“No, no!”
“’Tis not that. No, no! I knows ’tis not a sin.”
“’Tis a holy thing,” she said, turning, her eyes wide and solemn.
“A holy thing?”
“Ay—holy!”
I chanced to look out of the window. “Ecod!” I cried. “The Wreck Cove skiff is in with Doctor Luke!”
Unfeeling, like all lads—in love with things seen—I ran out.
The doctor came ashore at the wharf in a state of wild elation. He made a rush for me, caught me up, called to the crew of the skiff to come to the house for tea—then shouldered me, against my laughing protest, and started up the path.
“I’m back, safe and sound,” cried he. “Davy, I have been to Wreck Cove and back.”