“And the poor wee body,” she said, speaking more to herself than Sandie, “must come toddlin’ back last nicht after the boat was afloat. ‘O Eppie!’ he said, ‘I maun say good-nicht again.’ Eh, sirs, sirs! little did I think that would be the last time I should haud (hold) him in my arms alive. Oh, wurra! wurra! wurra!”
Sandie’s attempt at giving mental comfort having failed, he addressed himself to the purely physical.
He went and made up the fire, and got the kettle to boil. He even fried some fish and boiled eggs. Then he made strong tea, and laid the breakfast.
“Come, Mrs. Menzies, and eat a little, and drink a cup of tea; it will do you good.”
“Na, na, my bairn; every mouthfu’ would choke me, when he is no here to share it.”
“Mrs. Menzies, you must sit down here and take something, for two reasons—the first is, that you have a deal to do, a deal before you, duties that you will not be able to perform without some bodily strength. Secondly, because I am weak and not over-well, and I can neither eat nor drink unless you do.”
It showed the kindness of this poor woman’s nature, that the last argument was quite convincing, and without a word, she got up and seated herself at the table, and tried to eat and drink, though all the time her tears were silently coursing down her cheeks.
She did not speak much, and Sandie, respecting her grief, made no attempt to force her to do so.
Sandie felt pleased when the door opened, and “a neighbouring woman” came quietly in, to keep Eppie company.
He himself, knowing now that the widow would be well looked after—for those poor fisher-folks are marvellously kind to each other—left the house, and went on down towards the pier. Oh, the sadness of that scene. Oh, the grief and the misery of it. The people, male and female, young and old, formed one dense crowd. The men were silent and sad, the women were weeping and wailing, but the poor children, many of them were simply frantic with grief, and leapt and jumped and danced upon the stones, not knowing what they were doing.