, the swish of
breaking seas, the throb and clank of engines, the rain on the
panes--once again breathed the thick, gray air of a cabin where two men
sat at cards--heard the curse and blow and outcry--saw my mother lying
on the pillows, a red geranium in her thin, white hand--heard her sigh
and whisper: felt anew her tender longing.

"You'll _not_ go!" I screamed. "Leave the dog t' die!"

Very gently, the doctor put his arm around me, and gave me to my sister,
who drew me to her heart, whispering soft words in my ear: for I had no
power to resist, having broken into sobs. Then they went out: and upon
this I broke roughly from my sister, and ran to my own room; and I threw
myself on my bed, and there lay in the dark, crying bitterly--not
because the doctor had gone his errand against my will, but because my
mother was dead, and I should never hear her voice again, nor touch her
hand, nor feel her lips against my cheek. And there I lay alone, in
deepest woe, until the doctor came again; and when I heard him on the
stair--and while he drew a chair to my bed and felt about for my
hand--I still sobbed: but no longer hated him, for I had all the time
been thinking of my mother in a better way.

"Davy," he said, gravely, "the man is dead."

"I'm glad!" I cried.

He ignored this. "I find it hard, Davy," said he, after a pause, "not to
resent your displeasure. Did I not know you so well--were I less fond of
the real Davy Roth--I should have you ask my pardon. However, I have not
come up to tell you that; but this: you can, perhaps, with a good heart
hold enmity against a dying man; but the physician, Davy, may not. Do
you understand, Davy?"

"I'm sorry I done what I did, zur," I muttered, contritely. "But I'm
wonderful glad the man's dead."

"For shame!"

"I'm glad!"

He left me in a huff.

"An' I'll _be_ glad," I shouted after him, at the top of my voice, "if I
got t' go 't hell for it!"

'Twas my nature.

* * * * *

Tom Tot returned downcast from Wayfarer's Tickle: having for three days
sought his daughter, whom he could not find; nor was word of her
anywhere to be had. Came, then, the winter--with high winds and snow
and short gray days: sombre and bitter cold. Our folk fled to the tilts
at the Lodge; and we were left alone with the maids and Timmie Lovejoy
in my father's house: but had no idle times, for the doctor would not
hear of it, but kept us at work or play, without reg