But the thought of Tim and my father hindered me, and I clambered up to the cabin.
The door stood open, because, as I thought, so many folk were about it that it would not shut.

As I made my way among them I was barely heeded--indeed there were many who did not even know me.

I pushed my way into the cabin, in which were stifling heat and smoke and the fumes of whisky.

There, on the bed in the corner, where I had seen her last, but now lit up with a glare of candles, lay my poor mother, with her eyes closed and her hands folded across her breast.

At the foot of the bed sat my father, haggard and wretched, holding a glass of whisky in his hand, which now and again he put to his lips to give him the Dutch courage he needed.