and shivering, in this mean little dead town; and me having to go to sea to keep us both alive, and leaving you alone in winter!"
"Hush, Harden, hush," his mother said, and there were tears in her voice. "We must n't be bitter—this morning of all others. We ought to be glad, too, that Captain Harlow is so good to us, for if it was n't for him I don't know how we'd weather through till spring."
Marden made some inarticulate sound. Then he fell to eating, as a lad of twenty must, in spite of sorrow. Slowly through the frosty panes came the first of the sunlight, and shone faintly upon the old shotgun and the powderhorn hung high on the wall behind the stove, and upon the picture below,—a picture stiffly daubed in blue, black, and white of "the Bark Gilderoy off Tristan da Cunha." Over these and a hanging bunch of last year's red rowan berries the light stole softly.
"Sunlight!" said his mother. "See now if she's there."
They turned eagerly to the window, press-
