e_!"

All of which, as you know, was quite characteristic of Skipper Tommy
Lovejoy.

XIV

In The WATCHES of The NIGHT

At once we established the doctor in our house, that he might be more
comfortably disposed; and this was by my sister's wish, who hoped to be
his helper in the sweet labour of healing. And soon a strange thing
happened: once in the night--'twas late of a clear, still night--I
awoke, of no reason; nor could I fall asleep again, but lay high on the
pillow, watching the stars, which peeped in at my window, companionably
winking. Then I heard the fall of feet in the house--a restless pacing:
which brought me out of bed, in a twinkling, and took me tiptoeing to
the doctor's room, whence the unusual sound. But first I listened at the
door; and when I had done that, I dared not enter, because of what I
heard, but, crouching in the darkness, must continue to listen ... and
listen....

* * * * *

By and by I crept away to my sister's room, unable longer to bear the
awe and sorrow in my heart.

"Bessie!" I called, in a low whisper.

"Ay, Davy?"

"Is you awake?"

"Ay, I'm wakeful."

I closed the door after me--then went swiftly to her bedside, treading
with great caution.

"Listenin'?" I asked.

"T' the doctor," she answered, "walkin' the floor."

"Is you afraid?" I whispered.

"No."

"I is."

She sat up in bed--and drew me closer. "An' why, dear?" she asked,
stroking my cheek.

"Along o' what I heared in the dark, Bessie--at his door."

"You've not been eavesdroppin', Davy?" she chided.

"Oh, I wisht I hadn't!"

"'Twas not well done."

The moon was up, broadly shining behind the Watchman: my sister's white
little room--kept sweet and dainty in the way she had--was full of soft
gray light; and I saw that her eyes were wide and moist.

"He's wonderful restless, the night," she mused.

"He've a great grief."

"A grief? Oh, Davy!"

"Ay, a great, great grief! He've been talkin' to hisself, Bessie. But
'tis not words; 'tis mostly only sounds."

"Naught else?"

"Oh, ay! He've said----"

"Hush!" she interrupted. "'Tis not right for me t' know. I would not
have you tell----"

I would not be stopped. "He've said, Bessie," I continued, catching
something, it may be, of his agony, "he've said, 'I pay! Oh, God, I
pay!' he've said. 'Merciful Christ, hear me--oh, I pay!'"

She trembled.

"'Tis some great grief," said I.

"Do you haste to hi