“Out you go!” she cried. “I’m not afeared o’ you!”
I stood aghast while the doctor-woman backed through the door. Never before had I known my gentle sister to flash and flush with angry passion. Nor have I since.
Next morning, my father paid the woman from Wolf Cove a barrel of flour, with which she was ill content, and traded her two barrels more for the horse-chestnut, which my mother wished to keep lying on her breast, because it comforted her. To Skipper Tommy Lovejoy fell the lot of taking the woman back in the punt; for, as my father said, ’twas he that brought her safely, and, surely, the one who could manage that could be trusted to get her back without accident.
“An’ ’tis parlous work, lad,” said the skipper, with an anxious shrug, while we waited on the wharf for the woman to come. “I’m very much afeared. Ay,” he added, frowning, “I is that!”
“I’m not knowin’ why,” said I, “for the wind’s blowin’ fair from the sou’west, an’ you’ll have a fine time t’ Wolf Cove.”
“’Tis not that,” said he, quietly. “Hist!” jerking his head towards our house, where the woman yet was. “’Tis she!”
“I’d not be afeared o’ she,” said I. “’Twas but last night,” I added, proudly, “my sister gave her her tea in a mug.”
“Oh, ay,” said he, “I heared tell o’ that. But ’tis not t’ the point. Davy, lad,” in an undertone which betrayed great agitation, “she’ve her cap set for a man, an’ she’s desperate.”
“Ay?” said I.