n, humbly curtsying
to the men, who now jammed up the doorway.

"It's a cussed shame, Venners," said Joe, when she was out. "Why can't
yer humor the old gran a bit? She's the chicken-heartedest woman ever I
knowed," explanatory to Miss Defourchet, "an' these ten years she's been
mad-like, waitin' for that hang-dog son of hers to come back."

Mary followed her out on the stoop, where she stood, her ragged green
umbrella up, her sharp little face turned anxiously to the far sea-line.

"Bad! bad!" she muttered, looking at Mary.

"The storm? Yes. But you ought not to be out in such weather," kindly,
putting her furred hand on the skinny arm.

The woman smiled,--a sweet, good-humored smile it was, in spite of her
meagre, hungry old face.

"Why, look there, young woman,"--pulling up her sleeve, and showing the
knotted tendons and thick muscles of her arm. "I'm pretty tough, thee
sees. There's not a boatman in Ocean County could pull an oar with me
when I was a gell, an' I'm tough yet,"--hooking her sleeve again.

The smile haunted Miss Defourchet; where had she seen it before?

"Was Derrick strongly built?"--idly wishing to recall it.

"Thee's a stranger; maybe thee has met my boy?"--turning on her sharply.
"No, that's silly,"--the sad vagueness coming back into the faded eyes.
After a pause,--"Derrick, thee said? He was short, the lad was,--but
with legs and arms as tender and supple as a wild-cat's. I loss much of
my strength when he was born; it was wonderful, for a woman, before; I
giv it to him. I'm glad of that! I thank God that I giv it to him!"--her
voice sinking, and growing wilder and faster. "Why! why!"

Mary took her hand, half-scared, looking in at the store-door, wishing
Doctor Dennis would come.

The old woman tottered and sat down on the lower rung of a ladder
standing there. Mary could see now how the long sickness of the hope
deferred had touched the poor creature's brain, gentle and loving at
first. She pushed the wet yellow sun-bonnet back from the gray hair; she
thought she had never seen such unutterable pathos or tragedy as in this
little cramped figure, and this old face, turned forever watching to the
sea.

"Thee doesn't know; how should thee?"--gently, but not looking at her.
"Thee never had a son; an' when thee has, it will be born in wedlock.
Thee's rich, an' well taught. I was jess a clam-fisher, an' knowed
nothin' but my baby. His father was a gentleman: come in spring, an'
gone in