“Not one?”
“Not one! ’Twould break the dear Lard’s heart t’ see un waitin’ there.”
I looked away to the furthest clouds, fast changing, now, from gray to silver; and for a long time I watched them thin and brighten.
“Skipper Tommy,” I asked, at last, “is my mother at the gate?”
“Ay,” said he confidently.
“Waitin’?”
“Ay.”
He gave me an odd look—searching my very soul with his mild old eyes. “Doesn’t you think she is?” he asked.
“I knows it!” I cried.