Mr. Barnett stopped to shake hands with a few of them, and I heard little bits of their talk, which made me feel very unhappy.

“I jist seen Frenchy little whiles ago,” one of them was saying, “and they wuz tears runnin’ erlong the face o’ he.  Yes, man, he were cryin’ like a young ’un, though some does say as his bye be better.  Things must sure be awful bad with th’ doctor.”

The fisherman brandished his splitting knife as he spoke, and, with his torn oilskins dripping with blood and slime he was a terrible-looking figure, until his arms fell to his side and he stood there, an abject picture of dejection.

Then I heard a woman’s voice.  She is a poor thing whose husband and two sons were “ketched” last year, as they say, by these dreadful seas, and some think that her brain is a little affected.

“I mistrust as they is times when th’ Lord ’Un’s kept too busy ter be tendin’ ter all as needs Him bad,” she cried.

“Hush, woman!” an old man reproved her.  “Ye’ll be temptin’ the wrath o’ God on all of us wid sich talkin’s.”

The poor creature stopped, awed by the dread possibilities of bringing down further punishment upon the Cove, and began to weep in silence.

The men had removed their sou’westers and their caps when we came up to them.  I believe that our arrival relieved them a little from their fears.  They have such a touching faith in all who have been kind and friendly to them.  It looked as if our coming was something material that they could lean upon, for, in their ignorance, they deem us capable of achieving wonderful things.  I am certain that they firmly believe that their little parson is able to intercede with higher powers far more effectively than they possibly can, with their humble prayers.  So a few of them returned to their fish-houses, and women and children hastened back to the flakes, since the sun was shining and the cod must be dried even if the heavens fall.  I remember that when we entered the house I was very nervous and afraid.  It is very natural, Aunt Jennie, for a girl to be frightened when she has never seen much sickness before, and one is lying helpless who has always been such a kind friend.

His little iron bed had been put up in a corner of the room, and the doctor was lying upon it, with his face very red.  His breathing came very hard and rapidly, and it was horribly distressing to see a man brought to such a state, who, a few days ago, was so full of life and strength.  Yet when he saw me he made an effort to rise to a sitting position, and his eyes brightened, but he looked anxiously at me.

“You haven’t gone yet,” he said, hoarsely.  “And you, Barnett, have you no regard for your little chaps?  You have no right to be here, and Frenchy is looking after me all right.”

“You keep your breath to cool your porridge, boy,” said the little parson.  “I’m in charge now.”

What a queer sort of freemasonry there must be among strong men, Aunt Jennie, which allows them to say gruff things to one another in friendly tones.  The sick man seemed to recognize the little parson’s authority and lay back, exhausted and conquered.