The trio stood together at the foot of the bed on which Mr. Fogo tossed and chattered. Peter and Paul looked from the sick man to their hats, and back again in silence. At length the elder Twin spoke—
"I' the matter o' behavin' rum, some folks does it wi' cause an' others not so. But I reckons ef you allows as there's likely a cause, you'm 'pon the safe side—'speshully wi' Mr. Fogo. Wherefore, Caleb, what's the meanin' o' this here?"
"Tamsin!"
The answer came so pat from the sick man's lips that Peter fairly jumped. Caleb looked up with finger on lip and a curious smile on his weather-tanned face.
"Don't leave me! Look! There are devils around me—cold white devils—devils with blank faces—no features, only flesh. Look! Sunday, Monday, Tuesday—every day with a devil, every day in the year—look, look!"
"Pore soul!" whispered Paul; "an' 'tes Leap Year, too, which makes wan extry."
"Don't leave me, Tamsin—don't leave me!"
The sick man's voice rose to a scream. Caleb bent forward and tried to soothe him. The mahogany faces of the Twins were blanched. They whispered apart—
"You was right, Peter."
"Aye, more's the pity. I thought the lass misliked 'un—the bigger fool I. 'Twas on'y yestiddy I guessed more was troublin' her than her soiled gown, an' tax'd her wi' et. We used to pride oursel' on knawin' her wants afore her spoke—an' now—"