“That is not good. But it is more the sharp winds, and the night watching, and the shine of the sea in the day.”
“I must live with you. I will watch for you, night and day. You think I cannot. You think I shall tire. Why, you are not weary of it.”
“Oh, no! I shall never be weary of it.”
“Much less should I. You want only to keep up your lamp. I want to get away. All the interests of my life lie beyond this sea; and do you think I shall tire of watching for the opportunity?—I will watch through this very night. You shall go to bed, and sleep securely, and I will keep your lamp. And to-morrow we will arrange something. Why should I not have a room,—a cottage built at the end of yours? I will.”
“If you could find anyone to build it,” suggested the widow.
“Somebody built Macdonald’s, I suppose. And yours.”
“Macdonald’s is very old;—built, it is thought, at the same time with the chapel, which has been in ruins these hundred years. My husband built ours,—with me to help him; and also his brother, who died before it was finished.”
“Where is your son?” inquired the lady. “If he will undertake to work for me, I will get it done. Where is your son? And what is his business?”
“I do not know exactly where he is.”
“Well, but is he on the island?”