u'll be putting together the few things you'll take with
you. There's a cattle boat going at six in the mornin', an' we can get
a passage by that.'

She looked up at him. 'But the child?' she said.

'He'll go wid us,' the man replied. 'He'll sleep sweeter on the Island
than in this sorrowful town.'

'May God reward you, William,' she said. 'You're savin' more than you
know. For if he'd come back I wouldn't answer for it that I wouldn't
have kilt him as he slep'.'

The morning rose green and livid, with a sky full of snow though the
world was covered with it. Now and again the snow drifted in their
faces as they trudged through the streets before daybreak, and it came
dryly pattering when they were out on the waste of green waters
cleaving their way under the melancholy daylight. William had found a
corner for the woman under shelter of the bridge, and there she sat
through the hours with the dead child wrapped in her shawl, and the
cold of it aching at her heart. The snow came on faster, and the deck
passengers huddled in for shelter. 'God save you, honest woman,' said
a ruddy-faced wife to her. 'Give me the child, and move yourself
about a bit. You'll be fair frozen before we're half way across.' Mary
shook her head with a gesture that somehow disarmed the kind woman's
wrath at the rejection of her overtures. 'That crature looks to me,'
she said to her husband, 'fair dazed wid the sorrow. Maybe it's the
husband of her the crature's after buryin'.' There were a great many
curious glances at Mary in her corner, but no one else had the
temerity to offer her help.

William brought her a cup of tea at mid-day, which she drank eagerly,
still holding the child with one arm, but she pushed away the food he
offered with loathing.

In the evening they disembarked, and from a pier swept by the north
wind were huddled into a train, ill lit and cold as the grave. Mary
crouched into a corner with her face bent over the dead child. 'A
quiet sleeper, ma'am,' said a cheerful sea-faring man. Mary looked at
him with lack-lustre eyes and turned away her head.

Presently she began to sing, a quaint old Island lullaby, which rang
weird and melancholy. William looked at her in alarm, but said
nothing, and the other passengers watched her curiously, half in fear.
She lifted her child from her knee to her breast, and held it there
clasped a moment. 'I can't warm him,' she said, looking helplessly at
all the wondering faces. 'The cold'