My flag flapped a welcome in the sunny wind as the mail-boat came creeping through the Gate and with a great rattle and splatter dropped anchor in the basin off my father’s wharf: for through my father’s long glass I had from the summit of the Watchman long before spied the doctor aboard. He landed in fine fettle—clear-eyed, smiling, quick to extend his strong, warm hand: having cheery words for the folk ashore, and eager, homesick glances for the bleak hills of our harbour. Ecod! but he was splendidly glad to be home. I had as lief fall into the arms of a black bear as ever again to be greeted in a way so careless of my breath and bones! But, at last, with a joyous little laugh, he left me to gasp myself to life again, and went bounding up the path. I managed to catch my wind in time to follow; ’twas in my mind to spy upon his meeting with my sister; nor would I be thwarted: for I had for many days been troubled by what happened when they parted, and now heartily wished the unhappy difference forgot. So from a corner of the hillside flake I watched lynx-eyed; but I could detect nothing amiss—no hint of ill-feeling or reserve: only frank gladness in smile and glance and handclasp. And being well content with this, I went back to the wharf to lend Tom Tot a hand with the landing of the winter supplies, the medical stores, the outfit for the projected sloop: all of which the doctor had brought with him from St. John’s.

“And not only that,” said the doctor, that night, concluding his narrative of busy days in the city, “but I have been appointed,” with a great affectation of pomposity, “the magistrate for this district!”

We were not impressed. “The magistrate?” I mused. “What’s that?”

“What’s a magistrate!” cried he.

“Ay,” said I. “I never seed one.”

“The man who enforces the law, to be sure!”

“The law?” said I. “What’s that?”

“The law of the land, Davy,” he began, near dumbfounded, “is for the——”

My sister got suddenly much excited. “I’ve heard tell about magistrates,” she interrupted, speaking eagerly, the light dancing merrily in her eyes. “Come, tell me! is they able t’——”

She stuttered to a full stop, blushing. “Out with it, my dear,” said I.

“Marry folk?” she asked.

“They may,” said the doctor.

“Oh, Davy!”

“Whoop!” screamed I, leaping up. “You’re never tellin’ me that! Quick, Bessie! Come, doctor! They been waitin’ this twenty year.”

I caught his right hand, Bessie his left; and out we dragged him, paying no heed to his questions, which, by and by, he abandoned, because he laughed so hard. And down the path we sped—along the road—by the turn to Cut-Throat Cove—until, at last, we came to the cottage of Aunt Amanda and Uncle Joe Bow, whom we threw into a fluster with our news. When the doctor was informed of the exigency of the situation, he married them on the spot, improvising a ceremony, without a moment’s hesitation, as though he had been used to it all his life: a family of six meanwhile grinning with delight and embarrassment.

“You sees, zur,” Uncle Joe explained, when ’twas over, “we never had no chance afore. ‘Manda an’ me was down narth when the last parson come this way. An’ ’Manda she’ve been wantin’——”

“T’ have it done,” Aunt Amanda put in, patting the curly head of the smallest Bow, “afore——”

“Ay,” said Uncle Joe, “wantin’ t’ have it done, shipshape, afore she——”

“Died,” Aunt Amanda concluded.

By this time the amazing news had spread. Far and near the guns were popping a salute—which set the dogs a-howling: so that the noise was heartrending. Presently the neighbours began to gather: whereupon (for the cottage was small) we took our leave, giving the pair good wishes for the continuance of a happy married life. And when we got to our house we found waiting in the kitchen Mag Trawl, who had that day brought her fish from Swampy Arm—a dull girl, slatternly, shiftless: the mother of two young sons.

“I heared tell,” she drawled, addressing the doctor, but looking elsewhere, “that you’re just after marryin’ Aunt Amanda.”

The doctor nodded.

“I ’low,” she went on, after an empty pause, “that I wants t’ get married, too.”

“Where’s the man?”

“Jim he ’lowed two year ago,” she said, staring at the ceiling, “that we’d go south an’ have it done this season if no parson come.”

