“Ay, Miss Bessie,” he replied, slowly. “Wonderful late for me. But I been home talkin’ with my woman,” he went on, “an’ we was thinkin’ it over, an’ she s’posed I’d best be havin’ a little spell with the doctor.”
He was very grave—and sat twirling his cap: lost in anxious thought.
“You’re not sick, Tom?”
“Sick!” he replied, indignantly. “Sure, I’d not trouble the doctor for that! I’m troubled,” he added, quietly, looking at his cap, “along—o’ Mary.”
It seemed hard for him to say.
“She’ve been in service, zur,” he went on, turning to the doctor, “at Wayfarer’s Tickle. An’ I’m fair troubled—along o’ she.”
“She’ve not come?” my sister asked.
For a moment Tom regarded the floor—his gaze fixed upon a protruding knot. “She weren’t aboard, Miss Bessie,” he answered, looking up, “an’ she haven’t sent no word. I been thinkin’ I’d as lief take the skiff an’ go fetch her home.”
“Go the morrow, Tom,” said I.
“I was thinkin’ I would, Davy, by your leave. Not,” he added, hastily, “that I’m afeared she’ve come t’ harm. She’s too scared o’ hell for that. But—I’m troubled. An’ I’m thinkin’ she might—want a chance—home.”