That night was our last at home. After supper, I strolled off towards
the meeting-house. 'Twas about sundown. I walked awhile in the
graveyard, and then followed the path into the wood at the back of it.

I see that I have been telling my story in a way to favor myself,--that
even now I am unwilling wholly to expose my folly. I could not, if I
tried, tell how that night in the wood I was beset at once by jealousy,
pride, love, and anger, and so well-nigh driven mad.

I passed from the wood to the open field, and reached the shore. The
vessel lay at the wharf. I climbed the rigging, and watched the moon
rising over the water. It must have been near midnight when I reached
home.

The vessel sailed early in the morning. I did not see Margaret,--never
bid her good-bye. After we were under way, and were out of the windings
of the channel, Jamie came and leaned with me against the rail. And
there in silence we stood until the homes of those we loved so well had
faded from our sight.

Poor Jamie! I knew afterwards how troubled he was at the way I treated
him that summer. He wanted to be friendly, but I stood off. He wanted to
speak of the folks at home, but I would never join him. At last he left
off trying.

If he had not met with an accident, maybe I should never have spoken
another kind word to him. It happened towards the end of the voyage. The
schooner had wet her salt, and all hands were thinking of home. I was
down in the cabin. I was marking a piece of meat to boil,--for then each
fisherman carried his own provisions. All at once I heard something fall