thern Labrador coast, now
running into the fjords to visit the scattered settlers, now on the
outside among the many fishing craft which were plying their calling
on the banks that fringe the islands and outermost points of land.
Fishermen from hundreds of vessels visited us for sickness, for books,
for a thousand different reasons; but never a sight of the Water Lily
did we see, and never a word did we hear of either Joe or Nancy the
whole season through. True, in the number of other claims on our
attention, it was not often that their fortunes came to one's mind.
But now and again we asked about the schooner, and always got the same
negative reply, "Reckon she 've got a load and gone south." This was a
view which we were only too glad to adopt, as it meant the best
possible luck for our friends.

Now November had come round once more. The main fleet of vessels had
long ago passed south. It was so long since we had seen even one of
the belated craft which "bring up the heel of the Labrador" that we
had closed up the summer stations, and were paying our last visits to
our colleagues at the southern hospital, who were to remain through
the winter.

It was therefore no small surprise when Jake Low, from the village,
who had been up spying from the lookout on the hill, came into the
hospital and announced that a large schooner with a flag flying in her
rigging was beating up to the harbour mouth from sea. "She's making
good ground and is well fished," he added. "What's more, I guess from
t' course she's shaping they know the way in all right. So it must be
a doctor they wants, and not a pilot at this time of year."

The news proved interesting enough to lure us up to the hilltop with
the telescope, where in a short while we were enjoying the wonderful
spectacle of watching a crew of the vikings of our day force their way
through a winding narrow passage in a large vessel against a heavy
winter head wind.

The tide, too, was running out against her, and now and then a flaw of
wind or a back eddy, caused by the cliffs on either side, would upset
the helmsman's calculations. Yet with superb coolness he would drive
her, till to us watchers, lying stretched out on the ground overhead,
it seemed that her forefoot must surely be over the submerged
cliff-side. Certainly the white surf from the rocks washed her
cutwater before the skipper who was "scunning" or directing, perched
on the fore cross-tree, would sing out the "Read