She drew a chair to the cot and took one of the gardener's wasted, gnarled hands in hers.
"I did not hear of your sickness till three days ago, and I came at once, to see if I could not make you more comfortable while Mrs. Orr is away."
"It makes no difference about my worn-out old body—that is a crippled hulk. My mind is in torment because of the lad's danger. Where is he now? In the ice on land, or locked up in the ship of the ungodly name, that can never break loose from the bergs leaning over her? Tell me, was your news later than my letter?"
He dragged from his bosom two worn, soiled envelopes and held them towards her. One was postmarked St. John, N. B., the other Dundee, Scotland. As she opened them a bunch of yellow poppies and a little square of moss fell into her lap. She glanced at the dates. The oldest was from Upernavik, soon after the vessel reached Greenland; the most recent was from off Cape Alexander, where the "Ahvungah" was frozen in.
"No, Amos, your news is the latest I have heard."
Her voice quivered, and replacing the flowers in an envelope, she laid the unread letters on the cot.
"Was your last letter from him the same date as mine?"
"No; it was earlier."
The cold, light-grey eyes in their deep, sunken sockets probed hers like steel.
"Madam, it was your fault he went away."