“Bring the man,” said the doctor, briskily.

“Well, zur,” said she, “Jim ain’t here. You couldn’t do it ’ithout Jim bein’ here, could you?”

“Oh, no!”

“I ’lowed you might be able,” she said, with a little sigh, “if you tried. But you couldn’t, says you?”

“No.”

“Jim he ’lowed two year ago it ought t’ be done. You couldn’t do it nohow?”

The doctor shook his head.

“Couldn’t make a shift at it?”

“No.”

“Anyhow,” she sighed, rising to go, “I ’low Jim won’t mind now. He’s dead.”

Within three weeks the mail-boat touched our harbour for the last time that season: being then southbound into winter quarters at St. John’s. It chanced in the night—a clear time, starlit, but windy, with a high sea running beyond the harbour rocks. She came in by way of North Tickle, lay for a time in the quiet water off our wharf, and made the open through the Gate. From our platform we watched the shadowy bulk and warm lights slip behind Frothy Point and the shoulder of the Watchman—hearkened for the last blast of the whistle, which came back with the wind when the ship ran into the great swell of the sea. Then—at once mustering all our cheerfulness—we turned to our own concerns: wherein we soon forgot that there was any world but ours, and were content with it.

Tom Tot came in.

“’Tis late for you, Tom,” said my sister, in surprise.

“Ay, Miss Bessie,” he replied, slowly. “Wonderful late for me. But I been home talkin’ with my woman,” he went on, “an’ we was thinkin’ it over, an’ she s’posed I’d best be havin’ a little spell with the doctor.”

He was very grave—and sat twirling his cap: lost in anxious thought.

“You’re not sick, Tom?”

“Sick!” he replied, indignantly. “Sure, I’d not trouble the doctor for that! I’m troubled,” he added, quietly, looking at his cap, “along—o’ Mary.”

It seemed hard for him to say.

“She’ve been in service, zur,” he went on, turning to the doctor, “at Wayfarer’s Tickle. An’ I’m fair troubled—along o’ she.”

“She’ve not come?” my sister asked.

For a moment Tom regarded the floor—his gaze fixed upon a protruding knot. “She weren’t aboard, Miss Bessie,” he answered, looking up, “an’ she haven’t sent no word. I been thinkin’ I’d as lief take the skiff an’ go fetch her home.”

“Go the morrow, Tom,” said I.

“I was thinkin’ I would, Davy, by your leave. Not,” he added, hastily, “that I’m afeared she’ve come t’ harm. She’s too scared o’ hell for that. But—I’m troubled. An’ I’m thinkin’ she might—want a chance—home.”

He rose.

“Tom,” said I, “do you take Timmie Lovejoy an’ Will Watt with you. You’ll need un both t’ sail the skiff.”

“I’m thankin’ you, Davy, lad,” said he. “’Tis kind o’ you t’ spare them.”

“An’ I’m wishin’ you well.”

He picked at a thread in his cap. “No,” he persisted, doggedly, “she were so wonderful scared o’ hell she fair couldn’t come t’ harm. I brung her up too well for that. But,” with a frown of anxious doubt, “the Jagger crew was aboard, bound home t’ Newf‘un’land. An’—well—I’m troubled. They was drunk—an’ Jagger was drunk—an’ I asked un about my maid—an’....”

“Would he tell you nothing?” the doctor asked.

“Well,” said Tom, turning away, “he just laughed.”

We were at that moment distracted by the footfall of men coming in haste up the path from my father’s wharf. ’Twas not hard to surmise their errand. My sister sighed—I ran to the door—the doctor began at once to get into his boots and greatcoat. But, to our surprise, two deck-hands from the mail-boat pushed their way into the room. She had returned (said they) and was now waiting off the Gate. There was need of a doctor aboard. Need of a doctor! What of the mail-boat doctor? Ah, ’twas he who was in need. My heart bounded to hear it! And how had he come to that pass? He had essayed to turn in—but ’twas rough water outside—and he had caroused with Jagger’s crew all the way from Wayfarer’s Tickle—and ’twas very rough water—and he had fallen headlong down the companion—and they had picked him up and put him in his berth, where he lay unconscious.

