“I never should stay near enough to a snake to speak to it,” said Mrs. Hallock.
“Nor I,” said Kate, while Frank said,
“I couldn’t keep from killing a snake long enough to speak to it.”
“I suppose boys couldn’t,” said Mrs. Dobson, who, suddenly remembering the poor lad in the next room, arose quickly to go to him.
“There comes Josh this minute with a snake,” she cried, looking toward the garden.
Josh—Mrs. Dobson’s shepherd dog—leaped the stone wall, dragging after him an enormous black snake that he had met and killed. The good fellow towed it along to the door, dropped it, and looked up, wagging his tail, as much as to say, “Praise me, I’ve done well, the very best I knew how.”
Chapter IV.
As soon as Mrs. Dobson had told the story of her runaway trip to the Southington mountains, she peeped into her bedroom to see how her poor little lad was getting on, and found him asleep. Mrs. Hallock, Kate and Frank went out from the back door, that they might not awaken him, and presently Mrs. Dobson saw their carriage roll away. At the same time her eyes rested on a bit of the blue of the sea. She had not been too busy amid all her cares to remember that it was the anniversary of her wedding day. Thirty-seven years ago it was that very morning since she was married and went down to the harbor to see the Snow start on her voyage to the West Indies. The very harbor had filled up since then, so that the Snow could not enter it now even should the unfortunate ship return; but of this, Mrs. Dobson never thought. She was not conscious even that she was looking for the long-lost ship, in which her brave, bright, young husband sailed. She only went up to the window in the garret because she had acquired the habit of going up there in the little pauses she gave to herself in her busiest days. The daisies were whitening the fields along the land; the little island wore a blessed, happy look of rest and peace, amid the twinkle of light and water all about it. The Sound was as blue as the sea is in June. The sand cliffs of Long Island gleamed white across the twenty miles of water.
Beyond the island lay a vessel. A row of poplar trees hid it when first she looked. She gazed at the boat, thinking almost unconsciously to herself as it sailed into full view, “Yes, the Snow would look like that by this time; the sails must be brown and old and torn by the gales, just as this ship’s sails are.” Looking down upon her own hand as it lay across the windowledge, she noticed its wrinkles with sharp and sudden pain. She too, was grown old. Meanwhile the forlorn looking craft was sailing in toward the harbor’s mouth. It was only a coasting vessel laden with coal, coming in to discharge its cargo at the coal dock.