r even have seen it!--and the swans and all,--it is a shame."

"No, dear," said old Annemie, eating her last bunch of currants.
"You have said so so often, and you are good and mean it, that I
know. But I could not leave the water. It would kill me. Out of this
window you know I saw my Jeannot's brig go away--away--away--till the
masts were lost in the mists. Going with iron to Norway; the 'Fleur
d'Epine' of this town, a good ship, and a sure, and her mate; and as
proud as might be, and with a little blest Mary in lead round his throat.
She was to be back in port in eight months, bringing timber. Eight
months--that brought Easter time. But she never came. Never, never,
never, you know. I sat here watching them come and go, and my child
sickened and died, and the summer passed, and the autumn, and all the
while I looked--looked--looked; for the brigs are all much alike; and
only her I always saw as soon as she hove in sight (because he tied a
hank of flax to her mizzen-mast); and when he was home safe and
sound I spun the hank into hose for him; that was a fancy of his, and for
eleven voyages, one on another, he had never missed to tie the flax
nor I to spin the hose. But the hank of flax I never saw this time; nor
the brave brig; nor my good man with his sunny blue eyes. Only one day in
winter, when the great blocks of ice were smashing hither and thither, a
coaster came in and brought tidings of how off in the Danish waters they
had come on a water-logged brig, and had boarded her, and had found her
empty, and her hull riven in two, and her crew all drowned and dead
beyond any manner of doubt. And on her stern there was her name painted
white, the 'Fleur d'Epine,' of Brussels, as plain as name could be; and
that was all we ever knew: what evil had struck her, or how they had
perished, nobody ever told. Only the coaster brought that bit of beam
away, with the 'Fleur d'Epine' writ clear upon it. But you see I never
_know_ my man is dead. Any day--who can say?--any one of those ships may
bring him aboard of her, and he may leap out on the wharf there, and come
running up the stairs as he used to do, and cry, in his merry voice,
'Annemie, Annemie, here is more flax to spin, here is more hose to
weave!' For that was always his homeward word; no matter whether he had
had fair weather or foul, he always knotted the flax to his masthead. So
you see, dear, I could not leave here. For what if he came and found me
away? He would s