" So saying, he re-entered the house, closed the door, and, followed by the widow, proceeded to the fire-place, where a handful of chips, apparently just lighted, crackled within the rusty grate. ‘Well, what was I to think, miss? Martha never wrote nothing about you, and I did ask. She acted as her mother had taught her to. Um. The lantern was on the ground inside, ready. “It was inevitable,” he declared. He went in and leaned, panting, against one wall. The tiles lay a foot thick in the road. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart.
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