I was awakened at dawn. ’Twas by a gentle touch of the doctor’s hand. “Is it you, zur?” I asked, starting from sad dreams.

“Hush!” he whispered. “’Tis I, Davy.”

I listened to the roar of the gale—my sleepy senses immediately aroused by the noise of wind and sleet. The gathered rage was loosed, at last.

“’Tis a bitter night,” I said.

“The day is breaking.”

He sat down beside me, gravely silent; and he put his arm around me.

“You isn’t goin’?” I pleaded.

“Yes.”

I had grown to know his duty. ’Twas all plain to me. I would not have held him from it, lest I come to love him less.

“Ay,” I moaned, gripping his hand, “you’re goin’!”

“Yes,” he said.

We sat for a moment without speaking. The gale went whipping past—driving madly through the breaking day: a great rush of black, angry weather. ’Twas dim in the room. I could not see his face—but felt his arm warm about me: and wished it might continue there, and that I might fall asleep, serene in all that clamour, sure that I might find it there on waking, or seek it once again, when sore need came. And I thought, even then, that the Lord had been kind to us: in that this man had come sweetly into our poor lives, if but for a time.

“You isn’t goin’ alone, is you?”

“No. Skipper Tommy is coming to sail the sloop.”

Again—and fearsomely—the gale intruded upon us. There was a swish of wind, rising to a long, mad shriek—the roar of rain on the roof—the rattle of windows—the creaking of the timbers of our house. I trembled to hear it.

“Oh, doctor!” I moaned.

“Hush!” he said.

The squall subsided. Rain fell in a monotonous patter. Light crept into the room.

“Davy!”

“Ay, zur?”

“I’m going, now.”

“Is you?”

He drew me very close. “I’ve come to say good-bye,” he said. My head sank in great misgiving against him. I could not say one word. “And you know, lad,” he continued, “that I love your sister. Tell her, when I am gone, that I love her. Tell her——”

He paused. “An’ what, zur,” I asked, “shall I tell my sister for you?”

“Tell her—that I love her. No!” he cried. “’Tis not that. Tell her——”

“Ay?”

“That I loved her!”

“Hist!” I whispered, not myself disquieted by this significant change of form. “She’s stirrin’ in her room.”

It may be that the doctor loved my sister through me—that I found some strange place in his great love for her, to which I had no title, but was most glad to have. For, then, in the sheltering half-light, he lifted me from my bed—crushed me against his breast—held me there, whispering messages I could not hear—and gently laid me down again, and went in haste away. And I dressed in haste: but fumbled at all the buttons, nor could quickly lay hands on my clothes, which were scattered everywhere, by my sad habit; so that, at last, when I was clad for the weather, and had come to my father’s wharf, the sloop was cast off. Skipper Tommy sat in the stern, his face grimly set towards North Tickle and the hungry sea beyond: nor did he turn to look at me. But the doctor waved his hand—and laughed a new farewell.

I did not go to the hills—because I had no heart for that (and had no wish to tell my sister what might be seen from there): but sat grieving on a big box, in the lee of the shop, drumming a melancholy refrain with my heels. And there I sat while the sad light of day spread over the rocky world; and, by and by, the men came out of the cottages—and they went to the hills of God’s Warning, as I knew they would—and came back to the wharf to gossip: but in my presence were silent concerning what they had seen at sea, so that, when I went up to our house, I did not know what the sloop was making of the gale. And when I crossed the threshold, ’twas to a vast surprise: for my breakfast was set on a narrow corner of the kitchen table (and had turned cold); and the whole house was in an amazing state of dust and litter and unseasonable confusion—the rugs lifted, the tables and chairs awry, the maids wielding brooms with utmost vigour: a comfortless prospect, indeed, but not foreign to my sister’s way at troublous times, as I knew. So I ate my breakfast, and that heartily (being a boy); and then sought my sister, whom I found tenderly dusting in my mother’s room.

“’Tis queer weather, Bessie,” said I, in gentle reproof, “for cleanin’ house.”

She puckered her brow—a sad little frown: but sweet, as well, for, downcast or gay, my sister could be naught else, did she try it.

