ONE evening two or three years later, Big French and Sue, his wife, their young daughter, and little Red Farran, whom they had taken to live with them, sat round the fire in the Ship kitchen.

Gilbot was dead. It was said in the village that he had died singing “Pretty Poll,” and he had left the old Inn to Hal Grame, who proved himself a very able landlord. He had grown very taciturn, however, since the affair of the Spaniard and the girl, which had by this time been almost forgotten by the easy-going Islanders, and he had taken to tobacco, with which Fen de Witt was well able to supply him at a cheap rate, and he sat now in a haze of smoke on the opposite side of the fireplace to French, his pipe in his mouth and his head thrown back as though in earnest contemplation of the rafters.

Joe sat at his elbow drinking ale; they two were as friendly as ever, but Pullen had been known to aver that no word of Anny or the Spaniard had been exchanged between them since that cold September morning long ago when black mud had swallowed the last trace of the affair.

It was late and all the other company had gone; the dips were beginning to die out one by one, and tall shadows began to creep over the oak-beamed ceiling and dark, rum-fumed walls.

Presently French rose to his feet.

“Ah, well,” he said, “I reckon we’ll go home, Sue. Good rest to you, Hal.”

The landlord nodded.

“Same to you, Master French, and you, too, mistress,” he said, without taking his pipe out of his mouth.

Sue smiled and picked up her baby who was crawling on the long seat beside her.

“Good-night, Hal,” she said, and then added, looking round the room affectionately: “It’s almost like the old days to be all here together again.”

“All?” murmured Hal bitterly.

Sue did not hear him but went on gaily.

“Yet I would not change,” she said. “These days are happier, I with my man and my little one.”

Hal winced, and French, who was watching, put an arm affectionately round his wife’s shoulders.

“Come, lass, we stay too long a-talking,” he said, gently drawing her to him.

Sue looked up at him, a smile on her lips. She was very proud of her handsome husband, and they went out together, little Red following, his hand clutching French’s big coat skirts.

After they had gone there was silence in the room for a second or two, while Pullen helped himself to more ale from a pitcher at his elbow.

Hal stared into the blazing fire.

“Like the old days?” he said at last, half to himself. “Like the old days? My God!”

Joe put down his tankard and wiped his lips.

“I reckon I’ll be going home to Amy—damn her,” he said, getting up.

Hal looked up, frowning.

“Must ye so, mate?” he said wistfully.

“No, no, er—no, lad, no need,” and Joe sat down again and re-filled his pot.

The silence continued.

Suddenly Hal rose and, standing on tiptoe, reached down one of the old cups on the high mantel shelf, and emptied its contents into his hand.

Joe heard the clink of coins and looked up.

His friend was leaning against the chimney-piece, his face half hidden, and in his hand which he held open before him were two little coins.

Presently the younger man turned away from the fire and held out his hand to Pullen.

“Do you remember these, mate?” he said rather abruptly.

Joe looked at the money curiously.

“Groats?” he said. “Well, now, I can’t say as I do, but——” He broke off suddenly. “That day we’d bin after fish?” he enquired.

Hal nodded.

Joe looked at him in astonishment.

“Why, lad, you don’t go thinking o’ that now, surely?” he said.

Hal clinked the coins together and looked round the kitchen ruefully. “I couldn’t give her aught then—but now—if only——” His voice trailed off and ceased.

Joe shifted uneasily in his seat.

“Don’t think on it, lad, don’t think on it,” he advised.

Hal laughed bitterly.

“You know not what you say, Joe Pullen,” he said, “I must think on it. ’Tis all I have to think on,” and he puffed at his pipe almost fiercely.

Joe did not speak, and after a while the other went on again; he spoke jerkily, and his voice was very low:

“Sometimes I think I see her come in crying and him after her. That’s when I try to forget, but it’s no use, I can’t; she loved him, I reckon; I can’t forget that.”

Joe cleared his throat noisily.

“Why trouble yourself, lad?” he muttered. “She’s gone and he with her, and you’re here——”

“More’s the pity,” interrupted the other. “I have naught to make me want to stay.”

Joe leaned back and crossed his legs.

“Oh! I don’t know,” he said, “there’s the Ship; she’s your love—after—after Anny.”

Hal looked up quickly.

“The Ship?” he repeated slowly. “The Ship my love after Anny? Ay, maybe you’re right, mate, maybe you’re right; I had forgot her—ay, the Ship.” A slow smile spread over his face and he forgot to smoke.

“My love after Anny,” he kept repeating softly. “My love after Anny.”

And after Joe had gone home he sat long, looking into the fire, the slow smile still on his lips, but later still, when his eyes fell again on the two groats, he picked them up tenderly and put them back in the cracked cup upon the mantel-shelf, and then after carefully bolting the door he took his candle and went up to bed.

On their way home Big French and Sue had to pass Nan Swayle’s cabin, and, as they came toward it, Red noticed the red baleful eyes of Ben, the old tom-cat, peering at them from behind the shed.

“Nan’s at home,” he said, hugging French’s hand. “And Ben’s bin whip’t.”

The big man looked across at the lonely shanty.

“God be wi’ ye, Nan,” he shouted; his voice resounded over the silent marshes and echoed round about the hut, but there was no reply.

French went nearer and knocked at the door.

“Are ye well, Nan?” he called.

Nan’s big booming voice replied, and her usual greetings rang out through the door:

“Ay, God be wi’ ye, good swine.”

French laughed and they went on, and as they crossed the dark saltings to their home they heard her hail, expressing approval and friendliness, following them over the flats, loud, then soft, and finally trailing off into a long-drawn-out wail:

“Rum, rum, rum—m—m.”