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"I guess so," Billy replied indifferently. "You are wrong, madam," he said, with an[Pg 252] appearance of respect, and even of sympathy colouring the tender voice he employed. "There is no ship in sight. If there were she would probably prove an enemy's cruiser which must end my dream of happiness by our consignment to a French prison. You are in the hands of a man who loves you, who adores you, who is indeed taking his chance of the gibbet to win you. Trust in me. As my wife you shall be faithfully returned to your father, who will not condemn an action which merely anticipates the sanction I was looking forward to when he gave me command of this ship, and brought me by this stroke of goodness closer to you." Next day was Sunday and Billy did not like Sundays. They meant the scrubbing of his face, ears and neck with "Old Brown Windsor" soap until it fairly cracked if he so much as smiled, and being lugged off with his parents and Anse to early forenoon Sunday School in the little frame church in the Valley. There was nothing interesting about Sunday School; it was the same old hum-drum over and over again—same lessons, same teachers, same hymns, same tunes; with Deacon Ringold's assertive voice cutting in above all the other voices both in lessons and singing and with Mrs. Scraff's shrill treble reciting, for her class's edification, her pet verse: "Am I nothing to thee, all ye who pass by?"—only Mrs. Scraff always improvised more or less on the scriptures, and usually threw the verse defiantly from her in this form: "You ain't nuthin to me, all you who pass me by.".
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"Well, soon after they put old Scroggie under the sod, along comes a nephew of the dead man. No doubt in the world he was Scroggie's nephew. He looked like him, an' besides he had the papers to prove his claim that he was the dead man's only livin' relative. An' as Scroggie hadn't left no will, this man was rightful heir to what he had left behin', 'cordin' to law. He spent a week er two prowlin' round, huntin' fer the dead man's buried money. At last he got disgusted huntin' an' findin' nuthin' an' went away." Then, as the first note of a night-bird came soft and fluted from a distant willow copse, Billy took his hand and drew him up along the corduroy road stretching through the shadows. "Faith, maybe ye did. But last night it's the skies thimselves said 'rain,' an' begorry! there's been not a sign av a shower t'day. What matters ut fer the fallin' av an idle wurrud now and thin? It's meself knows you're too tinder hearted t' refuse a small favor to a body that feels only love an' respect fer yourself an' the swate ones who wait ye in the flower-covered cottage, beyont." Anson looked troubled. "Supposin' I don't know—" he began, but Billy shook his head..
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