Ah, well! at once she set about the cure of my mother. And she went tripping about the house—and tripping she went, believe me, stout as she was, as lightsome as one of Skipper Tommy’s fairies—with a manner so large and confident, a glance so compelling, that ’twas beyond us to doubt her power or slight her commands. First of all she told my mother, repeating it with patience and persuasive insistence, that she would be well in six days, and must believe the words true, else she would never be well, at all. And when my mother had brightened with this new hope, the woman, muttering words without meaning, hung a curious brown object about her neck, which she said had come from a holy place and possessed a strange and powerful virtue for healing. My mother fondled it, with glistening eyes and very tenderly, and, when the doctor-woman had gone out, whispered to me that it was a horse-chestnut, and put her in mind of the days when she dwelt in Boston, a little maid.

“But ’tis not healin’ you,” I protested, touching a tear which had settled in the deep hollow of her cheek. “’Tis makin’ you sad.”

“Oh, no!” said she. “’Tis making me very happy.”

“But you is cryin’,” said I. “An’ I’m thinkin’ ’tis because you wisht you was in Boston.”

“No, no!” she cried, her lip trembling. “I’m not wishing that. I’ve never wished that! I’m glad your father found me and took me where he wished. Oh, I’m glad of that—glad he found and loved me—glad I gave myself to his dear care! Why, were I in Boston, to-day, I would not have my dear, big David, your father, lad, and I would not have your sister, and I would not have——”

“Me?” I put in, archly.

“Ay,” she said, with infinite tenderness, “you, Davy, dear!”

For many days, thereafter, the doctor-woman possessed our house, and I’ve no doubt she was happy in her new estate—at table, at any rate, for there she was garrulent and active, and astoundingly active, with less of garrulence, on feast days, when my father had pork provided. And she had a way with the maids in the kitchen that kept the young men from the door (which my sister never could manage); and I have since been led to think ’twas because she sought to work her will on Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, undisturbed by the clatter and quick eyes of young folk. For Skipper Tommy, to my increasing alarm and to the panic of the twins, who wished for no second mother, still frequented the kitchen, when the day’s work was done, and was all the while in a mood so downcast, of a manner so furtive, that it made me sad to talk with him. But by day our kitchen was intolerable with smells—intolerable to him and to us all (save to my sister, who is, and ever has been, brave)—while the doctor-woman hung over the stove, working with things the sight of which my stomach would not brook, but which my mother took in ignorance, hoping they would cure her. God knows what medicines were mixed! I would not name the things I saw. And the doctor-woman would not even have us ask what use she made of them: nor have I since sought to know; ’tis best, I think, forgotten.

But my mother got no better.

“Skipper David,” said the doctor-woman, at last, “I’m wantin’ four lump-fish.”

“Four lump-fish!” my father wondered. “Is you?”

“Oh, my!” she answered, tartly. “Is I? Yes, I is. An’ I’ll thank you t’ get un an’ ask no questions. For I’m mindin’ my business, an’ I’ll thank you t’ mind yours. An’ if you thinks you can do the doctorin’——”

“I’m not seekin’ t’ hinder you,” said my father, flushing. “You go on with your work. I’ll pay; but——”

“Oh, will you?” she cried, shrilly. “He’ll pay, says he. Oh, my! He’ll pay! Oh, dear!”

“Come, now, woman!” said my father, indignantly. “I’ve had you come, an’ I’ll stand by what you does. I’ll get the lump-fish; but ’tis the last cure you’ll try. If it fails, back you go t’ Wolf Cove.”

“Oh, my!” said she, taken aback. “Back I goes, does I! An’ t’ Wolf Cove? Oh, dear!”

My father sent word to the masters of the cod-traps, which were then set off the heads, that such sculpin as got in the nets by chance must be saved for him. He was overwrought, as I have said, by sorrow, overcome, it may be, by the way this woman had. And soon he had for her four green, prickly-skinned, jelly-like, big-bellied lump-fish, which were not appetizing to look upon, though I’ve heard tell that starving folk, being driven to it, have eaten them. My sister would not be driven from the kitchen, though the woman was vehement in anger, but held to it that she must know the character of the dose my mother was to take. So they worked together—the doctor-woman scowling darkly—until the medicine was ready: which was in the late evening of that day. Then they went to my mother’s room to administer the first of it.

“’Tis a new medicine,” my mother said, with a smile, when she held the glass in her hand.

“Ay,” crooned the doctor-woman, “drink it, now, my dear.”

My mother raised the glass to her lips. “And what is it?” she asked, withdrawing the glass with a shudder.

“Tut, tut!” the doctor-woman exclaimed. “’Tis but a soup. ’Twill do you good.”

“I’m sure it will,” my mother gently said. “But I wonder what it is.”

Again she raised the glass with a wry face. But my sister stayed her hand.

“I’ll not have you take it,” said she, firmly, “without knowin’ what it is.”

The doctor-woman struck her arm away. “Leave the woman drink it!” she screamed, now in a gust of passion.

“What’s—this you’re—giving me?” my mother stammered, looking upon the glass in alarm and new disgust.

“’Tis the eyes o’ four lump-fish,” said my sister.

My mother dropped the glass, so that the contents were spilled over the coverlet, and fell back on the pillows, where she lay white and still.

