University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.
SKIPPER GEORGE'S STORY.

IN the evening of that day, which had been beautiful
to the end, Skipper George's daughter seemed more
full of life than ever. In the last hour of daylight
she had given her lesson to her little sister, who was no
great proficient at learning, and who was, by degrees,
(like some other children, with other words,) getting broken
of making “c-o-d” spell “fish.” She tripped across the
even ground in front of the house, to meet her father, with
a lighter step than usual, and was busier than ever within
doors. When supper was over, and after the three-wicked
lamp in the chimney was lighted, she read, out
of a book that Miss Dare had lent her, a story of an
ancient mariner, and his strange voyage; while the mother
knitted a pair of woollen leggings for her husband, and the
stout fisher sat upright, with Janie on his knee, sometimes
looking at his daughter as she read, and sometimes looking,
musingly, into the fire, where the round bake-pot stood,
covered with its blazing “splits,” and tinkled quietly to
itself.

George Barbury was a large, strong-bodied man, more
than six feet in height, with a broad chest, and every way
a pattern of a stout, healthy fisherman. His rusty clothes,
—jacket, and vest, and trowsers,—patched evenly and
cleanly at the knees and elbows, had a manly look; so

had his shoes, with their twine-ties, and his strong, thick-ribbed
stockings, and thick woollen shirt, and plain black
'kerchief round his neck; but, above all, that weather-beaten
face of his, with grizzled whiskers half-way down,
and the kind, simple eyes, that looked out over all at one,
and the bald head, with grizzled, curling locks, of those that
always look as if they never grew beyond a certain length
and never needed cutting. All this great, massive head
and kindly face were open now, for, in deference to the
reading,[1] he sat uncovered. The little girl had listened,
at first, with great interest, to the wondrous rhyme, but
was soon asleep, with one arm stretched at length over
her father's, with the little, busy hand at rest, having
dropped the chip which, at first, had illustrated the story;
one wing of her cap was pushed up from her chubby face,
and one stout little leg was thrust forth, so as to show a
shoe studded with nail-heads all around the sole.

The daughter, by natural gift of God and happy growth,
was, in some ways, a different being from her parents.
Much beauty of outward things, much beauty of inward
thoughts, and an ideal world,—with its sky above, and
earth and boundless sea below,—which lies in the mind
of every speaking or mute poet, as the old Platonists supposed
it to lie in the divine mind;—these things this girl
saw, and her parents saw not; even her mother, only
partly. In the vision of these, the daughter was beyond
the one; apart from the other. But in how much more
had she deep sympathy with them and kindred to them,
because she had lost nothing while she had gained so
much! All human hearts and minds that have not
quenched that light of Christ “that lighteth every man
that cometh into the world,” can know and feel truth,

heartiness, manliness, womanliness, childlikeness, at sight,
much or a little; and the conscience which Lucy brought
to judge of higher things and things farther, was the self-same
that the rest of them applied to lower and near
things. Some sentences of false religion she quietly
changed in reading, and only spoke of them when all was
done.

The fisherman approved the painting of the icebergs,
and the bending over, and pitching and swaying of the
ship, and the shaking of the sails, and the dropping down

and the mother approved the moral that bade us love all
things, both great and small, after that more than once
the tears had come to her eyes as she sat knitting; and
Lucy's voice, as gentle and musical, and clear as the gurgle
of a brook that the rain has filled, would sometimes
run fuller, and sometimes break, and sometimes cease to
be heard for a while, and she would sit and gaze at the
burning lamp or the fire, or up through the wide chimney
at the starry sky; and they all thought that the words
about the silent sea, and the wondrous harmonies made
by the blessed spirits through the sailors' bodies, were exceeding
beautiful. And after it was done, the father and
mother, and the bright girl,—who had so many more, and
so much fairer, fancies than they,—all agreed in this judgment:
that no man had a right to bring false religion, or
a lie against the honor of God, into poetry, any more
than into the catechism.

