."

"Women, Skipper Tommy?" said I, puzzled. "An', pray, who is they?"

"Mothers," he answered. "Just mothers."

"What they doin' at the gate? No, no! They're not _there_. Sure, they're
playin' harps at the foot o' the throne."

"No," said he, positively; "they're at the gate."

"What they doin' there?"

"Waitin'."

We were now come to the crest of a hill; and the sea was spread before
us--breaking angrily under the low, black sky.

"What's they waitin' for?" I asked.

"Davy, lad," he answered, impressively, "they're waitin' for them they
bore. _That's_ what they're waitin' for."

"For their sons?"

"Ay; an' for their daughters, too."

While I watched the big seas break on the rocks below--and the clouds
drift up from the edge of the world--I pondered upon this strange
teaching. My mother had never told me of the women waiting at the gate.

"Ah, but," I said, at last, "I'm thinkin' God would never allow it t' go
on. He'd want un all t' sing His praises. Sure, they'd just be wastin'
His time--waitin' there at the gate."

Skipper Tommy shook his head--and smiled, and softly patted my shoulder.

"An' He'd gather un there, at the foot o' the throne," I went on, "an'
tell un t' waste no more, but strike up their golden harps."

"No, no!"

"Why not?"

"They wouldn't go."

"But He'd _make_ un go."

"He couldn't."

"Not _make_ un!" I cried, amazed.

"Look you, lad," he explained, in a sage whisper, "they're all mothers,
an' they'd be _wantin_' t' stay where they was, an', ecod! they'd find a
way."

"Ah, well," I sighed, "'tis wearisome work--this waitin'."

"I'm thinkin' not," he answered, soberly, speaking rather to himself
than to me. "'Tis not wearisome for such as know the good Lard's plan."

"'Tis wonderful hard," said I, "on the mothers o' wicked sons."

The old man smiled. "Who knows," he asked, "that 'tis wonderful hard on
they?"

"But then," I mused, "the Lord would find a way t' comfort the mother o'
such."

"Oh, ay!"

"I'm thinkin', maybe," I went on, "that He'd send an angel t' tell her
they wasn't worth the waitin' for. 'Mind un not,' He'd say. 'They're
nothin' but bad, wicked boys. Leave un go t' hell an' burn.'"

"An', now, what, lad," he inquired with deep interest, "is you thinkin'
the mother would do?"

"She'd take the angel's hand," I sighed.

"Ay?"

"An' go up t' the throne--forgettin' them she'd left."

"An' then?"

"She'd praise the Lard," I sobbed.

"Neve