“Oh, then he's all right. I was afraid 'twas one o' his flighty spells, an' Mari' Harris wouldn't”—
“Yes,” I returned, smiling, “he has been telling me some old stories, but we talked about Mrs. Begg and the funeral beside, and Paradise Lost.”
“I expect he got tellin' of you some o' his great narratives,” she answered, looking at me shrewdly. “Funerals always sets him goin'. Some o' them tales hangs together toler'ble well,” she added, with a sharper look than before. “An' he's been a great reader all his seafarin' days. Some thinks he overdid, and affected his head, but for a man o' his years he's amazin' now when he's at his best. Oh, he used to be a beautiful man!”
We were standing where there was a fine view of the harbor and its long stretches of shore all covered by the great army of the pointed firs, darkly cloaked and standing as if they waited to embark. As we looked far seaward among the outer islands, the trees seemed to march seaward still, going steadily over the heights and down to the water's edge.
It had been growing gray and cloudy, like the first evening of autumn, and a shadow had fallen on the darkening shore. Suddenly, as we looked, a gleam of golden sunshine struck the outer islands, and one of them shone out clear in the light, and revealed itself in a compelling way to our eyes. Mrs. Todd was looking off across the bay with a face full of affection and interest. The sunburst upon that outermost island made it seem like a sudden revelation of the world beyond this which some believe to be so near.
“That's where mother lives,” said Mrs. Todd. “Can't we see it plain? I was brought up out there on Green Island. I know every rock an' bush on it.”
“Your mother!” I exclaimed, with great interest.
“Yes, dear, cert'in; I've got her yet, old's I be. She's one of them spry, light-footed little women; always was, an' light-hearted, too,” answered Mrs. Todd, with satisfaction. “She's seen all the trouble folks can see, without it's her last sickness; an' she's got a word of courage for everybody. Life ain't spoilt her a mite. She's eighty-six an' I'm sixty-seven, and I've seen the time I've felt a good sight the oldest. 'Land sakes alive!' says she, last time I was out to see her. 'How you do lurch about steppin' into a bo't?' I laughed so I liked to have gone right over into the water; an' we pushed off, an' left her laughin' there on the shore.”
The light had faded as we watched. Mrs. Todd had mounted a gray rock, and stood there grand and architectural, like a caryatide. Presently she stepped down, and we continued our way homeward.
“You an' me, we'll take a bo't an' go out some day and see mother,” she promised me. “'Twould please her very much, an' there's one or two sca'ce herbs grows better on the island than anywhere else. I ain't seen their like nowheres here on the main.”