“'Tis n' right to put in about `Mary, Queen,' and the
`Mother of Heaven,'—for I suppose 'e was a larn'd man
that could write what 'e woul', Lucy?” said the father, in
a tone of regret; “'e should n' help the wrong, when

there's so many taken by it, and mubbe lost forever!
We got no right to `make mention o' they names within
our lips,' as the psalm says.”

The mother spoke, perhaps not less sadly, but more
severely:

“Yes, child, it's just that part will do mischief;”—the
mother had been a Roman Catholic, it will be remembered.
“They can't go such a voyage, or see such sights,
but they can call her queen, and pray to her.”

“Yes, indeed,” said the bright-eyed daughter. “It's
all a wild thing, and one part no more true than another;
but I think it might do mischief.”

“And it's not well having much to do with Roman
Catholics,” continued the mother, more pointedly, while
her daughter looked with a fixed gaze into her face, dropping
her eyes when her mother raised hers from her
work.

“They'm not all bad,” said Skipper George, “though
they're all wrong in religion surely. Thou wasn't very
bad, Mother,” he continued, with a tender smile at his
wife, “when thou was one o' them; though 'ee 're better
sunce, that's a sure case. I walked a good piece wi' a
pleasan'-lookin' gentleman, (much like a reverend gentleman
'e seemed,) an' so 'e said we musn' think they'm all
bad.”

At him, again, the daughter looked with a long, fixed
gaze, holding her book upon her knees. Presently, the
fisherman got up, and, laying down his little load at length
upon the bench, went forth into the evening.

A full, round moon was shining in a sky so clear that
it seemed, really, as if space were empty. Half day it
was, and yet full night; and as the fisher, crossing the
green before his house, mounted the ridge and leaned

against a lone tree or mast that stood up from the earth
of a cleft in the rocks, the harbor-road below him was
shown plainly, and the houses at its side, and in the cove
not far off, stood plainly outlined,—larger and smaller,
dark and white,—some in their own inclosures, some as
if there were no land in any way belonging to them but
the public thoroughfare; yet was there no sight or sound
of living thing, except the frequent bark of dogs, and the
innumerable waves, rising and falling everywhere, in their
most glorious cloth of silver, which they wear only at
such times.

As he stood silently, a step drew near.

“A good evenun, sir!” said Skipper George, in a voice
of kindly courtesy, turning and recognizing the gentleman
of whom he had spoken a few moments before, who was
not immediately aware of his being addressed, but collected
himself, almost instantly, and turning aside from the path
that he was following, cordially returned the stout fisher's
salutation.

“I beg pardon for makun so free to hail 'ee, sir,” said
the latter, leaving his place, and coming forward to meet
the stranger-gentleman; “mubbe 'ee was in a hurry, or
thinkin' o' somethun particular.”

“I was thinking; but am willing to be interrupted. I
haven't forgotten our walk together, nor your story, nor
the lesson you drew from it.”

“It's very good of 'ee, sir, to mind me. There's
amany things happen that we may take warnun from, ef
we woul'; an' the Lard make men knowledgeable to take
notice an' larn from things, I suppose. We wants teachun
—amany of us, sir.”

“All of us,” said the gentleman, whom the reader
knows as Father Debree. I was thinking as I came

across here, with the moon before me, how we mistake
about ourselves! That moon belongs to this earth; that
we count ourselves masters of; it keeps going round it,
and can't get away; and yet in six thousand years we've
never been able to go, or send, or do any thing to it.”

While he spoke, and the fisherman turned his open face
broad to the fair, bright planet, the width of silent emptiness
between the earth and it might have seemed a real
thing, shown to the eye. Before Mr. Debree had finished
speaking his companion was looking, with the expression
of thought suggested by the words, into his face.

“There's one Master,” said he, after the words were
spoken; “we're servants, but we may be children;” and
his great, manly build, and the graying hue of his hair,
and the deep lines of his face, as the moon showed them,
gave a peculiar character to what he said.

“You had the best lookout in the neighborhood,” said
Mr. Debree, walking to the spot on which Skipper George
had been before standing and looking abroad from it.
“This tree didn't grow here,” said he, looking up at
the gray trunk glistening in the moonlight.

“No, sir; 'twas set there,” said the fisherman.

“Is it a landmark?”

