Gaston and Jacques drove quickly over to "The Whisk o' Barley." Gaston
was now intent to tell the whole truth. He wished that he had done it
before; but his motives had been good--it was not to save himself. Yet
he shrank. Presently he thought:

"What is the matter with me? Before I came here, if I had an idea I
stuck to it, and didn't have any nonsense when I knew I was right. I am
getting sensitive--the thing I find everywhere in this country: fear of
feeling or giving pain; as though the bad tooth out isn't better than the
bad tooth in. When I really get sentimental I'll fold my Arab tent--so
help me, ye seventy Gods of Yath!"

A little while after he was at Mrs. Cawley's bed, the landlord handing
him a glass of hot grog, Jock's mother eyeing him feverishly from the
quilt. Gaston quietly felt her wrist, counting the pulse-beats; then
told Cawley to wet a cloth and hand it to him. He put it gently on the
woman's head. The eyes of the woman followed him anxiously. He sat down
again, and in response to her questioning gaze, began the story of Jock's
life as he knew it.

Cawley stood leaning on the foot-board; the woman's face was cowled in
the quilt with hungry eyes; and Gaston's voice went on in a low monotone,
to the ticking of the great clock in the next room. Gaston watched her
face, and there came to him like an inspiration little things Jock did,
which would mean more to his mother than large adventures. Her lips
moved now and again, even a smile flickered. At last Gaston came to his
father's own death and the years that followed; then the events in
Labrador.