"He's brave, sis'," Basile went on, "and he's clean, and he's square, mother, boys. You were on the Quakeress when she burned, wa'n't you? Ah, me!—wish I'd known you then. I'd be a different man now. I don't believe I'd be dying. My heavenly Father wouldn't 'a' had to call me in out of the storm."
His mother sank to her knees against the berth's side, covered her face, and shook with grief. The daughter sank too, weepingly caressing her, yet was still able so to divide her thought as yearningly to wish Hugh, for his own sake, well away, as she saw his hand softly endeavor to draw free from Basile's. But it was on that instant that the great tree root came thundering up through the wheel-house and the dying clasp tightened. The shock of surprise revived him. "Hugh—do something for me?... Thank you. Bishop's gone, you know. Read my burial service. I don't want the—play-actor—though he's fine; nor the priest, though he's fine, too. Mom-a'd be a saint in any—persuasion, and pop and us boys are Methodists, if anything, and I—I didn't get religion in Latin and I don't want to be buried in it." He waited. Hugh was silent.
The Creole mother, still kneeling, drew closer. "Yass," she said, "he shall read that."
But plainly there was one thing more though the tired eyelids sank. "Let down your ear," murmured the lips.
Hugh knelt, bent, waited. The distressed twins watched them. The hold on his hand relaxed. He lifted and looked.
"What do he say?" tearfully asked old Joy, pressing in.
"Nothing," said Hugh; and then to the twins: "He's gone."
Out in the benign starlight and caressing breeze Hugh hastened to his father's door.