“'Is, sir, it may be, in a manner; but not for s'ilun on
those waters. 'Twas set there when riches was taken
aw'y. Riches came agen, but 'twas laved, for 'e'd larned
partly how to value riches.”

The gentleman looked, as the moonlight showed, interestedly
at the speaker: “Another story with a lesson in
it?” he said. “If it were not for keeping you out so late,
I would ask you to do me the favor of telling it.”

“Ay, sir,” said Skipper George. “I said there were
amany lessons sent us. This one comed nearer to me

again than the tother. I hope I've larned somethun by
that story! Fishermen don't heed night hours much:
but it's late for you as well, sir. Mubbe 'ee'd plase to
walk inside a bit?” he asked, with modest urgency.
“It's a short story, only a heavy one!”

“Another time, perhaps,” said the strange gentleman;
“not now, if you'll excuse me; but if it wouldn't be too
much trouble I would thank you for it where we are.
One hour or another is much the same to me.”

At the first words of this answer Skipper George
turned a look of surprise at the stranger, and when the
latter had finished speaking asked,

“Be 'ee stayun hereabouts, then, sir?”

Perhaps he may have thought it strange that one who
looked so like a clergyman should be staying for any
length of time in the neighborhood without being better
known.

“I am a clergyman,” said the gentleman, frankly;
“but not of your church; and I don't feel free until I'm
better known.”

Skipper George apparently weighed the answer. He
did not urge his invitation; but his open face became
clear and kindly as ever.

“Then, sir,” said he, “ef 'ee'd plase to be seated here,
I'd tell the story. I know it well.”

Before beginning it the fisherman cast a look at his
house, and then gazed awhile upon the restless waves
which here glanced with the gleam of treacherous eyes,
and there were dark as death.

“Do 'ee mind about ten years ago, in Newfoundland,
sir?” began Skipper George, turning his steady eyes to
his hearer, and speaking as if the date or the years
since the date had been painful to him; “the hard

year that was when they had the `ralls,' they called
'em?”

“Yes; though I was in England at the time, I know
pretty well what happened in Newfoundland. It was a
sad time.”

“Ay, sir, 'twas a sad time. Many people suffered:
some wanted food, and more agen got broken in spirit,
(and that's bad for a man,) and some got lawless like.
'Twas a sad time, indeed!” Skipper George, having
lingered thus before his tale, began it abruptly: “Well,
sir, 'twas on the sixteen day of January,—a Thursday
'twas,—I was acomun down Backside from the Cosh,
hau'ling a slide-load o' timber, an' my youngest son wi'
me. It had abeen a fine day, first goun off, (for a winter's
day,) wi' just a flurry o' snow now and agen, and a
deal o' snow on the ground, tull about afternoon it begun
to blow from about west and by nothe, or thereaway,
heavy and thick, an' growun heavier an' heavier, an'
bitter cold. Oh! 'twas bitter cold! We did n' say much
together, George an' I, but we got along so fast as ever
we could. 'Twas about an hour or two before night,
mubbe; and George says to me, `Let's lave the slide,
Father!' 'Twas n' but we could ha' kep' on wi' it,
though 'twas tarrible cold, hard work; but 'twas somethun
else!

“So we turned the slide out o' the way and laved her,
and comed on. 'Twas blowun gales up over Backside;
we could sca'ce keep our feet; an' I hard somethun like a
voice—I suppose I was thinkun o' voices—an' I brought
right up into the wind. 'Twas just like beun at sea, in a
manner, and a craft drivin' right across our wake, an'
would ha' been out o' sight an' hearun in a minute. Then
I knowed by the sound 'twas the Minister—(we did n'

