And hard enough it was on me, for never a hint had I of it. 'Twas my boy
hauled me up that day. No signal o' mine, but I was gone so long he
feared I'd come to harm below.
When I found myself better I made ready to go down again, for once
you've promised to do a thing there's nothin' but to do it. But just as
they were about to slip my helmet on, me with my foot on the ladder,
the chain that was holding her slipped again, and into two hundred
fathoms she went--too deep for any diver in this world ever to raise
her.
I thought of his mother and I grieved for her, and it was the first job,
too, that ever I'd messed.
"Never mind," says my son. "Twas me, not you. Nobody that knows you,
father, will blame you." A great lad that, and his brother, too--off
their mother's model--both of 'em. Sarah said I'd never have to worry
about them, and I haven't, but I wish she'd lived to have the joy of
them.
I don't remember much more of that, but when I got back to the office
there was a letter from her. But I never read it. Nothing it could tell
me then that I hadn't already guessed.
'Isn't often now it comes so to me, things being' generally dim in my
mind, as I say, slipping away and drawing nigh, like ships in a lifting
fog-but to-day--like that day--a winter's day and sunny and cold--with
the seas running like white-maned ponies before the gale in the bay
below there--as it is now--always on a day like this it comes clearer to
me.