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. "She
ain't no ship of our parts. I never seen the like o' she."

There was a glinting of light cast forth by bright brasses, and I could
see a red spot which appeared to indicate the presence of a woman on
board, clad perhaps in a crimson cape or shawl.

We kept on staring at her for some time, as people do in forsaken places
when a stranger passes by, and we returned to the bedside.

The day stretched out its interminable length, but the night was longer
still. The children had been put to bed in dark corners, after a meal of
fish and hard bread. The smallest had clamored for some tea.

"There ain't no more," said the mother.