“And labour.”
“An’ labour?”
“And the Gospel according to Tommy.”
“Sure,” I asked, puzzled, “what’s that?”
“Faith,” he answered.
“’Tis queer!” I mused.
“Just faith,” he repeated. “Just faith in the loving-kindness of the dear God. Just faith—with small regard for creeds and forms.”
This he said with a holy twinkle.
But that was long ago. Since then I have been to the colleges and hospitals of the South, and have come back, here, in great joy, to live my life, serving the brave, kind folk, who are mine own people, heartily loved by me: glad that I am Labrador born and bred—proud of the brave blood in my great body, of the stout purpose in my heart: of which (because of pity for all inlanders and the folk of the South) I may not with propriety boast. Doctor Davy, they call me, now. But I have not gone lacking. I am not without realization of my largest hope. The decks are often wet—wet and white. They heave underfoot—and are wet and white—while the winds come rushing from the gray horizon. Ah, I love the sea—the sweet, wild sea: loveliest in her adorable rage, like a woman!... And my father’s house is now enlarged, and is an hospital; and the doctor’s sloop is now grown to a schooner, in which he goes about, as always, doing good.... And my sister waits for me to come in from the sea, in pretty fear that I may not come back; and I am glad that she waits, sitting in my mother’s place, as my mother used to do.