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"Two o' the sons, Jamie an' Timothy uz married an' be goun' tull

sea. Thot bug house close tull the post office uz Jamie's. The



daughters thot ha' no married be luvun' wuth them as dud marry.

An' the rest be dead."



"The Samuels," Clara interpolated, with what I suspected was a

giggle.



She was Mrs. Ross's daughter, a strapping young woman with handsome

features and remarkably handsome black eyes.



"'Tuz naught to be smuckerun' ot," her mother reproved her.

"The Samuels?" I intervened. "I don't understand."



"Her four sons thot died."

"And were they all named Samuel?"



"Aye."

"Strange," I commented in the lagging silence.



"Very strange," Mrs. Ross affirmed, proceeding stolidly with the

knitting of the woollen singlet on her knees - one of the countless



under-garments that she interminably knitted for her skipper sons.

"And it was only the Samuels that died?" I queried, in further



attempt.

"The others luved," was the answer. "A fine fomuly - no finer on



the island. No better lods ever sailed out of Island McGill. The

munuster held them up oz models tull pottern after. Nor was ever a



whusper breathed again' the girls."

"But why is she left alone now in her old age?" I persisted. "Why



don't her own flesh and blood look after her? Why does she live

alone? Don't they ever go to see her or care for her?"



"Never a one un twenty years an' more now. She fetched ut on tull

herself. She drove them from the house just oz she drove old Tom



Henan, thot was her husband, tull hus death."

"Drink?" I ventured.



Mrs. Ross shook her head scornfully, as if drink was a weakness

beneath the weakest of Island McGill.



A long pause followed, during which Mrs. Ross knitted stolidly on,

only nodding permission when Clara's young man, mate on one of the



Shire Line sailing ships, came to walk out with her. I studied the

half-dozen ostrich eggs, hanging in the corner against the wall



like a cluster of some monstrous fruit. On each shell were painted

precipitous and impossible seas through which full-rigged ships



foamed with a lack of perspective only equalled by their sharp

technicalperfection. On the mantelpiece stood two large pearl



shells, obviously a pair, intricately carved by the patient hands

of New Caledonian convicts. In the centre of the mantel was a



stuffed bird-of-paradise, while about the room were scattered

gorgeous shells from the southern seas, delicate sprays of coral



sprouting from barnacled PI-PI shells and cased in glass, assegais

from South Africa, stone axes from New Guinea, huge Alaskan



tobacco-pouches beaded with heraldic totem designs, a boomerang

from Australia, divers ships in glass bottles, a cannibal KAI-KAI



bowl from the Marquesas, and fragile cabinets from China and the

Indies and inlaid with mother-of-pearl and precious woods.



I gazed at this varied trove brought home by sailor sons, and

pondered the mystery of Margaret Henan, who had driven her husband



to his death and been forsaken by all her kin. It was not the

drink. Then what was it? - some shockingcruelty? some amazing



infidelity? or some fearful, old-world peasant-crime?

I broached my theories, but to all Mrs. Ross shook her head.



"Ut was no thot," she said. "Margaret was a guid wife an' a guid

mother, an' I doubt she would harm a fly. She brought up her



fomuly God-fearin' an' decent-minded. Her trouble was thot she

took lunatic - turned eediot."



Mrs. Ross tapped significantly on her forehead to indicate a state

of addlement.



"But I talked with her this afternoon," I objected, "and I found

her a sensible woman - remarkably bright for one of her years."



"Aye, an' I'm grantun' all thot you say," she went on calmly. "But

I am no referrun' tull thot. I am referrun' tull her wucked-headed



an' vucious stubbornness. No more stubborn woman ever luv'd than

Margaret Henan. Ut was all on account o' Samuel, which was the






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