have e'er a reverend gentleman of our own in they days;
but 'e lived over in Sandy Harbor and 'e'd oose to go all
round the Bay.) We could sca'ce bide together, but I
was proper glad to meet un, (for a minister's a comfort,
'ee know, sir;) an' 'e said, `Is any body out?' `There's
two o' brother Izik's orphans, sir, I'm afeared, an' others
along wi' 'em,' I said. So 'e said, `God help them!'
`Where are your two other boys, James and Maunsell?'
`Along wi' brother Izik's two,' I said. 'Twas blowun
tarrible hard, and cold, and thick; an' the Minister
turned wi' us, and we comed up, ploddun through the
driftun snow, and over the rudge. When we opened the
door, first the mother thought there was four of us; and
so she said, `James!' for we was all snowed over; but
she sid there was only three, and 'twas the Minister wi'
us two. So she begged his pardon, an' told un our poor
boys were out agunnun, an' she was an ole punt they had.
We were all standun (for we didn' think o' nawthin but
the boys) when two comed into the door all white wi'
snow. 'Twas n' they two, sir, but 'twas my nevy Jesse
an' another. `Haven't they comed?' 'e said. `Dear,
what's keepun they?'

“Jesse had abin out, too, wi' Izik Maffen and Zippity
Marchant, an' they were all over to back-side o' Sandy
Harbor together; on'y our poor young men were about
three parts of a mile further down, mubbe. So, when it
comed on to blow, Jesse an' his crew made straight for
Back-Cove an' got in, though they were weak-handed,
for one had hurted his hand-wrist,—and so, in about
three hours, they got round by land, an' thought the
tother poor fellows would do so well. `What can us do,
Uncle Georgie?' 'e said; for he's a proper true-hearted
man, sir, an' 'e was a'mos' cryun. `First, we can pray,'

said the Minister; an' so he said a prayer. I make no
doubt I was thinkun too much over the poor young fellows;
and the wind made a tarrible great bellowing down
the chimley and all round the house, an' so I was ruther
aw'y from it more 'an I ought. Then the Minister an'
Jesse an' I started out. My mistress didn' want me to
go; but I couldn' bide; an' so, afore we'd made much
w'y up harbor agen the wind, an' growun dark, (though
twasn' snowun,) we met a man comun from tother side,
Abram Frank, an' 'e said last that was seen of our four
was, they were pullun in for Hobbis's Hole, an' then
somethun seemed to give way like, wi' one of 'em rowun,
an' then they gave over and put her aw'y before the
wind, an' so as long as they could see any thing of 'em,
one was standun up sculling astarn. (That was my
James, sir!”)

A very long, gently-breathed sigh here made itself
heard in the deep hush, and as Mr. Debree turned he
saw the sweet face of Skipper George's daughter turned
up to her father, with tears swimming in both eyes and
glistening on her cheek. She had come up behind, and
now possessed herself quietly of her father's hand.

“So we turned back, an' the Minister wi' us, ('twas a
cruel night to be out in,) an' the wind a'mos' took an'
lifted us, an' sot us down by the foot o' the path over the
rudge; but when we got atop here, and it comed athwart,
it brought us all down kneelun, an' we could sca'ce get
over to the door. The poor mother got up from the
chimley-corner and came for'ard, but she needn' ask any
thin; an' there was a pretty young thing by the fire
(this girl was a little thing, asleep, but there was a pretty
young thing there) that never got up nor looked round;
'twas Milly Ressle, that was troth-plight to James. They

was to have been married in a week, ef the Lord willed;
and 'twas for 'e's house we were drawun out the timber.
She just rocked herself on the bench.—She's gone, long
enough ago, now, sir!

“So the Minister took the Book, and read a bit. I
heard un, an' I didn' hear un; for I was aw'y out upon
the stormy waters wi' the poor young men. Oh, what
a night it was! it's no use! blowun an' bellowun an'
freezun, an' ice all along shore to leeward!

“Well, then, sir, about two hours o' night, there comed
a lull, an' then there was a push or shake at the door, an'
another,—an' another,—an' another,—(so it was, we all
thought,) and then the door banged open. There wasn'
a one of us but was standun upon 'is feet, an' starun out
from the kitchun, when it opened. 'Twas nawthing but
cold blasts comed in, an' then a lull agen for a second or
two. So I shut to the door; an' the poor mother broke
out acryun, an' poor Milly fell over, an' slipped right
down upon the hearthstone. We had a heavy time of it
that night, sir; but when the door banged open that time,
this child that was a little thing then, lyun upon the
bench sleepun, made a soart of a gurgle, like, when the
first sound comed to the door, and then when the flaws
o' wind comed in she smiled, and smiled agen, and
laughed, as ef a body m'y be sayun pooty things to her
in d'y-time. Jesse sid it, an' plucked me by the coat-sleeve,
and I sid it, too.

