Doctor Luke of the Labrador Part 14

"An' He'd gather un there, at the foot o' the throne," I went on, "an'

tell un t' waste no more, but strike up their golden harps."

"No, no!"

"Why not?"

"They wouldn't go."

"But He'd _make_ un go."

"He couldn't."

"Not _make_ un!" I cried, amazed.

"Look you, lad," he explained, in a sage whisper, "they're all mothers, an' they'd be _wantin_' t' stay where they was, an', ecod! they'd find a way."

"Ah, well," I sighed, "'tis wearisome work--this waitin'."

"I'm thinkin' not," he answered, soberly, speaking rather to himself than to me. "'Tis not wearisome for such as know the good Lard's plan."

"'Tis wonderful hard," said I, "on the mothers o' wicked sons."

The old man smiled. "Who knows," he asked, "that 'tis wonderful hard on they?"

"But then," I mused, "the Lord would find a way t' comfort the mother o'

such."

"Oh, ay!"

"I'm thinkin', maybe," I went on, "that He'd send an angel t' tell her they wasn't worth the waitin' for. 'Mind un not,' He'd say. 'They're nothin' but bad, wicked boys. Leave un go t' h.e.l.l an' burn.'"

"An', now, what, lad," he inquired with deep interest, "is you thinkin'

the mother would do?"

"She'd take the angel's hand," I sighed.

"Ay?"

"An' go up t' the throne--forgettin' them she'd left."

"An' then?"

"She'd praise the Lard," I sobbed.

"Never!" the skipper cried.

I looked hopefully in his face.

"Never!" he repeated. "'Lard,' she'd say, 'I loves un all the more for their sins. Leave me wait--oh, leave me wait--here at the gate.

Maybe--sometime--they'll come!'"

"But some," said I, in awe, "would wait forever--an' ever--an' ever----"

"Not one!"

"Not one?"

"Not one! 'Twould break the dear Lard's heart t' see un waitin' there."

I looked away to the furthest clouds, fast changing, now, from gray to silver; and for a long time I watched them thin and brighten.

"Skipper Tommy," I asked, at last, "is _my_ mother at the gate?"

"Ay," said he confidently.

"Waitin'?"

"Ay."

"An' for me?"

He gave me an odd look--searching my very soul with his mild old eyes.

"Doesn't you think she is?" he asked.

"I knows it!" I cried.

Far off, at the horizon, the sky broke--and the rift broadened--and the clouds lifted--and the east flamed with colour--and all at once the rosy, hopeful light of dawn flushed the frowning sea.

"Look!" the skipper whispered.

"Ay," said I, "the day is broke."

"A new day!" said he.

XII

DOCTOR AND I

How the _St. Lawrence_ came to stray from her course down the Strait I do not remember. As concerns such trivial things, the days that followed my mother's death are all misty in my mind; but I do recall (for when Skipper Tommy had made my mother's coffin he took me to the heads of Good Promise to see the sight) that the big seas of that day pounded the vessel to a shapeless wreck on the jagged rocks of the Reef of the Thirty Black Devils: where she lay desolate for many a day thereafter.

But the sea was not quick enough to balk our folk of their salvage: all day long--even while the ship was going to pieces--they swarmed upon her; and they loaded their punts again and again, fearlessly boarding, and with infinite patience and courage managed to get their heavensent plunder ash.o.r.e. 'Twas diverting to watch them; and when the twins, who had been among the most active at the wreck, came at last to their father, I laughed to know that, as Timmie said, they had food enough ash.o.r.e to keep the wrinkles out of their stomachs all winter.