It came from the north, addressed, in pale, sprawling characters, to Skipper Tommy Lovejoy of our harbour—a crumpled, greasy, ill-odoured missive: little enough like a letter from a lady, bearing (as we supposed) a coy appeal to the tender passion. But———

“Ay, Davy,” my sister insisted. “’Tis from she. Smell it for yourself.”

I sniffed the letter.

“Eh, Davy?”

“Well, Bessie,” I answered, doubtfully, “I’m not able t’ call t’ mind this minute just how she did. But I’m free t’ say,” regarding the streaks and thumb-marks with quick disfavour, “that it looks a lot like her.”

My sister smiled upon me with an air of loftiest superiority. “Smell it again,” said she.

“Well,” I admitted, after sniffing long and carefully, “I does seem t’ have got wind o’——”

“There’s no deceivin’ a woman’s nose,” my sister declared, positively. “’Tis a letter from the woman t’ Wolf Cove.”

“Then,” said I, with a frown, “we’d best burn it.”

She mused a moment. “He never got a letter afore,” she said, looking up.

“Not many folk has,” I objected.

“He’d be wonderful proud,” she continued, “o’ just gettin’ a letter.”

“But she’s a wily woman,” I protested, in warning, “an’ he’s a most obligin’ man. I fair shiver t’ think o’ leadin’ un into temptation.”

“’Twould do no harm, Davy,” said she, “just t’ show un the letter.”

“’Tis a fearful responsibility t’ take.”

“’Twould please un so!” she wheedled.

“Ah, well!” I sighed. “You’re a wonderful hand at gettin’ your own way, Bessie.”

When the punts of our folk came sweeping through the tickles and the Gate, in the twilight of that day, I went with the letter to the Rat Hole: knowing that Skipper Tommy would by that time be in from the Hook-an’-Line grounds; for the wind was blowing fair from that quarter. I found the twins pitching the catch into the stage, with great hilarity—a joyous, frolicsome pair: in happy ignorance of what impended. They gave me jolly greeting: whereupon, feeling woefully guilty, I sought the skipper in the house, where he had gone (they said) to get out of his sea-boots.

I was not disposed to dodge the issue. “Skipper Tommy,” said I, bluntly, “I got a letter for you.”

He stared.

“’Tis no joke,” said I, with a wag, “as you’ll find, when you gets t’ know where ’tis from; but ’tis nothin’ t’ be scared of.”

“Was you sayin’, Davy,” he began, at last, trailing off into the silence of utter amazement, “that you—been—gettin’—a——”

“I was sayin’,” I answered, “that the mail-boat left you a letter.”

He came close. “Was you sayin’,” he whispered in my ear, with a jerk of his head to the north, “that ’tis from——”

I nodded.

“She?”

“Ay.”

He put his tongue in his cheek—and gave me a slow, sly wink. “Ecod!” said he.

I was then mystified by his strange behaviour: this occurring while he made ready for the splitting-table. He chuckled, he tweaked his long nose until it flared, he scratched his head, he sighed, he scowled, he broke into vociferous laughter; and he muttered “Ecod!” an innumerable number of times, voicing, thereby, the gamut of human emotions and the degrees thereof, from lowest melancholy to a crafty sort of cynicism and thence to the height of smug elation. And, presently, when he had peered down the path to the stage, where the twins were forking the fish, he approached, stepping mysteriously, his gigantic forefinger raised in a caution to hush.

“Davy,” he whispered, “you isn’t got that letter aboard o’ you, is you?”

My heart misgave me; but—I nodded.

“Well, well!” cried he. “I’m thinkin’,” he added, his surprise somewhat mitigated by curiosity, “that you’ll be havin’ it in your jacket pocket.”

“Ay,” was my sharp reply; “but I’ll not read it.”

“No, no!” said he, severely, lifting a protesting hand, which he had now encased in a reeking splitting-mit. “I’d not have you read it. Sure, I’d never ’low that! Was you thinkin’, David Roth,” now so reproachfully that my doubts seemed treasonable, “that I’d want you to? Me—that nibbled once? Not I, lad! But as you does happen t’ have that letter in your jacket, you wouldn’t mind me just takin’ a look at it, would you?”

I produced the crumpled missive—with a sigh: for the skipper’s drift was apparent.

“My letter!” said he, gazing raptly. “Davy, lad, I’d kind o’—like t’—just t’—feel it. They wouldn’t be no hurt in me holdin’ it, would they?”

I passed it over.

“Now, Davy,” he declared, his head on one side, the letter held gingerly before him, “I wouldn’t read that letter an I could. No, lad—not an I could! But I’ve heared tell she had a deal o’ l’arnin’; an’ I’d kind o’—like t’—take a peek inside. Just,” he added, hurriedly, “t’ see what power she had for writin’.”

This pretense to a purely artistic interest in the production was wondrously trying to the patience.

“Skipper Davy,” he went on, awkwardly, skippering me with a guile that was shameless, “it bein’ from a woman—bein’ from a woman, now, says I—’twould be no more ’n po-lite t’ open it. Come, now, Davy!” he challenged. “You wouldn’t say ’twould be more ’n po-lite, would you? It bein’ from a lone woman?”

I made no answer: for, at that moment, I caught sight of the twins, listening with open-mouthed interest from the threshold.