“Well, sir, night passed: 'ee may be sure we didn'
sleep much, on'y cat-naps; and once or twice I falled
into a kind of a dwall,[2] an' started, thinkun they was
speakun to me. Mornun comed slow and cold—colder
than night. So the nighbors comed in at mornun, and

sat by; and now an' agen one 'ould say they were fine
young men; an' after a bit another 'd say James was a
brave heart, and how he saved a boat's crew three years
ago, scullun them into B'y-Harbor; an' so they said how
he begun to teach in Sunday-school Sunday before; an'
how brave 'e was, when they sid the last of un, scullun
aw'y round the point and over the b'y, for t'other side,
or for Bell-Isle, or some place to leeward. So they said
James 'ould take 'em safe, plase God, an' we'd hear of
'em some place over the b'y in a d'y or two. Then
they said they wondered ef the young men could keep
from freezun their handès, an' said mubbe they wouldn'
git touched, for they was all well-clothed, an' James 'ould
keep up their spirits, an' brother Izik's little George was
a merry boy, an' great play-game for the rest; an' my
Maunsell an' 'e's tother cousin, John, were steady young
men, an' wouldn' give up very easy; but they were both
quiet, and looked up to James, though John was a good
bit older.

“Wull, sir, the day went on, cold, cold, an' blowun
heavy, an' the water black an' white, wi' white shores, an'
slob-ice all along;—an' more, agen, an' heavier, to leeward,
sartenly. We could n' stir hand or foot that day,
nor next; but the Lord's day came in softer, an' we got
a good crew an' a stout punt to sarch for the four
poor boys that had been three days a missun, and old Mr.
Williamson, the clerk that is now, sir,[3] made a prayer
over us before we laved. When we come to put off, they
left me standun; I make no doubt but Jesse maned to
spare me; but I called un back, for I said, why should I
be settun wi' my hands folded, or walking about, lookun
out over the water, and I may just so well be doun somethun

like a father for my sons an' for my brother's orphans?

“We made for Broad Cove; for so we thought the
wind would ha' driven the poor young fellows a-Thursday;
but we couldn' get into Broad Cove, for the slob an' cakes
of ice. The shore looked tarrible cruel!”

Skipper George sate thoughtful a moment, and then
began again.

“At Port'gal Cove,” he continued, looking over the
water, “they did n' know about e'er a punt, an' no more
they did n' at Broad Cove, nor Holly-Rood; for we staid
three days, an' walked an' sarched all over. An' so a
Thursday morn agen we comed back home;—'twas cold,
but still. So when we comed round Peterport-Point,
(that's it over at the outside o' Blazun Head, yonder,)
every man, a'most, looked over his shoulder, thinkun
mubbe they'd got in; but 'twas n' so. They had n' come,
nor they hadn' been hard from. So my mistress, an'
Milly, an' George, an' I, an' this maid kneeled down after
I'd told 'em how 'twas, an' prayed to the good Lord.

“An' so we waited, an' did n' hear from the four poor
boys, not for a good many days!”

Skipper George stopped here again for a while.

“Awell, sir, then there comed word over, that some
men had abin found at Broad Cove!—It was n' known
who they were; but we knowed. So they got Mr. Worner's
boat, an' a crew of 'em went round, an' Skipper
'Enery Ressle, an' Skipper Izik Ressle (that was Milly's
father,) an' Skipper Izik Marchant, ('e was n' Skipper
then, however,) but a many friends goed in her,—I could
n' go that time, sir.

“'Twas about sun-goun-down, she comed in. Never a
word nor a sound! She looked black, seemunly; an' no

colors nor flag.—'Twas they! Sure enough, 'twas
they!

