“No.”
“Jim he ’lowed two year ago it ought t’ be done. You couldn’t do it nohow?”
The doctor shook his head.
“Couldn’t make a shift at it?”
“No.”
“Anyhow,” she sighed, rising to go, “I ’low Jim won’t mind now. He’s dead.”
Within three weeks the mail-boat touched our harbour for the last time that season: being then southbound into winter quarters at St. John’s. It chanced in the night—a clear time, starlit, but windy, with a high sea running beyond the harbour rocks. She came in by way of North Tickle, lay for a time in the quiet water off our wharf, and made the open through the Gate. From our platform we watched the shadowy bulk and warm lights slip behind Frothy Point and the shoulder of the Watchman—hearkened for the last blast of the whistle, which came back with the wind when the ship ran into the great swell of the sea. Then—at once mustering all our cheerfulness—we turned to our own concerns: wherein we soon forgot that there was any world but ours, and were content with it.
Tom Tot came in.
“’Tis late for you, Tom,” said my sister, in surprise.