I wondered if ever I, when I grew to be a man, should be able to weather a point as skilfully.
It was night before I reached our cabin, and all there was dark.
Neither Tim nor father was home, the fire was out on the hearth, and the poor fevered sufferer lay tossing and breathing hard on the bed.
She was worse, far worse than when we left her in the morning; and I could have died of shame when I came to think that all those hours she had lain alone and untended.

I struck a light and put it in the window.
"Is that Barry ?" said she faintly.
"Ay, mother, it's Barry," said I, going to the bed and bending over her.
"Bring the light, and let me look at you," she said.
I obeyed.

She scrutinised my face eagerly, and then turned her head wearily on the pillow.
"Barry," said she presently.
"Well ?" said I, as I took the hot worn hand in mine.
She lay silent a long while, so that I thought she had fallen asleep, then she said,-- "Where is father ?" "Away with the boats." "And Tim ?" "I can't say.

Tim and I fought the day, and--" "Fought?
Ay, there'll be fighting enough before wrong's made right, Barry.

Listen! I'm dying, son, but I must see him before I go." "Is it Tim ?" said I.
"No." Then she lifted herself in her bed, and her face was wild and excited as she clutched my hand.