feather in her hat, Mrs. Jarvis was just the sort of woman to lose her
faith upon the moors--to confound her God with the universal that is--
but she did not lose her faith, did not leave her husband, never read
her poem through, and went on walking the moors, looking at the moon
behind the elm trees, and feeling as she sat on the grass high above
Scarborough... Yes, yes, when the lark soars; when the sheep, moving a
step or two onwards, crop the turf, and at the same time set their bells
tinkling; when the breeze first blows, then dies down, leaving the cheek
kissed; when the ships on the sea below seem to cross each other and
pass on as if drawn by an invisible hand; when there are distant
concussions in the air and phantom horsemen galloping, ceasing; when the
horizon swims blue, green, emotional--then Mrs. Jarvis, heaving a sigh,
thinks to herself, "If only some one could give me... if I could give
some one...." But she does not know what she wants to give, nor who
could give it her.

"Mrs. Flanders stepped out only five minutes ago, Captain," said
Rebecca. Captain Barfoot sat him down in the arm-chair to wait. Resting
his elbows on the arms, putting one hand over the other, sticking his
lame leg straight out, and placing the stick with the rubber ferrule
beside it, he sat perfectly still. There was something rigid about him.
Did he think? Probably the same thoughts again and again. But were they
"nice" thoughts, interesting thoughts? He was a man with a temper;
tenacious, faithful. Women would have felt, "Here is law. Here is order.
Therefore we must cherish this man. He is on the Bridge at night," and,
handing him his cup, or whatever it might be, would run on to visions of
shipwreck and disaster, in which all the passengers come tumbling from
their cabins, and there is the captain, buttoned in his pea-jacket,
matched with the storm, vanquished by it but by none other. "Yet I have
a soul," Mrs. Jarvis would bethink her, as Captain Barfoot suddenly blew