ir hands, that
they sent her up here to the village for sea air, and to be red of her,
I guess. 'Tany rate, there she was in one of them crowded, dirty old
houses, and so--I jest brought her over here. To tell the truth,
gentlemen--the real bottom of it--my baby died last year--and--and Miss
Luke she was so good I'll never forget it. I ain't a Catholic--fur from
it; I hate 'em. But she seen us coming up from the boat with our little
coffin, and she came out and brought flowers to lay on it, and followed
to the grave, feeble as she was; and she even put in her little black
shawl, because the sand was wet--this miserable half-afloat land, you
know--and I couldn't bear to see the coffin set down into it. And I said
to myself then that I'd never hate a Catholic again, gentlemen. I don't
love 'em yet, and don't know as I ever shell; but Miss Luke, she's
different. Consumption? Well, I hardly know. She's a sight better than
she was when she come. I'd like to make her well again, and, someway, I
can't help a-trying to, for I was a nurse by trade once. But then what's
the use? She'll only hev to go back to that old convent!" And Melvyna
clashed her pans together in her vexation. "Is she a good Catholic, do
you say? Heavens and earth, yes! She's _that_ religious--my! I couldn't
begin to tell! She believes every word of all that rubbish those old
nuns have told her. She thinks it's beautiful to be the bride of heaven;
and, as far as that goes, I don't know but she's right: 'tain't much the
other kind is wuth," pursued Melvyna, with fine contempt for mankind in
general. "As to freedom, they've as good as shoved her off their hands,
haven't they? And I guess I can do as I like any way on my own island.
There wasn't any man about their old convent, as I can learn, and so
Miss Luke, she hain't been taught to run away from 'em like most nuns.
Of course, if they knew, they would be sending over here after her; but
they don't know, and them priests in the village are too fat and lazy to
earn their salt, let alone caring what has become of her. I guess, if
they think of her at all, they think that she died, and that they buried
her in their crowded, sunken old graveyard. They're so slow and sleepy
that they forget half the time who they're burying! But Miss Luke, she
ought to go out in the air, and she is so afraid of everything that it
don't do her no good to go alone. I haven't got the time to go; and so,
if you will let her walk along t