ang the Burdock out of a bump with it; and--" he
hesitated a moment and nodded his head sideways at the limp, lolling
body of his son--"I rang his honor off the mud with it."

The pilot cleared his brow; he simply gave the matter up. "And what
about now?" he asked. "He ain't fit to be trusted with her?"

"No," said Captain Price firmly. "He's going to retire from the sea;
and till he does I'll sail as a passenger. And then I'll take the
Burdock again. She don't care about that old spar of mine, the
Burdock don't."

XV

THE WIDOWER

In the evening they sat together, John Morrison and his mother, with
the curtains drawn, and the clear fire glowing on the red bricks of
the fireplace. The old lady, after her custom, was prone to silence.
Since Hilda's death she had said little, sparing the occasion the
triviality of useless words. That afternoon she had ridden with her
son to the funeral, holding him up with her strength, fortifying him
with her courage. But now that his wife was gone for ever, and the
pleasant house was overcast with its haunting emptiness, it seemed
that her power was gone.

She had a piece of knitting to occupy her fingers, and over it she
watched her son. He had been stunned when Hilda died, bewildered and
uncomprehending; for no young man fully grasps the meaning of death.
Now, as he sat, he seemed to be convincing himself. He had brought
down his dead wife's work-basket and a drawer from her dressing-
table. He sat in a low arm-chair, and had them beside him on the
floor, and fingered deliberately among their contents for definite
things, little landmarks of lost days that stabbed him with their
associations. But what stirred his mother was not the sorrow of his
loss so much as the uncertainty of parted lips and knitted brows that
softened his thin, aquiline face, so strongly in contrast with his
habit of brisk assurance.

She spoke at last. "John, dear, you should go to bed now," she said.
"It's past eleven, my boy; and I'm afraid you'll wear yourself out."

He had a small silver-backed hand-mirror in his hands. He had been
staring into the glass of it for ten minutes. He looked up now and
shook his head. "I couldn't," he answered. "I couldn't, mother.
There's no sleep in me."

"But John----" began the mother again.

"Please don't bother about me," he interrupted. "I couldn't sleep,
really. And I couldn't bear to lie awake--alone." His eyes dropped
toward the mirror again. "You know