“Is you thinkin’ so, Davy?” she asked, pulling idly at her dust-rag. “Ah, well!” she sighed.

“Why,” I exclaimed, “’tis the queerest I ever knowed!”

“I been thinkin’,” she mused, “that I’d get the house tidied up—while the doctor’s away.”

“Oh, was you?”

“Ay,” she said, looking up; “for he’ve such a wonderful distaste for dust an’ confusion. An’ I’ll have the house all in order,” she added, with a wan smile, “when he gets back.”

’Tis the way of women to hope; but that my clever sister should thus count sure that which lay in grave doubt—admitting no uncertainty—was beyond my understanding.

“Does you think,” she asked, looking away, “that he will be back”—she hesitated—“the morrow?”

I did not deign to reply.

“May be,” she muttered, “the day after.”

’Twas hard to believe it of her. “Bessie,” I began, ignoring her folly, “afore the doctor went, he left a message for you.”

Her hands went swiftly to her bosom. “For me?” she whispered. “Ah, tell me, Davy!”

“I’m just about t’ tell,” said I, testily. “But, sure, ’tis nothin’ t’ put you in a state. When he come t’ my room,” I proceeded, “at dawn, t’ say good-bye, he left a message. ‘Tell her,’ said he, ‘that I love her.’”

It seemed to me, then, that she suffered—that she felt some glorious agony: of which, as I thought, lads could know nothing. And I wondered why.

“That he loves me!” she murmured.

“No,” said I. “‘Tell her not that,’ said he,” I went on. “‘Tell her that I loved her.’”

“Not that!” she cried. “’Twas that he loves me—not that he loved me!”

“’Twas that he loved you.”

“Oh, no!”

“I got it right.”

“Ah, then,” she cried, in despair, “he’ve no hope o’ comin’ back! Oh,” she moaned, clasping her hands, “if only I had——”

But she sighed—and turned again to her womanly task; and I left her tenderly caring for my mother’s old room. And when, at midday, I came up from the wharf, I found the house restored to order and quiet: my sister sitting composed in my mother’s place, smiling a welcome across the table, as my mother used to do. And I kissed her—for I loved her!

It blew up bitter cold—the wind rising: the sea turned white with froth. ’Twas a solemn day—like a sad Sunday, when a man lies dead in the harbour. No work was done—no voice was lifted boisterously—no child was out of doors: but all clung peevishly to their mothers’ skirts. The men on the wharf—speculating in low, anxious voices—with darkened eyes watched the tattered sky: the rushing, sombre clouds, still in a panic fleeing to the wilderness. They said the sloop would not outlive the gale. They said ’twas a glorious death that the doctor and Skipper Thomas Lovejoy had died; thus to depart in the high endeavour to succour an enemy—but shed no tears: for ’tis not the way of our folk to do it.... Rain turned to sleet—sleet to black fog. The smell of winter was in the air. There was a feeling of snow abroad.... Then came the snow—warning flakes, driving strangely through the mist, where no snow should have been. Our folk cowered—not knowing what they feared: but by instinct perceiving a sudden change of season, for which they were not ready; and were disquieted....

What a rush of feeling and things done—what rage and impulsive deeds—came then! The days are not remembered—but lie hid in a mist, as I write.... Timmie Lovejoy crawled into our harbour in the dusk of that day: having gone ashore at Long Cove with the deck-litter of the Trap and Seine; which surprised us not at all, for we are used to such things. And when he gave us the message (having now, God knows! a tragic opportunity, but forgetting that)—when he sobbed that Jagger, being in sound health, would prove the doctor a coward or drown him—we determined to go forthwith by the coast rocks to Wayfarer’s Tickle to punish Jagger in some way for the thing he had done. And when I went up the path to tell my poor sister of the villany practiced upon the doctor, designed to compass his very death—ah! ’tis dreadful to recall it—when I went up the path, my mother’s last prayer pleading in my soul, the whitening world was all turned red; and my wish was that, some day, I might take my enemy by the throat, whereat I would tear with my naked fingers, until my hands were warm with blood.... But it came on to snow; and for two days and nights snow fell, the wind blowing mightily: so that no man could well move from his own house. And when the wind went down, and the day dawned clear again, we put the dogs to my father’s komatik and set out for Wayfarer’s Tickle: whence Jagger had that morning fled, as Jonas Jutt told us.