’Twas sweet news to me. “You’ll not go?” I whispered to the doctor.

He gave me a withering glance—and quietly continued to button his greatcoat.

“Is you forgot what I told you?” I demanded, my voice rising.

He would not reply.

“Oh, don’t go!” I pleaded.

He turned up the collar of his coat—picked up his little black case of medicines. Then I feared that he meant indeed to go.

“Leave un die where he lies, zur!” I wailed.

“Come along, men!” said he to the deck-hands.

I sprang ahead of them—flung the door shut—put my back against it: crying out against him all the while. My sister caught my wrist—I pushed her away. Tom Tot laid his hand on my shoulder—I threw it off with an oath. My heart was in a flame of rage and resentment. That this castaway should succour our enemy! I saw, again, a great, wet sweep of deck, glistening underfoot—heard the rush of wind, the swish of breaking seas, the throb and clank of engines, the rain on the panes—once again breathed the thick, gray air of a cabin where two men sat at cards—heard the curse and blow and outcry—saw my mother lying on the pillows, a red geranium in her thin, white hand—heard her sigh and whisper: felt anew her tender longing.

“You’ll not go!” I screamed. “Leave the dog t’ die!”

Very gently, the doctor put his arm around me, and gave me to my sister, who drew me to her heart, whispering soft words in my ear: for I had no power to resist, having broken into sobs. Then they went out: and upon this I broke roughly from my sister, and ran to my own room; and I threw myself on my bed, and there lay in the dark, crying bitterly—not because the doctor had gone his errand against my will, but because my mother was dead, and I should never hear her voice again, nor touch her hand, nor feel her lips against my cheek. And there I lay alone, in deepest woe, until the doctor came again; and when I heard him on the stair—and while he drew a chair to my bed and felt about for my hand—I still sobbed: but no longer hated him, for I had all the time been thinking of my mother in a better way.

“Davy,” he said, gravely, “the man is dead.”

“I’m glad!” I cried.

He ignored this. “I find it hard, Davy,” said he, after a pause, “not to resent your displeasure. Did I not know you so well—were I less fond of the real Davy Roth—I should have you ask my pardon. However, I have not come up to tell you that; but this: you can, perhaps, with a good heart hold enmity against a dying man; but the physician, Davy, may not. Do you understand, Davy?”

“I’m sorry I done what I did, zur,” I muttered, contritely. “But I’m wonderful glad the man’s dead.”

“For shame!”

“I’m glad!”

He left me in a huff.

“An’ I’ll be glad,” I shouted after him, at the top of my voice, “if I got t’ go ’t hell for it!”

’Twas my nature.

Tom Tot returned downcast from Wayfarer’s Tickle: having for three days sought his daughter, whom he could not find; nor was word of her anywhere to be had. Came, then, the winter—with high winds and snow and short gray days: sombre and bitter cold. Our folk fled to the tilts at the Lodge; and we were left alone with the maids and Timmie Lovejoy in my father’s house: but had no idle times, for the doctor would not hear of it, but kept us at work or play, without regard for our wishes in the matter. ’Twas the doctor’s delight by day to don his new skin clothes (which my sister had finished in haste after the first fall of snow) and with help of Timmie Lovejoy to manage the dogs and komatik, flying here and there at top speed, with many a shout and crack of the long whip. By night he kept school in the kitchen, which we must all diligently attend, even to the maids: a profitable occupation, no doubt, but laborious, to say the least of it, though made tolerable by his good humour. By and by there came a call from Blister Harbour, which was forty miles to the north of us, where a man had shot off his hand—another from Red Cove, eighty miles to the south—others from Backwater Arm and Molly’s Tub. And the doctor responded, afoot or with the dogs, as seemed best at the moment: myself to bear him company; for I would have it so, and he was nothing loath.