 'th us,—same 't they've had down 'n Marchants'
Cove, there, 's ye call it. Wall! I never saw s'
many folks out o' their head 'th that fever 's they is here,
not reg'lar hoppin mad, but out o' kilter 'n the upper
regions, 's th' sayin' is. Wall, now, 'n the hot fit come

[figure description] Page 137.[end figure description]

on, 't 'd make her stronger, an' when her mind 's out o'
the way, ye see, 'twould, likely, make her want t' try an'
do somethin'.”

The interest with which his hearers had been listening
was evidently not flagging.

“It's Mister Banks, the American marchant,” said Patience
Frank, (for she was there,) to a neighbor-woman.

“Wall, then, question comes: what would she do?
Why, 'cordin' to. She wanted a drink o' water, f' one thing;
wall, s'pose she 'as very dry, sh' might go off to git some,
likely. 'F all she wanted was water t' cool her, sh' might
take 't into her head to git into the water; but, then, bein'
crazy don't make a fool 'f a gal, 'f sh' wa'n't one b'fore;
and they wa'n't any thin' lik' that 'bout this young lady.
Then, don't ye see, the' was lots o' folks, by all 'counts, on
the flakes, (ye call 'em,) an' round, an' one of 'em 's her
mother; so she didn't go down that way, whether or no.
Wall, then, again, 'tain't likely she was all thust; she had
some notions b'sides that: (we ain't all flesh and blood, I
guess.) Le's see.”

It was strange to see the unflagging attention of the audience
to this lengthened argument, given, as it was, with
no attractions of oratory, or enforcement of gesture, except
an invariable sticking of the thumb and forefinger of the
right hand into the palm of the left, (much as we have
known a good old Greek professor to practise with his
pencil and a hole in his inkstand.) There was a persistency
and push in the arguer's voice, and an adhesiveness
in his expressions, that carried his reasonings in, and
made them stick. So there was a general assenting in
words, besides silent affirmations and negations of the
head, as he affirmed and denied.

“That's a clear case!” “Surely!” “All so, sir!” and

[figure description] Page 138.[end figure description]

the like, refreshed the speaker much as the parenthetic
“hear” and cheers of the House of Commons, or as the
plaudits of the Athenians gratified Demosthenes.

The constable, as if his cue were only to keep official
eye and ear upon the speaker, let him go on, without
meddling with him, and kept silence. The father heard
Mr. Bangs with steady attention.

“Wall!” continued the reasoner, “then comes question
again; which way? Sis' says right, no doubt. Sh'
went right round the corner o' the house, an' down to—
back part o' the place, here—”

“'Is; Backside, sir, we calls it,” says a neighbor.

“Wall, 't's a good name, no doubt. The's two roads
goin' 'long, up an' down, I believe—”

“'Is, sir,” said one of the neighbors; “there's the
summer w'y and the winter w'y, by Cub's Cove, and
the Cosh, and so into the woods.”

“Fact, I' ben on both of 'em myself,” continued the
speaker. “Then the's a path goin from Skipper George's
(s'pose I ought to call him)—”

“It's a compliment they pays un,” said the constable.

“Don't heed it, sir,” said the stout fisherman; “George
is plenty good enough for I, alw'ys; and, most of all,
now.”

If the kindness that lies in such compliments embellishes
common times, there is no danger of times of sorrow
wanting them. The reasoner resumed, keeping the title
now that he had got it.

“The's a path from Skipper George's right acrost these
two roads, (that is, ye call 'em roads 'n this country) wall,
I guess she kep' the path t'll she got to these two roads,
('f ye call 'em so,) f'r 't's plaguey hard makin tracks outside
of a road, here—(fact, 'tain't al'a's the easiest

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travellin' in 'em, b't that's 'nother question,)—she kep' the
path t'l she got t' these two roads, an' then question is,
which way? She'd take some way certin. I guess ye'll
think we might 's well try t' hear 'em 'lectioneerin' 'r
talkin' politics 'n the moon, 's try t' guess what was in her
mind; but look a' here, now; s'posin' she'd heard o' the
old gentleman's goin down t' Bay Harbor; she might
want to go after him; but then, here's this story o' Jesse
Hill—'f that's his name. He saw her, accordin' to his
story, (f'r, I take it, th'r' ain't 'ny reas'nable doubt b't
'twas the gal he saw,) where she must ha' ben on t'other
path. Now I understand gals sometimes take a notion t'
care f'r other folks b'sides their fathers; 't seems to ha'
ben the way with 'em, by all accounts—f'm Grandm'ther
Eve, 's fur 's I know. I don't say how 'twas in this case,
but she must ha' ben a takin' piece herself, b' all accounts—
an' then, if the' was a k'nd 'f a runnin' idea 'f someb'dy
'n her mind, why, somehow 'r other, she'd be very apt to
folla that idea. She didn't show any sensitive feelins,
did she?”