“Gone!” cried Tom Tot.

“T’ the s‘uth’ard with the dogs. He’s bound t’ the Straits Shore t’ get the last coastal boat t’ Bay o’ Islands.”

“Gone!” we repeated, blankly.

“Ay—but ten hours gone. In mad haste—alone—ill provisioned—fleein’ in terror.... He sat on the hills—sat there like an old crag—in the rain an’ wind—waitin’ for the doctor’s sloop. ‘There she is, Jutt!’ says he. ‘No,’ says I. ‘Thank God, Jagger, that’s a schooner, reefed down an’ runnin’ for harbour!’ ... ‘There she is!’ says he. ‘No,’ says I. ‘Thank God, that’s the same schooner, makin’ heavy weather o’ the gale!’ ... ‘There she is, Jutt!’ says he. ‘Ay,’ says I, ‘God help her, that’s the doctor’s sloop! They’ve wrecked the Trap an’ Seine’.... An’ there he sat, watchin’, with his chin on his hand, ’til the doctor’s sloop went over, an’ the fog drifted over the sea where she had been.... An’ then he went home; an’ no man seed un agin ’til he called for the dogs. An’ he went away—in haste—alone—like a man gone mad....”

The lean-handed clerk broke in. He was blue about the lips—his eyes sunk in shadowy pits—and he was shivering.

“‘Timmons,’ says he to me,” he chattered, “‘I’m going home. I done wrong,’ says he. ‘They’ll kill me for this.’”

“An’ when he got the dogs in the traces,” Jonas proceeded, “I seed he wasn’t ready for no long journey. ‘Good Lord, Jagger,’ says I, ‘you isn’t got no grub for the dogs!’ ‘Dogs!’ says he. ‘I’ll feed the dogs with me whip.’ ‘Jagger,’ says I, ‘don’t you try it. They won’t eat a whip. They can’t live on it.’ ‘Never you fear,’ says he. ‘I’ll feed them ugly brutes when they gets me t’ Cape Charles Harbour.’ ‘Jagger,’ says I, ‘you better look out they don’t feed theirselves afore they gets you there. You got a ugly leader,’ says I, ‘in that red-eyed brute.’ ‘Him?’ says he. ‘Oh, I got him broke!’ But he didn’t have——”

“And with that,” said the clerk, “off he put.”

“Men,” cried Tom Tot, looking about upon our group, “we’ll cotch un yet!”

So we set out in pursuit of Jagger of Wayfarer’s Tickle, who had fled over the hills—I laugh to think of it—with an ugly, red-eyed leader, to be fed with a whip: which dog I knew.... No snow fell. The days were clear—the nights moonlit. Bitter cold continued. We followed a plain track—sleeping by night where the quarry had slept.... Day after day we pushed on: with no mercy on the complaining dogs—plunging through the drifts, whipping the team up the steeper hills, speeding when the going lay smooth before us.... By and by we drew near. Here and there the snow was significantly trampled. There were signs of confusion and cross purposes. The man was desperately fighting his dogs.... One night, the dogs were strangely restless—sniffing the air, sleepless, howling; nor could we beat them to their beds in the snow: they were like wolves. And next day—being then two hours after dawn—we saw before us a bloody patch of snow: whereupon Tom Tot cried out in horror.

“Oh, dear God!” he muttered, turning with a gray face. “They’ve eat him up!”

Then—forgetting the old vow—he laughed.

... And this was true. They had eaten him up. The snow was all trampled and gory. They had eaten him up. Among the tatters of his garments, I found a hand; and I knew that hand for the hand of Jagger of Wayfarer’s Tickle.... They had turned wolves—they had eaten him up. From far off—the crest of a desolate hill—there came a long howl. I looked towards that place. A great dog appeared—and fled. I wondered if the dog I knew had had his day. I wondered if the first grip had been upon the throat....

