“She’d take the angel’s hand,” I sighed.
“Ay?”
“An’ go up t’ the throne—forgettin’ them she’d left.”
“An’ then?”
“She’d praise the Lard,” I sobbed.
“Never!” the skipper cried.
I looked hopefully in his face.
“Never!” he repeated. “‘Lard,’ she’d say, ‘I loves un all the more for their sins. Leave me wait—oh, leave me wait—here at the gate. Maybe—sometime—they’ll come!’”
“But some,” said I, in awe, “would wait forever—an’ ever—an’ ever——”
“Not one!”