“I don' rightly understand 'ee, sir,” said the father, “I
ben't a larn'd man 'ee know.”

“Sh' didn't feel 'ny tender 'motions, I s'pose? That
is, she hadn't taken a notion to one more'n another?—
young man I mean, livin' somew'e's round?”

The father answered gravely, but with the same hearty
readiness as before—

“I know a father can't, mubbe, feel proper sure, alw'ys—
to say sure—of his darter's heart; but so fur as a
man can be sartain, I'm sarten sure my Lucy would
never have agrowed to e'er a body, knowunly, athout my
knowun it, as well. There was a neighbor's son, surely—
that's young Mr. Urston we spoke about—mubbe there

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might have somethun' come out o' that; but they'm Romans,
and my poor, dear maid loved her Savior too much
to hear to e'er a Roman. She'll folly her own church,
thank God, while she's livin', or ef she's dead, as is most
like, she'll never change now, to ought else, only better
an' more.”

“No more she woul', Skipper George; that's a clear
case,” said Zebedee Marchant.

“Wall, on'y jest started proposition; 'hope 's no harm
done. Ye think the' wa'n't forbid to keep company; do
ye? Wall; on'y 'f 'twas my gall, (but the' ain't 'ny Miss
Bangs, yet, I guess,—but if 'twas,—) should be willin' t'
bet a fourp'ns hap'ny—('t's a coin ye hain't got 't's equal
to,—wall, 't's a small sum o' money, b't if bettin's t' settle
it, should be willin' to bet)—they know som'th'n 'bout her
'n that family. Ruther think the folks 'n that house,—
(called in there, a minit, an' as'd f'r a drink o' water,
seein' the' was a light burnin; didn't see anythin out o'
th' way, p'tic'lar, but,)—ruther guess, 'f they were put to't,
they've seen or heard of her, one o' th' two. Ye see,
there's that punt, 's ye call it, 't the cap'n the brig, there,
saw 'th th' nuns, or what not, in't; (fact, I saw 'em m'self,—
that is, I saw one great black one, 'n' a couple 'f other
women,”—here there was great sensation among the
hearers,—“w'n I's peekin' round the house, to see what's
goin on;) should like, pleggily, to know what the nuns
were up to, 'th their punt, an' what 'twas they kerried
down—Wall, 'f those folks do know, it's pleggy strange
though! Wh', anybody 't had got the feelin's 'f a man, 'd
go on his hands 'n knees round all outdoors—wall, he'd go
a pooty long chalk, any way—f'r a neighb'r 'n distress.”

“Young Mr. Urston 's a good lad,” said the father;
“an' the family ain't a bad family, ef they be Romans.”

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“Wall, I've said 'bout all I've got t' say, p'ty much.
Ye're welcome to it f' what 't's worth. 'Find th' ain't
goin' to be much to do, 'n the way o' business, t'll they
come back f'm Labrador, 'thout I take to lecturin' a spell,—
(got 'n exhibition o' dissolvin' views; used to charge
one an' six, Yankee money; m't make it a shillin', currency,
here; but)—'f the's anythin' goin' on, while I've
got spare time, here's one man ready.”

“Thank'ee, kindly, sir,” said Skipper George. “I'm
sure, it's very good of 'ee to take so much consarn wi'
strangers.”

“Wall, 'don't feel's though folks ware strangers, when
they're in trouble. B't 't's 'bout time f' me to be trav'llin',
I guess,” concluded Mr. Bangs, who had taken up his
hat, and made a start out of the way of thanks. “Do'no
'xac'ly customs here, ye know;—l'k a fish out o' water,
ye may say. Make my compliments t' th' Parson, 's ye
call him, 'f 't's ruleable, 'n' tell him 'promised t' put up
'th s'm folks 'long down the harbor. Wish ye good-night,
all!”

