he deck.

The next evening he was in the streets of the unfriendly Scotch town
that was covered with snow. The green sky of the day of the storm had
fulfilled its prophecy and spilt its burden on the earth. As he passed
on, inquiring his way from one or another, there were few passengers
to enlighten him, and his footsteps fell with a muffled sound on the
causeways. At last he came to where the houses grew thinner, and found
the place he sought, a little cottage not far from the water's edge.

There was a light in the window, but when he had knocked no one came
in answer. He knocked two or three times. Then he lifted the latch
and went in. There was a woman sitting by the fireless grate. Her arms
were round a child on her bosom, and a thin shawl about her shoulders
trailed over the child's face. She did not turn round as he came in,
but he saw it was Mary's figure. He had to speak to her before she
looked up. Then she gave a faint cry and her frozen face relaxed. She
held out the child to him with an imploring gesture: it reminded him
of her running to him with a wound when she had fallen down in her
babyhood. He took the child from her and felt it very heavy. The
mother came to him gently and put her head on his rough coat. 'O
William,' she cried, 'he's dead; my little Willie's dead and cold. It
was at three o'clock the breath went out of him, and no one ever came
since.'

He looked at the child then and saw that he was indeed dead. He put
her back gently in her chair, and laid the child's little body on the
bright patchwork quilt of the bed. He remembered that quilt: it was
part of Mary's bridal gear. Then he came again to the mother and
soothed her, with her bright head against his rough coat.

'Whisht, acushla,' he said, 'sure you're famished. Aisy now, till I
make a bit of fire for you.'

The girl watched him with wide dry eyes of despair. He gathered the
embers on the hearth and set a light to them. He lit a candle and
extinguished the smoking lamp, which had apparently been burning all
day. Then he went here and there gathering the materials for a meal.
The kettle was soon boiling, and he made some tea and forced her to
drink a cup. He was very glad of its warmth himself, for he was weary
with long fasting. Afterwards he sat down beside her and asked for
Jacopo.

'Him,' turning away her head, 'he's wid another woman.' She said no
more, and William asked no more. Instead, he said gently, 'Well,
acushla, yo