“A man had sid a punt all covered wi' ice, an' hauled
her up; an' when he comed to clear away the ice, there
was a man, seemunly, in the for'ard part! He called
the nighbors; an', sure enough, there 'e was, an' another
one, along wi' un; an' both seemunly a-kneelun an' leanun
over the for'ard th'art. They were the two brothers,
John an' little George, frozen stiff, an' two arms locked together!
They died pr'yun, sir, most likely; so it seemed.
They was good lads, sir, an' they knowed their God!

“So, then, they thought there was n' no more —”

The fisherman here made a longer pause, and getting
up from his seat, said “I'll be back, after a bit sir;” and
walking away from Mr. Debree and his daughter, stood
for a little while with his back toward them and his head
bare.

The maiden bent her gentle face upon her knee within
her two hands. The moonlight glossed her rich black
hair, glanced from her white cap, and gave a grace to
her bended neck. At the first motion of her father to
turn about, she rose to her feet and awaited him. Upon
him too,—on his head, bared of its hair, above, on his
broad, manly front, and on his steady eye,—the moonlight
fell beautifully. Mr. Debree rose, also, to wait for him.

Skipper George came back and took up his broken
story.

“Bumbye, sir, when they comed to the after-part of
the boat, there they found a young man lyun in the starnsheets,
wi' no coat, an' his—an' his—his poor, lovun arm
under 'is brother's neck;—an' the tother had the jacket
rolled up for a pillow under his head, an' I suppose 'e
died there, sleepun upon the jacket, that 'is brother rolled
up for un.”

The voice of the father was very tender and touching;
but he did not give way to tears.

“So, sir, that young man had done 'is part, and sculled
'em safe right along wi' the tarrible cruel gale, aw'y over
a twenty miles or more, to a safe cove, an' his hand-wristès
were all worn aw'y wi' workun at the oar; but 'e
never thought of a cruel gate of ice right afore the cove;
an' so we made no doubt when 'e found that, in dark
night, and found 'e could n' get through, nor 'e could n'
walk over, then 'e gave hisself up to his God, an' laid
down, an' put his tired arm round his brother; an' so
there they were, sir, in short after that, (it couldn' ha'
been long,) there was four dead men in their boat,
awaitun, outside o' Broad Cove, tull some one 'ould come
an' take their poor bodies, an' strip aw'y the ice from 'em
an' put 'em in the ground, that comes more nat'ral, in
a manner, sir!

“—They did n' find e'er an oar,—whatever becomed
of 'em; but they found their poor guns, an' the two orphans
had their names cut `John Barbury,' an' `George
Barbury,' an' one of 'em had `Pet—' for Peterport, an'
couldn' cut no more, for cold—an' death.

“There was three guns cut; an' one had `James
Barb—,' that poor Maunsell must ha' cut, poor fellow,
afore the deadly cold killed un. So the kind people that
found the poor boys, they thought James was a respectable
young man, an' when they comed to lay 'em out, in the
school-house, (they were proper kind, sir,) they put a
ruffle-shirt on him, o' linen.

“So, sir, the Minister comed over an' buried the dead.
Four coffins were laid along the aisle, wi' a white sheet
over every one, because we had n' palls: James, an'
Maunsell, of George, an' John, an' little George, of Izik;

an' we put two brothers in one grave, an' two brothers in
another, side by side, an' covered them!

“There was two thousand at the funeral; an' when the
Minister couldn' help cryun, so I think a'most every one
cried, as ef 'twas their own; an' so we hard that people
that lived on Kelley's Island hard singun goun by in the
dark, like chantun we haves in church. They said 'twas
beautiful, comun up an' dyun aw'y, an' so, goun aw'y
wi' the wind. It's very like, sir, as Paul an' Silas sang
in prison, so they sang in storm!

“Then Milly, poor thing, that never goed back to 'er
father's house, took a cold at the funeral, seemunly, an'
she died in James's bed a three weeks after! She was
out of her mind, too, poor thing!”

After another silence, in which Skipper George gazed
upon the restless deep, he said,

“I brought home wi' me the best stick from the timber,
and laved the rest, an' no one ever touched it, an' there
it staid. So next winter, sir, my tother poor young man
died in the woods, o' masles; (—thank God! we never
had to move in[4] till I lost my fine boys,) an' the next
sixteen day of January I set up my pillar, as Jacob set
his pillar, an' this is my pillar, sir. I said the Lord gived,
an' the Lord have tookt away; blessed be the name of
the Lord.—All the riches I had I thought 'twas gone.”

