"Some of the women laughed. An' this—somehow—moved Mary Mull t' vanish from that place.
"Well, now, Polly Twitter had worked her mischief. Mary Mull was never the same after that. She took t' the house. No church no more—no walkin' the roads. She was never seed abroad. An' she took t' tears an' broodin'. No ripple o' smiles no more—no song in the kitchen. She went downcast about the work o' the house, an' she sot overmuch alone in the twilight—an' she sighed too often—an' she looked too much at t' sea—an' she kep' silent too long—an' she cried too much in the night. She'd have nothin' t' do with children no more; nor would she let Tim Mull so much as lay a hand on the head of a youngster. Afore this, she'd never fretted for a child at all; she'd gone her way content in the world. But now—with Polly Twitter's vaunt forever in her ears—an' haunted by Tim Mull's wish for a child of his own—an' with the laughter o' the old women t' blister her pride—she was like t' lose her reason. An' the more it went on, the worse it got: for the folk o' the Tickle knowed very well that she'd give way t' envy an' anger, grievin' for what she couldn't have; an' she knowed that they knowed an' that they gossiped—an' this was like oil on a fire.
"'Tim,' says she, one night, that winter, 'will you listen t' me? Thinkin' things over, dear, I've chanced on a clever thing t' do. 'Tis queer, though.'
"'I'll not mind how queer, Mary.'
"She snuggled close to un, then, an' smiled. 'I wants t' go 'way from Tinkle Tickle,' says she.
"'Away from Tinkle Tickle?'
"'Don't say you'll not!'
"'Why, Mary, I was born here!'
"'I got t' go 'way.'
"'Wherefore?' says he. ''Tis good fishin' an' a friendly harbor.'