THE group in the Hanns' kitchen stared eagerly at Aunt Rachel. With exasperating slowness she uncoiled from her head the dripping shawl; she even stopped to sand the floor. The signs were ominous.

"Dyin'?" gasped old Isaac. "Iss, b'y."

All Lone Island knew whom she meant. It had been a hard year; fish had struck in late and the winter that followed was terrible even for Labrador. Many a komatic load had the dogs drawn to the "dead house" on the hill, there to wait till spring permitted burial in the shallow graves of the mainland. But while death was grimly familiar to Lone Island, special interest lay in the case of Billy Gosse.

""T is not so won'erful," sighed Mary Hann. "He was aye white an' fraillike."

"He was mortal fond o' the sea," added old Isaac. "When I could n't get a seventh man for the Break o' Day the b'y come down to me wi' his crutch. 'Ye's wantin' an extra hand?' ses he. 'I'd not be much at the traps, but, zur, I's powerful good on watch!""

From his nets Eli Hann looked up soberly. "He was aye a queer little lad," he said. "Many 's the time I've passed him sittin' alone, just watchin' the tide an' the skiffs going out to the traps. One day I seed the tears roll down his cheeks. "What's the matter, sonny?' ses I.

666

"T is nothin',' ses he. 'I was but thinkin' where the tides go, an' the stars i' the dawn, an' most where the lost ships go. There's a powerful many o' they, I'm thinkin'.'

"Powerful many, lad,' ses I.

"There's hundreds, I'm thinkin',' ses he. 'Hundreds o' ships an' hundreds

o' men, like the fishin' fleet beatin' north in June. An' 't is somewhere they go, for they never comes back. O zur, hev ye ever heard where it is—the harbor o' lost ships?'

"No, b'y,' ses I. T is a far sail to that port.'

6

"Aye,' ses he. "T is far. "T will be a grand place, wi' grass an' trees, so beautiful they canna leave. "T will be to the south, beyond the ice. O zur, will ye take me there some time?'

"The Lord forbid!' ses I."

There was silence. Into the darkness the red-hot stove sent out a sinister glow.

"Strange, now, that his sister willna let him know he's dyin'," Aunt Rachel remarked at last.

Her hearers started. "She willna tell him?"

"No. ""T is but right ye should send for Parson Torbin,' ses I. "The lad's never been converted.'

"But she only looked at me strangelike. 'He'll see no parson,' ses she. ""T would kill him!'"

"And right she is!" As she spoke the firelight shone full on Mary Hann's strong young face and on the baby nestled in her bosom. "And right she is! Ye mind the time old Parson Graff o' Roarin' Cove preached on hell torment? "T was a wild night outside! Billy Gosse sat there by his sister just starin' into the pit o' dark behind the pulpit - an' the look o' the lad's eyes! — What's a child like Billy to do wi' hell?"

""T is her duty to prepare him!" said the elder woman. ""T is for the sake o' his soul!"

"Aye, lass!" Isaac Hann frowned sternly at his daughter-in-law; his fist came down with hard emphasis. “An' if she willna let the lad see the parson, 't is

the parson's duty to see the lad whether she will or no. If he or any other Christian man lets the child die unprepared, I say the sin lies on his head!"

Through the silence that followed sounded passing footsteps. Mary Hann crossed to the window.

"Ye needna be worryin'," she said grimly. "Yon that passed was the parson!"

But it was with no feeling of triumph that Parson Torbin, of Hunt Harbor, cowering before the gale and trying to wrap his coat closer across his narrow chest, toiled painfully up the hill. The struggle against waves and ice had been fierce; each blast of the sea-wind set him coughing and gasping. Yet all this was nothing beside dread of his mission.

He was in one of the coughing spells when Moira Gosse opened the door. She was a tall lass, strong-limbed, deepbosomed, full of a dignity more matronly than girlish. ""T is a fine mother she'll make some day," Aunt Rachel had once said.

By the flickering light she saw the pallor of his face, the exhausted droop of his shoulders. With firm but not unkindly grasp she seized the young man's arm. "Come in," said she. “Go to the stove an' change yer coat. Ye'll find father's jersey on the nail i' the corner."

A moment later she returned, carrying a bowl of hot tea.

"Drink it," she commanded.

When he had finished, she stood before him, her face stern.

"Why did ye come?"
"T' see Billy."

"Ye know ye'll not see him. Ever since he heard Parson Graff talk o' hell he's been won'erful feared o' dyin'. An' now — 't would kill him, zure!”