“You said riches came again,” said Mr. Debree, deeply
interested and affected.

“Ay, sir. My maid is gone back to the house. I can'
tell 'ee what she is, sir. There's a plenty in the harbor
will speak o' Lucy Barbury, sir. I hope 'ee'll excuse me
for keepin 'ee so late.”

“I thank you, with all my heart, for that beautiful

story,” said Mr. Debree, shaking the fisherman's hand.
“Good night, Skipper George! You have learned a
lesson, indeed, and, with God's grace, it shall do me good.
It's a noble lesson!”

“The Lord showed me where to find it in my Bible
an' my Pr'yer-book, sir. I wish 'ee a good evenun, sir.”

—So there was a historic beauty (to those who
knew them) about the girls in that house.

They were the only remaining children of George
Barbury. Skipper George, as he was called, though he
neither owned nor “sailed” a schooner, had lost his
greatest wealth (as things go here)—three fine sons,—all
three in early manhood; two at one time, and afterward
his last. This was a great loss. It made the father
stronger in himself, standing alone and stretching upward;
but it desolated this world very much for him. Those
sons would have enlarged his family; with them and
theirs he would one day have manned his schooner for
“the Larbadore.”[5] He would have been another man at
the head of such a race.

They were all gone now; and the father was, perhaps,
the better man for it; (a brave, good, kindly man he
was;) and the people respected him, and they called him
“Skipper” as a token of respect.

One of these girls remained, and one was given to him
after his loss; and Lucy had grown into a young woman;
and in her case, most certainly, it was a good thing that
her father had made up his mind never to set his heart
on any human thing. He had her with him often on the
water, and he was glad to watch her at her work at home
and hear her read; yet steadily he threw her on herself,
(in his homely wisdom,) to make a woman of her; and

himself looked out of his more lonely life, with great
fatherly eyes upon her; rejoicing in her beauty and
goodness, and thoughtfulness, and hoping much from her;
but counting her as not altogether belonging to himself.

She had her own end before her from her childhood,
which seemed to be do her utmost work in the world;
and, first, to fill her brothers' place. She did not ask or
talk; but she took heed, and heard, and saw, and felt
and thus grew and learned. At ten years of age she first
made up her mind that she would never grow into a man,
and so fill up her father's loss. When some chance conversation
first brought her to this point, (which, very
likely, she had feared before,) there was seen a flow and
ebb of blood; and tears got as high as the level of her
lids; and then, without asking or saying, she knew that it
was a woman's place she was to have. So in all girls'
ways she did her utmost, and into whatever she did or
learned, she threw herself with all her might.

Her mother was a most sensible woman, with much the
same spirit as her husband's; and being younger, by ten
years or so, than he, was, for that reason, more a companion
of her daughter. For other teaching than she got
at home and on the water, there was the school which
Mr. Wellon had succeeded in establishing, where Lucy
Barbury outlearned every thing; and Mr. Wellon, finding
this quiet, pretty little girl so bright, taught her himself, in
some things, and lent her books. Miss Dare made much
of her, too; talked with her, and listened to her, and encouraged
her, and read with her; and Lucy grew astonishingly
in wisdom and even in what is learned from
books.

This night, within the house again, for a while, Lucy
Barbury sate looking, with absent eyes, at her father, who

himself sate late; then she trimmed the lamp, and busied
herself with paper and pencil.

It was all silent till their evening prayer-time; then,
late as it was, Lucy read the New Testament lesson for
the day; and the father used the evening collects of the
Common-prayer-book, holding little Janie again in his
arms; and then the little gathering was broken up.

It was the parents' way to leave their daughter to her
own times, and she trimmed her lamp and sate in the
chimney after they were gone to bed.

The next morning they found her lying, in her clothes,
upon her bed, burning with fever.

Dr. Aylwin was sent for, from Brigus, and said that
“it was severe, and would not be over in a day—or two.”