Gwen gave him her hand. "Please," she said. She could not bear the thought of being parted from him for long, when there was Ora whom death had parted from her lover.
"She's at Almiry's," said Cap'n Ben, as he strode by the girl's side. "I cal'late we'll have to give her up to Almiry now, and I guess it's right she should go. Almiry's had a pretty hard time of it, working for the boy, and now her and Ora can help each other. Almiry'd pine away left to herself. It's a good thing her boarders have most all gone. She won't have much sperrit to look after 'em. Last one'll leave to-morrow. I guess she won't bother with 'em next year."
There was a feeling of fall in the air. The White Mountains stood out blue and distinct, the sea was almost indigo-hued, save where a golden path of sunlight spread across it, and where white-rimmed breakers chased each other shoreward. Everything was clean-cut and intense in color. The houses showed sharply against their background of sea, the tops of the sombre firs were outlined against the unclouded sky, the rocks showed purply-gray. The apples on Cap'n Ben's stunted little trees were slowly reddening. Only a few flowers flaunted themselves still in the gardens, dahlias, asters and sweet peas held their own, while against the gray shingles of some deserted cottages a tangle of nasturtiums displayed glowing blooms of flame-color and orange.
But bright though the day, there was a subdued air about the island. Those Gwen and Cap'n Ben met nodded gravely. There was a troubled look upon the women's faces, as though they feared a remorseless answer to the often recurring question, Who next?
In the sitting-room of Almira Green's low white cottage they found Ora at Almira's feet, her head resting in the lap of the elder woman. She did not rise as Gwen came in, and the girl, throbbing with her own new joy, knelt down by the other, put her arms around her and laid her cheek against Ora's, wet with her womanhood's first tears. There were no words to say. Comfort was too distant a thing to be looked for now; the phantom of a lost happiness hovered mockingly near, a happiness that found the sorrowing girl but a little maid, and left her a weeping wife. Almira sat, dry-eyed, her toil-worn hand fingering Ora's fair hair. "She's most worn out with crying," she said to Gwen. "It's come sooner to her than to most."
The tears sprang to Gwen's eyes. She hated the sea for the moment, that sea in which she had gloried every day during these holiday weeks. She did not wonder that fisher people did not love it, that it seemed to them a cruel thing upon which they were glad to turn their backs. "I wish there were something I could do or say," she murmured as she rose to her feet and stood looking down at Almira.
Presently Ora lifted her heavy head. "If we only had a picture of him, but we haven't. He meant to have some taken, but we spent the money that time in Portland, and he promised as soon as he came back he'd go right to the photographer's. We were going together." She dropped her head again and burst into a fresh paroxysm of weeping.
Some one knocked at the door, and Gwen turned. "Shall I go, Mrs. Green?" she asked.
Almira nodded, and Gwen went through the silent house and opened the front door. Kenneth stood there. "Oh," said Gwen, "did you come for me?"
He stepped inside. "I have brought a little study of Manny that I made one day down at the cove. It is only a quick sketch, but I think it looks rather like him, and maybe they would like to have it."