---

The young parson looked pleadingly into her eyes. "Think o' yerself, lass!" he entreated. "Think o' yer guilt if he dies unprepared, the guilt an' the sin on yer head! Lass, 't was fer that I came. "T was fer that I crossed Crooked Tickle on the breakin' ice this night. I couldna rest wi' that over ye -I love ye too well!" A spasm of coughing interrupted him. She put her hand on his shoulder to steady him; all the mother-love of her being spoke in the pitying look and gesture. He read her face, misunderstood the glance as one of yielding. From the next room came a weak boyish call. He started toward it.

In an instant she was before him, her body against the door. Though he struggled, her strength was greater.

"Let be!" she gasped. "Have I na said ye shallna see him?" Baffled and wordless, he stepped back. A wave of pity again swept over her; her eyes filled with tears.

"Lad, I canna. If 't were anything

else

"Do ye na hear it?" he whispered. "T is something lost i' the night!" Her own face paled. ""Tis but the ice."

The boy caught her arm. "Tell me, is it dyin' I am ?"

""T is no such thing!" cried his sister wildly. "Who's been tellin' ye that? 'Tis gettin' well ye are, gettin' well fast, I say."

With both hands he clung to her. The sweat stood on his forehead.

"Ye's zure? Zure?" he entreated. "Last night I dreamed I were dead an' buried, in the Buryin' Cove on the mainland. An' 't was black an' chill an' I couldna breathe 't was the beginnin' o' hell. o' dyin'!"

Ye's zure? I's mortal feared

His moan of terror in her ears, his little cold body clinging to hers, the girl took refuge in the dreamworld they both loved.

"T is a

"Zure, lad, I's courageous zure! Look now, 't is all tired ye are. Lie still a bit an' I'll tell ye about St. Johns where all the schooners come from. grand place, wi' hundreds o' people an' great high flakes by the shore. On the hill the governor sits to see the ships pass by. And beyond are moors full o' the loveliest flowers-star o' Bethlehem an' vetch an' the rest. Up on the high moors 't is warm an' still; ye can lie in the grass an' look up at the blue; 't is warm an’ soft an' quiet there, far above the weary

His hand slipped from hers. He was asleep.

In the gray dawn she went to the window. The fog hung low; the doorstones glistened in the wet. Beyond heaved interminable ice-sheets, veined with black water.

She turned back. Her brother had not awakened. But even to her eyes the night had brought a change. The features were sharp; over the face, thin, transparent, a darker shade was creeping.

""T is the death-shadow!" murmured she in awe.

At the Hanns' door she met old Isaac. "The lad's dyin'!"

"Ye didna let the parson see him?” "No. But he's dyin', man, dyin'! Is there naught un can do?"

The

Isaac Hann's face hardened. heart of the man was struggling with his narrow creed. Under heavy brows he eyed her strangely, while through the silence the crash of the floe ascended like thunder.

""T was yesterday the doctor were on Crooked Island,” muttered he.

"The doctor from Battle Harbor the one that cured Jane Pilley ?" "Aye."

For a moment the girl stared, incredulous. Then she turned toward the fields of drifting ice.

"I'll be going for the doctor," she said.

""T is the hand o' the Lord!"

Rachel Hann, gazing after the retreating figure, turned sharply at the old

man's tone.

"Listen," he exulted. ""T is the Lord takin' her takin' her to give the lad a chance before he passes! Gie's yer handkerchief, lass. "T is the hand o' the Lord!"

It was not till twilight that Moira Gosse returned. Alone in the dusk she made her way down the steep ledges of Crooked Island. In her eyes still sounded the words of an old fisherwoman: "The doctor's not here, girl. "T was but yesterday he went to the mainland. Did Isaac Hann na tell ye that?"

At the water's edge she stared across to the hillside. In her window gleamed a light. Suddenly she started, sprang forward with a cry. From the pole she had seen floating a red handkerchef.

Springing from pan to pan of ice, she crossed the tickle. Again and again she fell. The spray broke over her; the sharp edges cut her fingers to the bone. The whole black world heaved and sank like the ice-cakes. But already Luke Jackman's stage loomed close. From the stagehead some one was watching her.

At the door Moira paused. From wall to wall the light shone on curious eager faces, a death-bed conversion did not come every day to Lone Island. By her brother's side sat Parson Torbin. The sea-water yet dripped from his worn black coat; the fever of disease moistened his forehead and traced livid lines down his hollow cheeks. But in his eyes burned the zeal of the fanatic.

