‘Poor thing! poor thing!’ an’ I did n’ mind about the wind, or th’ ice, or the schooner goun away from me afore a gale (I would n’ mind about ’em), an’ a poor lost Christen may show a good turn to a hurt thing, ef ’t was on’y a baste.  So I smoothed away the snow wi’ my cuffs, an’ I sid ‘t was a poor thing wi’ her whelp close by her, an’ her tongue out, as ef she’d a-died fondlun an’ lickun it; an’ a great puddle o’ blood,—­it looked tarrible heartless, when I was so nigh to death, an’ was n’ hungry.  An’ then I feeled a stick, an’ I thowt, ‘It may be a help to me,’ an’ so I pulled un, an’ it would n’ come, an’ I found she was lyun on it; so I hauled agen, an’ when it comed, ’t was my gaff the poor baste had got away from me, an’ got it under her, an’ she was a-lyun on it.  Some o’ the men, when they was runnun for dear life, must ha’ struck ’em, out o’ madness like, an’ laved ’em to die where they was.  ’T was the whelp was n’ quite dead.  ’Ee ’ll think ’t was foolish, Sir, but it seemed as though they was somethun to me, an’ I’d a-lost the last friendly thing there was.

[Footnote 10:  Mittens.]

“I found a big hummock an’ sheltered under it, standun on my feet, wi’ nawthun to do but think, an’ think, an’ pray to God; an’ so I doned.  I could n’ help feelun to God then, surely.  Nawthun to do, an’ no place to go, tull snow cleared away; but jes’ drift wi’ the great Ice down from the Nothe, away down over the say, a sixty mile a day, mubbe.  I was n’ a good Christen, an’ I could n’ help a-thinkun o’ home an’ she I was troth-plight wi’, an’ I doubled over myself an’ groaned,—­I could n’ help it; but bumby it comed into me to say my prayers, an’ it seemed as thof she was askun me to pray (an’ she was good, Sir, al’ays), an’ I seemed all opened, somehow, an’ I knowed how to pray.”

While the words were coming tenderly from the weather-beaten fisherman, I could not help being moved, and glanced over toward the daughter’s seat; but she was gone, and, turning round, I saw her going quietly, almost stealthily, and very quickly, toward the cove.

The father gave no heed to her leaving, but went on with his tale:—­

“Then the wind began to fall down, an’ the snow knocked off altogether, an’ the sun comed out; an’ I sid th’ Ice, field-ice an’ icebargs, an’ every one of ’em flashun up as ef they’d kendled up a bonfire, but no sign of a schooner! no sign of a schooner! nor no sign o’ man’s douns, but on’y ice, every way, high an’ low, an’ some places black water, in-among; an’ on’y the poor swiles bawlun all over, an’ I standun amongst ’em.

“While I was lookun out, I sid a great icebarg (they calls ’em) a quarter of a mile away, or thereabouts, standun up,—­one end a twenty fathom out o’ water, an’ about a forty fathom across, wi’ hills like, an’ houses,—­an’ then, jest as ef ‘e was alive an’ had tooked a notion in ’e’sself, seemunly, all of a sudden ‘e rared up, an’ turned over an’