“I wonders, Davy,” the skipper confided, taking the leap, at last, “what she’ve gone an’ writ!”

“Jacky,” I burst out, in disgust, turning to the twins, “I just knowed he’d get t’ wonderin’!”

Skipper Tommy started: he grew shamefaced, all in a moment; and he seemed now first conscious of guilty wishes.

“Timmie,” said Jacky, hoarsely, from the doorway, “she’ve writ.”

“Ay, Jacky,” Timmie echoed, “she’ve certain gone an’ done it.”

They entered.

“I been—sort o’—gettin’ a letter, lads,” the skipper stammered: a hint of pride in his manner. “It come ashore,” he added, with importance, “from the mail-boat.”

“Dad,” Timmie asked, sorrowfully, “is you been askin’ Davy t’ read that letter?”

“Well, no, Timmie,” the skipper drawled, tweaking his nose; “’tisn’t quite so bad. But I been wonderin’——”

“Oh, is you!” Jacky broke in. “Timmie,” said he, grinning, “dad’s been wonderin’!”

“Is he?” Timmie asked, assuming innocence. “Wonderin’?”

“Wasn’t you sayin’ so, dad?”

“Well,” the skipper admitted, “havin’ said so, I’ll not gainsay it. I was wonderin’——”

“An’ you knowin’,” sighed Timmie, “that you’re an obligin’ man!”

“Dad,” Jacky demanded, “didn’t the Lard kindly send a switch o’ wind from the sou’east t’ save you oncet?”

The skipper blushed uneasily.

“Does you think,” Timmie pursued, “that He’ll turn His hand again t’ save you?”

“Well——”

“Look you, dad,” said Jacky, “isn’t you got in trouble enough all along o’ wonderin’ too much?”

“Well,” the skipper exclaimed, badgered into self-assertion, “I was wonderin’; but since you two lads come in I been thinkin’. Since them two twins o’ mine come in, Davy,” he repeated, turning to me, his eyes sparkling with fatherly affection, “I been thinkin’ ’twould be a fine plan t’ tack this letter t’ the wall for a warnin’ t’ the household agin the wiles o’ women!”

Timmie and Jacky silently embraced—containing their delight as best they could, though it pained them.

“Not,” the skipper continued, “that I’ll have a word said agin’ that woman: which I won’t,” said he, “nor no other. The Lard knowed what He was about. He made them with His own hands, an’ if He was willin’ t’ take the responsibility, us men can do no less than stand by an’ weather it out. ’Tis my own idea that He was more sot on fine lines than sailin’ qualities when He whittled His model. ‘I’ll make a craft,’ says He, ‘for looks, an’ I’ll pay no heed,’ says He, ‘t’ the cranks she may have, hopin’ for the best.’ An’ He done it! That He did! They’re tidy craft—oh, ay, they’re wonderful tidy craft—but ’tis Lard help un in a gale o’ wind! An’ the Lard made she,” he continued, reverting to the woman from Wolf Cove, “after her kind, a woman, acquaint with the wiles o’ women, actin’ accordin’ t’ nature An’,” he declared, irrelevantly, “’tis gettin’ close t’ winter, an’ ’twould be comfortable t’ have a man t’ tend the fires. She do be of a designin’ turn o’ mind,” he proceeded, “which is accordin’ t’ the nature o’ women, puttin’ no blame on her, an’ she’s not a wonderful lot for looks an’ temper; but,” impressively lifting his hand, voice and manner awed, “she’ve l’arnin’, which is ek’al t’ looks, if not t’ temper. So,” said he, “we’ll say nothin’ agin’ her, but just tack this letter t’ the wall, an’ go split the fish. But,” when the letter had thus been disposed of, “I wonder what——”

“Come on, dad!”

He put an arm around each of the grinning twins, and Timmie put an arm around me; and thus we went pell-mell down to the stage, where we had an uproarious time splitting the day’s catch.

You must know, now, that all this time we had been busy with the fish, dawn to dark; that beyond our little lives, while, intent upon their small concerns, we lived them, a great and lovely work was wrought upon our barren coast: as every year, unfailingly, to the glory of God, who made such hearts as beat under the brown, hairy breasts of our men. From the Strait to Chidley, our folk and their kin from Newfoundland with hook and net reaped the harvest from the sea—a vast, sullen sea, unwilling to yield: sourly striving to withhold the good Lord’s bounty from the stout and merry fellows who had with lively courage put out to gather it. ’Twas catch and split and stow away! In the dawn of stormy days and sunny ones—contemptuous of the gray wind and reaching seas—the skiffs came and went. From headland to headland—dodging the reefs, escaping the shifting peril of ice, outwitting the drifting mists—little schooners chased the fish. Wave and rock and wind and bergs—separate dangers, allied with night and fog and sleety rain—were blithely encountered. Sometimes, to be sure, they wreaked their purpose; but, notwithstanding, day by day the schooners sailed and the skiffs put out to the open, and fish were cheerily taken from the sea. Spite of all, the splitting-knives flashed, and torches flared on the decks and in the mud huts ashore. Barren hills—the bleak and uninhabited places of the northern coast—for a season reflected the lurid glow and echoed the song and shout. Thanks be to God, the fleet was loading!

In the drear autumn weather a cloud of sail went to the s‘uth’ard—doughty little schooners, decks awash: beating up to the home ports.