"Where their worm dieth not and the fire is not quenched,'" he was saying. "An' 't is forever an' ever, wi' never a moment's rest. O lad. if ye'll but repent an' turn unto the Lord

The boy sat erect. On his face was a look of uttermost mortal fear, infinitely keener than any known to the unimaginative fisherfolk of Lone Island.

""T is to yon I'm goin'?" gasped he. Parson Torbin's face was white with agony. More merciful than his thought of God. gladly, gladly would he have given all hope of eternal life to take the child in his arms and comfort him. By supreme effort he forced himself to his duty.

VOL. 101 - NO. 3

She took the child in her arms.
""T is not true ?"

""T is cruel lies, lad. "T is cruel lies against the good God. Think ye the maker o' mothers is cruel like that?" "Where is't I'm goin'?" he asked drowsily.

""T is a long journey."

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66

Over the sea ?"

66

Aye, over the sea.” The boy roused. o' lost ships?"

"Tis the harbor

"Aye, lad, 't is the harbor o' all lost things, o' lost ships an' the souls o' men. 'Tis beyond the stars, beyond the sea, beyond the edge o' the world. An' 't is there the mothers wait on the bill an' watch till the ships beat home. An' the Lord God comes down to meet them. to welcome them home from the sea. "T is a brave beat t' harbor ye've made,' says He. 'Ye'll be weary; come now an'

rest

There was silence. The girl flung her arms passionately about the little form. “Lad, lad, take me wi' ye!" she cried. But the ship had reached harbor.

THE sudden death of Edmund Clarence Stedman came with a strange pathos upon the readers of his many writings, especially as following so soon upon that of his life-long friend and compeer, Aldrich. Stedman had been for some years an invalid and had received, in his own phrase, his "three calls," that life would soon be ended. He was born at Hartford, Connecticut, on October 8, 1833, and was the second son of Colonel Edmund Burke Stedman and his wife Elizabeth Clement (Dodge) Stedman. His great-grandfather was the Reverend Aaron Cleveland, Jr., a Harvard graduate of 1735, and a man of great influence in his day, who died in middle life under the hospitable roof of Benjamin Franklin. Stedman's mother was a woman of much literary talent, and had much ultimate influence in the training of her son, although she was early married again to the Honorable William B. Kenney, who was afterwards the United States Minister to Turin. Her son, being placed in charge of a great uncle, spent his childhood in Norwich, Connecticut, and entered Yale at sixteen, but did not complete his course there, although in later life he was restored to his class membership and received the degree of Master of Arts. He went early into newspaper work in Norwich and then in New York, going to the front for a time as newspaper correspondent during the Civil War. He abandoned journalism after ten years or thereabouts and became a member of the New York Stock Exchange without giving up his literary life, a combination apt to be of doubtful success. He married, at twenty, Laura Hyde Woodworth, who died before him, as did one of his sons, leaving only one son and a granddaughter as his heirs. His funeral services took

place at the Church of the Messiah on January 21, 1908, conducted by the Reverend Dr. Robert Collyer and the Reverend Dr. Henry van Dyke.

Those who happen to turn back to the volume of the Atlantic Monthly for January, 1898, will read with peculiar interest a remarkable paper entitled “Our Two Most Honored Poets." It bears no author's name, even in the index, but is what we may venture to call, after ten years, a singularly penetrating analysis of both Aldrich and Stedman. Of the latter it is said: "His rhythmic sense is subtle, and he often attains an aerial waywardness of melody which is of the very essence of the lyric gift." It also remarks most truly and sadly of Stedman that he "is of those who have suffered the stress of the day." The critic adds, “Just now we felt grateful to Mr. Aldrich for putting all this (that is, life's tragedies] away in order that the clarity and sweetness of his art might not suffer; now we feel something like reverence for the man [Mr. Stedman] who, in conditions which make for contentment and acquiescence has not been able to escape these large afflictions." But these two gifted men have since passed away, Aldrich from a career of singular contentment, Stedman after ten years of almost constant business failure and a series of calamities relating to those nearest and dearest.

One of the most prominent men in the New York literary organizations, and one who knew Stedman intimately, writes me thus in regard to the last years of his life: "As you probably know, Stedman died poor. Only a few days ago he told me that after paying all the debts hanging over him for years from the business