So saying,—the gathering of neighbors in the room
opening and letting him through,—he went out into the
open air and the morning twilight, and walked away with
short, quick steps, swinging one arm.

“Well!” said the constable, releasing his long attention
in a deep breath, “there's a fellow that'll git under way
without waitun for tide to float un off, any how;” and,
with this remark, the constable, also, went hastily forth.

p638-149 CHAPTER XVI. TRACES OF THE LOST.

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WITHIN the half hour that he had mentioned,
the Minister had got back from his own house,
and the constable joined him near Skipper
George's door. It was a dull, dreary-looking hour of
day, so thick that the Minister and his companion soon
hid themselves “multo nebulæ circum amictu.”*

“Jesse Barbury will join us presently,” said the Minister,
as they crossed the ridge. “I want to follow out his
story, if nothing comes of it, even. We'll keep down the
path, and he can't miss us, though the light is long coming,
this cloudy morning. We can wait a little for him at
the rock, there. I should like to hear something more
about her sickness.”

The earth and its growth were wet, and hung with
drops, but it was not raining now. The early morning
air was chilly and thick, and nothing at a little distance
could be seen. While Gilpin was telling the story of the
maiden's fever, of which the reader knows more than the
constable told, the light of day gradually spread itself; at
first exposing the mist, and afterwards driving it away.

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In the little time that they were standing, a short, sharp
fall of rain came down upon them, and then the clouds
began to break. The light fast opened the whole landscape
of the neighborhood in which the sad and mysterious
event had taken place.

“It's clearing off finely,” said the Minister, with a hopeful
tone of augury.

“Yes, sir,” said the constable, with little sound of the
same feeling in his answer.

“That's a queer chap, that Yankee that was in the
kitchen, sir,” he resumed, after a pause; “and he's got
some pretty 'cute notions, too. He says she's gone off to
the Urstons' house in a fit o' craziness. You know it's
said, sir, there was something between the young people;
however he found it out.”

“Most likely she has gone out in one of those fits,”
said Mr. Wellon; “but Jesse Hill's the point that we're
to begin at, I think; I've sent for Jesse —.”

“And there he's coming now, sir, over the gool'-bushes
yonder. I see his great fur cap, and his great red whiskers
under it, like a forge-fire.”

“We'll find out about this sight of his first, if we can,”
said the Minister. “By the way, we forgot to take the
dog!” added he, suddenly.

“No, sir, he came along. There he is, sir, nosing
about yonder. We've had a dozen of 'em out, and he
too;—Susan brought un.”

“We'll give him another chance to-day,” said his master;
“but this rain isn't much in his favor, or ours
either.”

“Jesse Barbury, or Jesse Hill, came up, conspicuous
for red whiskers and freckles, but looking honestly sad.
“Sarvant, sir!” he said to the Minister, lifting his hat;

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and in a lower and more familiar voice to the constable,
“Hope 'ee're hearty, Mister Gulpin.”

“We're going down the Backside, Jesse. Will you
go along and see if we can make out whereabouts that
white thing was when you saw it?”

“Sartin, sir,” said Jesse Hill, falling into the rear while
they took the path through the bushes, as a boat in tow
might fall astern.

As they were far enough over to have the land going
right down between them and the shore, the Minister,
keeping his eyes toward the water, inquired of Jesse
whereabouts his punt had been the evening before at the
time of the vision.

“Sir!” said Jesse, emphatically, by way of exclamation,
not question, and evidently glad to be opened, “ef
'ee plase to bring yon var (fir) on wi' the road at tother
side, sir, up over, we was about a fourth part o' the w'y
acrost, sir; and Izik Maffen, that was along—”

“And where was the figure when you first saw it?”
asked the Minister, cutting gently off the tail of Jesse
Hill's discourse.

“It comed right out of a big bush, seemunly, sir,—to
my seemun, sir, and Izik Maffen—.”

“Would you know the bush if you could see it?”

“Mubbe I mought, sir. I can' be rightly sure, sir—
to say sure, sir.”

“What color was it, Jesse? Was it yellow, or red?”
asked the constable.

“Wull, Mr. Gulpin, it was dark lookun; I couldn' say
gezacly, but 'twas dark-lookun; and Iz—.”

“That's pretty well, Jesse; you kept all the wits you
had about you, if you did get frightened. Can you see
it from here?”

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