“The Lard,” he said, “give me work. Blessed be the name o’ the Lard!”
All the world was waking.
“The Lard give me pain. Blessed be the name o’ the Lard!”
And a breeze came with the dawn—a rising breeze, rippling the purple sea.
“The Lard give me love,” he continued, turning tenderly to the stalwart twins. “Blessed be the name o’ the Lard!”
The wind swept calling by—blue winds, fair winds to the north: calling at the window, all the while.
“The Lard showed Himself t’ me. Oh, ay, that He did,” he added, with a return to his old manner. “‘Skipper Tommy,’ says the Lard,” he whispered, “‘Skipper Tommy,’ says He, ‘leave you an’ Me,’ says He, ‘be friends. You’ll never regret it, b‘y,’ says He, ‘an you make friends with Me.’ Blessed,” he said, his last, low voice tremulous with deep gratitude, “oh, blessed be the name o’ the Lard!”
The wind called again—blithely called: crying at the window. In all the harbours of our coast, ’twas time to put to sea.
“I wisht,” the skipper sighed, “that I’d been—a bit—wickeder. The wicked,” he took pains to explain, “knows the dear Lard’s love. An’, somehow, I isn’t feelin’ it as I should. An’ I wisht—I’d sinned—a wee bit—more.”
Still the wind called to him.