I tiptoed up the stair, and to the bed where my mother lay, and, very softly, I laid my cheek against her lips.
“My sister sent me, mum,” I whispered.
“Yes,” she sighed. “I’m—just wanting you.”
Her arm, languid and light, stole round my waist.
IX
A WRECK on The THIRTY DEVILS
Fog—thick, stifling, clammy! A vast bank of it lay stranded on the rocks of our coast: muffling voices, making men gasp. In a murky cloud it pressed against my mother’s windows. Wharves, cottages, harbour water, great hills beyond—the whole world—had vanished. There was nothing left but a patch of smoking rock beneath. It had come—a grey cloud, drifting low and languidly—with a lazy draught of wind from the east, which had dragged it upon the coast, spread it broadcast and expired of the effort to carry it into the wilderness.
“Wonderful thick, b’y!” was the salutation for the day.