By and by my sister put me in dry clothes, and bidding me be a good lad, sat me in the best room below, where the maids had laid a fire. And Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, finding me there disconsolate, took me to the seaward hills to watch the break of day: for the rain had ceased, the wind fallen away; and the gray light of dawn was in the eastern sky.

“I’m wantin’ t’ tell you, Davy,” he said, in a confidential way, as we trudged along, “about the gate o’ heaven.”

I took his hand.

“An’ I been wantin’ t’ tell you,” he added, giving his nose a little tweak, “for a long, long time.”

“Is you?”

“Ay, lad; an’ about the women at the gate.”

“Women, Skipper Tommy?” said I, puzzled. “An’, pray, who is they?”

“Mothers,” he answered. “Just mothers.”

“What they doin’ at the gate? No, no! They’re not there. Sure, they’re playin’ harps at the foot o’ the throne.”

“No,” said he, positively; “they’re at the gate.”

“What they doin’ there?”

“Waitin’.”

We were now come to the crest of a hill; and the sea was spread before us—breaking angrily under the low, black sky.

“What’s they waitin’ for?” I asked.

“Davy, lad,” he answered, impressively, “they’re waitin’ for them they bore. That’s what they’re waitin’ for.”

“For their sons?”

“Ay; an’ for their daughters, too.”

While I watched the big seas break on the rocks below—and the clouds drift up from the edge of the world—I pondered upon this strange teaching. My mother had never told me of the women waiting at the gate.

“Ah, but,” I said, at last, “I’m thinkin’ God would never allow it t’ go on. He’d want un all t’ sing His praises. Sure, they’d just be wastin’ His time—waitin’ there at the gate.”

Skipper Tommy shook his head—and smiled, and softly patted my shoulder.

“An’ He’d gather un there, at the foot o’ the throne,” I went on, “an’ tell un t’ waste no more, but strike up their golden harps.”

“No, no!”

“Why not?”

“They wouldn’t go.”

“But He’d make un go.”

“He couldn’t.”

“Not make un!” I cried, amazed.

“Look you, lad,” he explained, in a sage whisper, “they’re all mothers, an’ they’d be wantin’ t’ stay where they was, an’, ecod! they’d find a way.”

“Ah, well,” I sighed, “’tis wearisome work—this waitin’.”

“I’m thinkin’ not,” he answered, soberly, speaking rather to himself than to me. “’Tis not wearisome for such as know the good Lard’s plan.”

“’Tis wonderful hard,” said I, “on the mothers o’ wicked sons.”

The old man smiled. “Who knows,” he asked, “that ’tis wonderful hard on they?”

“But then,” I mused, “the Lord would find a way t’ comfort the mother o’ such.”

“Oh, ay!”

“I’m thinkin’, maybe,” I went on, “that He’d send an angel t’ tell her they wasn’t worth the waitin’ for. ‘Mind un not,’ He’d say. ‘They’re nothin’ but bad, wicked boys. Leave un go t’ hell an’ burn.’”

“An’, now, what, lad,” he inquired with deep interest, “is you thinkin’ the mother would do?”

“She’d take the angel’s hand,” I sighed.

“Ay?”

“An’ go up t’ the throne—forgettin’ them she’d left.”

“An’ then?”

“She’d praise the Lard,” I sobbed.

“Never!” the skipper cried.

I looked hopefully in his face.

“Never!” he repeated. “‘Lard,’ she’d say, ‘I loves un all the more for their sins. Leave me wait—oh, leave me wait—here at the gate. Maybe—sometime—they’ll come!’”

“But some,” said I, in awe, “would wait forever—an’ ever—an’ ever——”

“Not one!”

“Not one?”

“Not one! ’Twould break the dear Lard’s heart t’ see un waitin’ there.”

I looked away to the furthest clouds, fast changing, now, from gray to silver; and for a long time I watched them thin and brighten.

“Skipper Tommy,” I asked, at last, “is my mother at the gate?”

“Ay,” said he confidently.

“Waitin’?”

“Ay.”

“An’ for me?”

He gave me an odd look—searching my very soul with his mild old eyes. “Doesn’t you think she is?” he asked.

“I knows it!” I cried.

Far off, at the horizon, the sky broke—and the rift broadened—and the clouds lifted—and the east flamed with colour—and all at once the rosy, hopeful light of dawn flushed the frowning sea.

“Look!” the skipper whispered.

“Ay,” said I, “the day is broke.”

“A new day!” said he.