“Out with you!” said my sister to the doctor-woman. “I’ll have no more o’ your cures!”

“Oh, my!” shrilled the woman, dropping into her most biting manner. “She won’t have no more o’ my cures! Oh, dear, she——”

“Out with you!” cried my sister, as she smartly clapped her hands under the woman’s nose. “Out o’ the house with you!”

“Oh, ’tis out with me, is it? Out o’ the house with me! Oh, dear! Out o’ the house with me! I’ll have you t’ know——”

My sister ignored the ponderous fist raised against her. She stamped her small foot, her eyes flashing, the blood flushing her cheeks and brow.

“Out you go!” she cried. “I’m not afeared o’ you!”

I stood aghast while the doctor-woman backed through the door. Never before had I known my gentle sister to flash and flush with angry passion. Nor have I since.

Next morning, my father paid the woman from Wolf Cove a barrel of flour, with which she was ill content, and traded her two barrels more for the horse-chestnut, which my mother wished to keep lying on her breast, because it comforted her. To Skipper Tommy Lovejoy fell the lot of taking the woman back in the punt; for, as my father said, ’twas he that brought her safely, and, surely, the one who could manage that could be trusted to get her back without accident.

“An’ ’tis parlous work, lad,” said the skipper, with an anxious shrug, while we waited on the wharf for the woman to come. “I’m very much afeared. Ay,” he added, frowning, “I is that!”

“I’m not knowin’ why,” said I, “for the wind’s blowin’ fair from the sou’west, an’ you’ll have a fine time t’ Wolf Cove.”

“’Tis not that,” said he, quietly. “Hist!” jerking his head towards our house, where the woman yet was. “’Tis she!”

“I’d not be afeared o’ she,” said I. “’Twas but last night,” I added, proudly, “my sister gave her her tea in a mug.”

“Oh, ay,” said he, “I heared tell o’ that. But ’tis not t’ the point. Davy, lad,” in an undertone which betrayed great agitation, “she’ve her cap set for a man, an’ she’s desperate.”

“Ay?” said I.

He bent close to my ear. “An’ she’ve her eye on me!” he whispered.

“Skipper Tommy,” I earnestly pleaded, “don’t you go an’ do it.”

“Well, lad,” he answered, pulling at his nose, “the good Lard made me what I is. I’m not complainin’ o’ the taste He showed. No, no! I would not think o’ doin’ that. But——”

“He made you kind,” I broke in, hotly, “an’ such as good folk love.”

“I’m not knowin’ much about that, Davy. The good Lard made me as He willed. But I’m an obligin’ man. I’ve turned out, Davy, most wonderful obligin’. I’m always doin’ what folks wants me to. Such men as me, lad,” he went on, precisely indicating the weakness of his tender character, “is made that way. An’ if she tells me she’s a lone woman, and if she begins t’ cry, what is I to do? An’ if I has t’ pass me word, Davy, t’ stop her tears! Eh, lad? Will you tell me, David Roth, what is I t’ do?”

“Turn the punt over,” said I, quickly. “They’s wind enough for that, man! An’ ’tis your only chance, Skipper Tommy—’tis the only chance you got—if she begins t’ cry.”

He was dispirited. “I wisht,” he said, sadly, “that the Lard hadn’t made me quite so obligin’!”

“’Tis too bad!”

“Ay,” he sighed, “’tis too bad I can’t trust meself in the company o’ folk that’s givin’ t’ weepin’.”

“I’ll have the twins pray for you,” I ventured.

“Do!” he cried, brightening. “’Tis a grand thought! An’ do you tell them two dear lads that I’ll never give in—no, lad, their father’ll never give in t’ that woman—till he’s just got to.”

“But, Skipper Tommy,” said I, now much alarmed, so hopeless was his tone, stout as his words were, “tell my father you’re not wantin’ t’ go. Sure, he can send Elisha Turr in your stead.”

“Ay,” said he, “but I is wantin’ t’ go. That’s it. I’m thinkin’ all the time o’ the book, lad. I’m wantin’ t’ make that book a good book. I’m wantin’ t’ learn more about cures.”

“I’m thinkin’ her cures isn’t worth much,” said I.

He patted me on the head. “You is but a lad,” said he, indulgent with my youth, “an’ your judgment isn’t well growed yet. Some o’ they cures is bad, no doubt,” he added, “an’ some is good. I wants no bad cures in my book. I’ll not have them there. But does you think I can’t try un all on meself afore I has un put in the book?”

When the punt was well through North Tickle, on a free, freshening wind, I sped to the Rat Hole to apprise the twins of their father’s unhappy situation, and to beg of them to be constant and importunate in prayer that he might be saved from the perils of that voyage. Then, still running as fast as my legs would go, I returned to our house, where, again, I found the shadow and the mystery, and the hush in all the rooms.

“Davy!”

“Ay, Bessie,” I answered. “’Tis I.”

“Our mother’s wantin’ you, dear.”

I tiptoed up the stair, and to the bed where my mother lay, and, very softly, I laid my cheek against her lips.

“My sister sent me, mum,” I whispered.

“Yes,” she sighed. “I’m—just wanting you.”

Her arm, languid and light, stole round my waist.