On a certain breezy morning in October--not many years ago--a wilderness
of foam rioted wildly over those dangerous sands which lie off the port
of Yarmouth, where the _Evening Star_, fishing-smack, was getting ready
for sea.
In one of the narrow lanes or "Rows" peculiar to that town, the skipper
of the smack stood at his own door, grumbling. He was a broad burly
man, a little past the prime of life, but prematurely aged by hard work
and hard living.
"He's always out o' the way when he's wanted, an' always in the way when
he's not wanted," said the skipper angrily to his wife, of whom he was
at the moment taking, as one of his mates remarked, a tender farewell.
"Don't be hard on him, David," pleaded the wife, tearfully, as she
looked up in her husband's face.
"He's only a bit thoughtless; and I shouldn't wonder if he was already
down at the smack."
"If he's not," returned the fisherman with a frown, as he clenched his
huge right hand--and a hard and horny hand it was, from constant
grappling with ropes, oars, hand-spikes, and the like--"if he's not,
I'll--"
He stopped abruptly, as he looked down at his wife's eyes, and the frown
faded. No wonder, for that wife's eyes were soft and gentle, and her
face was fair and very attractive as well as refined in expression,
though not particularly pretty.
"Well, old girl, come, I won't be hard on 'im. Now I'm off,--good-day."
And with that the fisherman stooped to kiss his wife, who returned the
salute with interest. At the same time she thrust a packet into his
hand.
"What's this, Nell?"
"A Testament, David--from me. It will do your soul good if you will
read it. And the tract wrapped round it is from a lady."