A disconsolate man was
trying to mend a badly frayed net and a few ragged children, gaunt and
underfed, followed me about, curiously, whispering among themselves.
The sick man's wife sat most of the time, near the bed, hour after hour,
a picture of intense, stolid misery. From time to time she wailed because
there was no more tea. Always she hastened to obey my slightest request,
clumsily, faithfully, like some humble dog to which some hard and
scarcely understood task might have been given. One could see that she
really had no hope. The usual way was for the men to fail to return, some
day, when they went out and were caught in a bad storm, or when the
ice-floes drifted out to sea, and then the women would wait, patiently,
until the certainty of their bereavement had entered their souls. This
one had the sad privilege of witnessing the tragedy. It was all happening
in the little house of disjointed planks, and perhaps she took some
comfort in the idea that she would be there at the last moment. It was
easy to see, however, that she considered my efforts as some sort of rite
which, at most, might comfort the dying.
Before noon, when the haze had lifted before the sweep of a north east
wind, one of the children called. The mother went out, hurriedly, while I
stood at the open door. About a mile away a stunning white schooner was
steaming towards the entrance of Sweetapple Cove.
"I'm a-wonderin' what she be doin' here," said the woman, dully.
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