s comfort, Davy," she whispered, quickly. "'Twould be
a kind thing t' do."

"Is you sure he's wantin' me?"

"Were it me I would."

When I had got to the doctor's door again, I hesitated, as before,
fearing to go in; and once more I withdrew to my sister's room.

"I'm not able t' go in," I faltered. "'Tis awful, Bessie, t' hear men
goin' on--like that."

"Like what?"

"Cryin'."

A little while longer I sat silent with my sister--until, indeed, the
restless footfalls ceased, and the blessed quiet of night fell once
again.

"An', Bessie," said I, "he said a queer thing."

She glanced a question.

"He said your name!"

She was much interested--but hopelessly puzzled. For a moment she gazed
intently at the stars. Then she sighed.

"He've a great grief," I repeated, sighing, "an' he've been wicked."

"Oh, no--not wicked!"

"Ay," I persisted, gently, "wicked; for he've told me so with his own
tongue."

"Not wicked!"

"But he've _said_ so," I insisted, nettled, on the instant, by my
sister's perversity.

"I'm thinkin' he couldn't be," she said.

"Sure, why not?" I demanded.

She looked away for a moment--through the window, into the far, starlit
sky, which the light of the moon was fast paling; and I thought my
question forgot.

"Why not, sister?"

"I--don't know--why not!" she whispered.

* * * * *

I kissed my sister good-night, while yet she puzzled over this, and
slipped off to my own room, lifting my night-dress, as I tiptoed along,
lest I trip and by some clumsy commotion awake my friend to his
bitterness. Once back in my bed--once again lying alone in the tranquil
night--I found the stars still peeping in at my window, still twinkling
companionably, as I had left them. And I thought, as my mother had
taught me, of these little watchmen, serene, constant, wise in their
great remoteness--and of him who lay in unquiet sleep near by--and,
then, understanding nothing of the mystery, nor caring to know, but now
secure in the unquestioning faith of childhood, I closed my eyes to
sleep: for the stars still shone on, flashing each its little message of
serenity to the troubled world.

XV

THE WOLF

In course of time, the mail-boat cleared our harbour of wrecked folk;
and within three weeks of that day my father was cast away on Ill Wind
Head: being alone on the way to Preaching Cove with the skiff, at the
moment, for fish to fill out the bulk of our fir