Old Tommy the Mate came to the door of his cabin. I went into the quiet smoky place with its earthen floor and sat in a dull torpor by the hearth, under the sooty "laff" and rafters. The old man did not say a word to me. He put some turf on the fire and then sat on a three-legged stool at the other side of the hearth-place.

Once he got up and gave me a basin of buttermilk, then stirred the peats and sat down again without speaking. Towards evening, when the rising sea was growing louder, I got up to go. The old man followed me to the door, and there, laying his hand on my arm he said:

"She's been beating to windward all her life, boy. But mind ye this--_she's fetching the harbour all right at last_."

Going up the road I heard a band of music in the distance, and saw a procession of people coming down. It was Father Dan's celebration of thanksgiving to God for what was left of Daniel O'Neill's ill-gotten wealth sent back from Rome for the poor.

Being in no humour to thank God for anything, I got over a sod hedge and crossed a field until I came to a back gate to our garden, near to "William Rufus's" burial place--stone overgrown with moss, inscription almost obliterated.

On the path I met my mother, with baby, toddling and tumbling by her side.

"How is she now?" I asked.

She was awake--had been awake these two hours, but in a strange kind of wakefulness, her big angel eyes open and shining like stars as if smiling at someone whom nobody else could see, and her lips moving as if speaking some words which nobody else could hear.

"What art thou saying, _boght millish_?" my mother had asked, and after a moment in which she seemed to listen in rapture, my darling had answered:

"Hush! I am speaking to mamma--telling her I am leaving Isabel with Christian Ann. And she is saying she is very glad."

We walked round to the front of the house until we came close under the window of "Mary O'Neill's little room," which was wide open.

The evening was so still that we could hear the congregation singing in the church and on the path in front of it.

Presently somebody began to sing in the room above. It was my darling--in her clear sweet silvery voice which I have never heard the like of in this world and never shall again.

After a moment another voice joined hers--a deep voice, the Reverend Mother's.

All else was quiet. Not a sound on earth or in the air. A hush had fallen on the sea itself, which seemed to be listening for my precious darling's last breath. The sun was going down, very red in its setting, and the sky was full of glory.

When the singing came to an end baby was babbling in my mother's arms--"Bo-loo-la-la-ma-ma." I took her and held her up to the open window, crying:

"Look, darling! Here's Girlie!"

There was no answer, but after another moment the Reverend Mother came to the window. Her pale face was even paler than usual, and her lips trembled. She did not speak, but she made the sign of the Cross.

And by that ... I knew.

"Out of the depths I cry unto thee, O Lord, Lord, hear my cry."

THE AUTHOR TO THE READER

I saw him off at Tilbury when he left England on his last Expedition.

Already he was his own man once more. After the blinding, stunning effect of the great event there had been a quick recuperation. His spirit had risen to a wonderful strength and even a certain cheerfulness.

I did not find it hard to read the secret of this change. It was not merely that Time, the great assuager, had begun to do its work with him, but that he had brought himself to accept without qualm or question Mary O'Neill's beautiful belief (the old, old belief) in the immortality of personal love, and was firmly convinced that, freed from the imprisonment of the flesh, she was with him every day and hour, and that as long as he lived she always would be.

There was nothing vague, nothing fantastic, nothing mawkish, nothing unmanly about this belief, but only the simple faith of a steady soul and a perfectly clear brain. It was good to see how it braced a strong man for life to face Death in that way.

As for his work I found him quite hopeful. His mission apart, I thought he was looking forward to his third trip to the Antarctic, in expectation of the silence and solitude of that strengthening region.

As I watched the big liner that was taking him away disappear down the Thames I had no more doubt that he would get down to the South Pole, and finish his task there, than that the sun would rise the following morning.

Whatever happens this time he will "march breast forward."

MARTIN CONRAD TO THE AUTHOR

WIRELESS--ANTARCTIC CONTINENT (_via_ MACQUARIE ISLAND AND RADIO HOBART 16).

Arrived safe. All well. Weather excellent. Blue sky. Warm. Not a breath of wind. Sun never going down. Constellations revolving without dipping.

Feel as if we can see the movement of the world. Start south to-morrow.

Calmer than I have ever been since She was taken from me. But She was right. She is here. "Love is stronger than death, many waters cannot quench it."

THE END