When we came again to our harbour—came close again to the grief we had in rage and swift action forgot—when, from the inland hills, we caught sight of the basin of black water, and the cottages, snuggled by the white water-side—we were amazed to discover a schooner lying at anchor off my father’s wharf: the wreck of a craft, her topmast hanging, her cabin stove in, her jib-boom broke off short. But this amazement—this vast astonishment—was poor surprise as compared with the shock I got when I entered my father’s house. For, there—new groomed and placid—sat the doctor; and my dear sister was close to him—oh, so joyfully close to him—her hand in his, her sweet face upturned to him and smiling, glowing with such faith and love as men cannot deserve: a radiant, holy thing, come straight from the Heart of the dear God, who is the source of Love.

“Oh!” I ejaculated, stopping dead on the threshold.

“Hello, Davy!” the doctor cried.

I fell into the handiest chair. “You got home,” I observed, in a gasp. “Didn’t you?”

He laughed.

“Sure,” I began, vacantly, “an’, ecod!” I exclaimed, with heat, “what craft picked you up?”

“The Happy Sally.”

“Oh!” said I. ’Twas a queer situation. There seemed so little to say. “Was you drove far?” I asked, politely seeking to fill an awkward gap.

“South o’ Belle Isle.”

“Ah!”

The doctor was much amused—my sister hardly less so. They watched me with laughing eyes. And they heartlessly abandoned me to my own conversational devices: which turned me desperate.

“Is you goin’ t’ get married?” I demanded.

My sister blushed—and gave me an arch glance from behind her long, dark lashes. But—

“We are not without hope,” the doctor answered, calmly, “that the Bishop will be on our coast next summer.”

“I’m glad,” I observed, “that you’ve both come t’ your senses.”

“Oh!” cried my sister.

“Ecod!” the doctor mocked.

“Ay,” said I, with a wag. “I is that!”

The doctor spoke. “’Twas your sister,” said he, “found the way. She discovered a word,” he continued, turning tenderly to her, his voice charged with new and solemn feeling, “that I’d forgot.”

“A word!” said I, amazed.

“Just,” he answered, “one word.”

’Twas mystifying. “An’ what word,” I asked, “might that word be?”

“‘Expiation,’” he replied.

I did not know the meaning of that word—nor did I care. But I was glad that my dear sister—whose cleverness (and spirit of sacrifice) might ever be depended upon—had found it: since it had led to a consummation so happy.

“Skipper Tommy saved?” I enquired

“He’s with the twins at the Rat Hole.”

“Then,” said I, rising, “as you’re both busy,” said I, in a saucy flash, “I’ll be goin’——”

“You’ll not!” roared the doctor. And he leaped from his seat—bore down upon me, indeed, like a mad hurricane: my sister laughing and clapping her little hands. So I knew I must escape or have my bones near crack under the pressure of his affection; and I was agile—and eluded him.

I found Skipper Tommy and the twins at the Rat Hole—the skipper established in comfort by the stove, a cup of tea at his hand, his stockinged feet put up to warm: the twins sitting close, both grinning broadly, each finely alert to anticipate the old man’s wants, who now had acquired a pampered air, which sat curiously upon him. “Seems t’ me, Davy,” he said, in a solemn whisper, at the end of the tale, new told for me, “that the dear Lard took pity. ‘You done pretty well, Tommy,’ says He, ‘t’ put out t’ the help o’ Jagger in that there gale. I’m thinkin’ I’ll have t’ change my mind about you,’ says He. ‘The twins, Tommy,’ says He, ‘is well growed, an’ able lads, both, as I knowed when I started out t’ do this thing; but I’m thinkin’,’ says He, ‘that I’ll please you, Tommy,’ says He, ‘by lettin’ you live a little longer with them dear lads.’ Oh,” the skipper concluded, finding goodness in all the acts of the Lord, the while stretching out his rough old hand to touch the boys, his face aglow, “’twas wonderful kind o’ Him t’ let me see my lads again!”

The twins heartily grinned.