Doctor Luke of the Labrador. Duncan Norman

      “Is we right, doctor,” said Skipper Tommy, “in thinkin’ you knows she lies desperate sick?”

      “Damme!” cried the doctor. “I’ve heard that tale before. You’re a pretty set, you are, to try to play on a man’s feelings like that. But you can’t take me in. No, you can’t,” he repeated, his loose under-lip trembling. “You’re a pretty set, you are. But you can’t come it over me. Don’t you go blustering, now! You can’t come your bluster on me. Understand? You try any bluster on me, and, by heaven! I’ll let every man of your harbour die in his tracks. I’m the doctor, here, I want you to know. And I’ll not go ashore in weather like this.”

      My father deliberately turned to wave Skipper Tommy and me out of the way: then laid a heavy hand on the doctor’s shoulder.

      “You’ll not come?”

      “Damned if I will!”

      “By God!” roared my father. “I’ll take you!”

      At once, the doctor sought to evade my father’s grasp, but could not, and, being unwise, struck him on the breast. My father felled him. The man lay in a flabby heap under the table, roaring lustily that he was being murdered; but so little sympathy did his plight extract, that, on the contrary, every man within happy reach, save Jagger and Skipper Tommy, gave him a hearty kick, taking no pains, it appeared, to choose the spot with mercy. As for Jagger, he had snatched up his whip, and was now raining blows on the muzzle of the dog, which had taken advantage of the uproar to fly at his legs. In this confusion, the Captain flung open the door and strode in. He was in a fuming rage; but, being no man to take sides in a quarrel, sought no explanation, but took my father by the arm and hurried him without, promising him redress, the while, at another time. Thus presently we found ourselves once more in my father’s punt, pushing out from the side of the steamer, which was already underway, chugging noisily.

      “Hush, zur!” said Skipper Tommy to my father. “Curse him no more, zur. The good Lard, who made us, made him, also.”

      My father cursed the harder.

      “Stop,” cried the skipper, “or I’ll be cursin’ him, too, zur. God made that man, I tells you. He must have gone an’ made that man.”

      “I hopes He’ll damn him, then,” said I.

      “God knowed what He was doin’ when he made that man,” the skipper persisted, continuing in faith against his will. “I tells you I’ll not doubt His wisdom. He made that man … He made that man … He made that man. …”

      To this refrain we rowed into harbour.

      We found my mother’s room made very neat, and very grand, too, I thought, with the shaded lamp and the great armchair from the best-room below; and my mother, now composed, but yet flushed with expectation, was raised on many snow-white pillows, lovely in the fine gown, with one thin hand, wherein she held a red geranium, lying placid on the coverlet.

      “I am ready, David,” she said to my father.

      There was the sound of footsteps in the hall below. It was Skipper Tommy, as I knew.

      “Is that he?” asked my mother. “Bring him up, David. I am quite ready.”

      My father still stood silent and awkward by the door of the room.

      “David,” said my poor mother, her voice breaking with sudden alarm, “have you been talking much with him? What has he told you, David? I’m not so very sick, am I?”

      “Well, lass,” said my father, “ ’tis a great season for all sorts o’ sickness—an’ the doctor is sick abed hisself—an’ he—couldn’t—come.”

      “Poor man!” sighed my mother. “But he’ll come ashore on the south’ard trip.”

      “No, lass—no; I fear he’ll not.”

      “Poor man!”

      My mother turned her face from us. She trembled, once, and sighed, and then lay very quiet. I knew in my childish way that her hope had fled with ours—that, now, remote from our love and comfort-alone—all alone—she had been brought face to face with the last dread prospect. There was the noise of rain on the panes and wind without, and the heavy tread of Skipper Tommy’s feet, coming up the stair, but no other sound. But Skipper Tommy, entering now, moved a chair to my mother’s bedside, and laid a hand on hers, his old face illumined by his unfailing faith in the glory and wisdom of his God.

      “Hush!” he said. “Don’t you go gettin’ scared lass. Don’t you go gettin’ scared at—the thing that’s comin’—t’ you. ’Tis nothin’ t’ fear,” he went on, gloriously confident. “ ’Tis not hard, I’m sure—the Lard’s too kind for that. He just lets us think it is, so He can give us a lovely surprise, when the time comes. Oh, no, ’tis not hard! ’Tis but like wakin’ up from a troubled dream. ’Tis like wakin’ t’ the sunlight of a new, clear day. Ah, ’tis a pity us all can’t wake with you t’ the beauty o’ the morning! But the dear Lard is kind. There comes an end t’ all the dreamin’. He takes our hand. ‘The day is broke,’ says He. ‘Dream no more, but rise, child o’ Mine, an’ come into the sunshine with Me.’ ’Tis only that that’s comin’ t’ you—only His gentle touch—an’ the waking. Hush! Don’t you go gettin’ scared. ’Tis a lovely thing—that’s comin’ t’ you!”

      “I’m not afraid,” my mother whispered, turning. “I’m not afraid, Skipper Tommy. But I’m sad—oh I’m sad—to have to leave——”

      She looked tenderly upon me.

VII

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The WOMAN from WOLF COVE

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      My mother lay thus abandoned for seven days. It was very still and solemn in the room—and there was a hush in all the house; and there was a mystery, which even the break of day could not dissolve, and a shadow, which the streaming sunlight could not drive away. Beyond the broad window of her room, the hills of Skull Island and God’s Warning stood yellow in the spring sunshine, rivulets dripping from the ragged patches of snow which yet lingered in the hollows; and the harbour water rippled under balmy, fragrant winds from the wilderness; and workaday voices, strangely unchanged by the solemn change upon our days, came drifting up the hill from my father’s wharves; and, ay, indeed, all the world of sea and land was warm and wakeful and light of heart, just as it used to be. But within, where were the shadow and the mystery, we walked on tiptoe and spoke in whispers, lest we offend the spirit which had entered in.

      By day my father was occupied with the men of the place, who were then anxiously fitting out for the fishing season, which had come of a sudden with the news of a fine sign at Battle Harbour. But my mother did not mind, but, rather, smiled, and was content to know that he was about his business—as men must be, whatever may come to pass in the house—and that he was useful to the folk of our harbour, whom she loved. And my dear sister—whose heart and hands God fashioned with kind purpose—gave full measure of tenderness for both; and my mother was grateful for that, as she ever was for my sister’s loving kindness to her and to me and to us all.

      One night, being overwrought by sorrow, it may be, my father said that he would have the doctor-woman from Wolf Cove to help my mother.

      “For,” said he, “I been thinkin’ a deal about she, o’ late, an’ they’s no tellin’ that she wouldn’t do you good.”

      My mother raised her eyebrows. “The doctor-woman!” cried she. “Why, David!”

      “Ay,”