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Chapter 12

           Yearsago,beforehehadmarried,hethought,lookingacrossthebay,astheystoodbetweentheclumpsofred-hotpokers,hehadwalkedallday.Hehadmadeamealoffbreadandcheeseinapublichouse.Hehadworkedtenhoursatastretch;anoldwomanjustpoppedherheadinnowandagainandsawtothefire.Thatwasthecountryhelikedbest,overthere;thosesandhillsdwindlingawayintodarkness.Onecouldwalkalldaywithoutmeetingasoul.Therewasnotahousescarcely,notasinglevillageformilesonend.Onecouldworrythingsoutalone.Therewerelittlesandybeacheswherenoonehadbeensincethebeginningoftime.Thesealssatupandlookedatyou.Itsometimesseemedtohimthatinalittlehouseoutthere,alone—hebrokeoff,sighing.Hehadnoright.Thefatherofeightchildren—heremindedhimself.Andhewouldhavebeenabeastandacurtowishasinglethingaltered.Andrewwouldbeabettermanthanhehadbeen.Pruewouldbeabeauty,hermothersaid.Theywouldstemthefloodabit.Thatwasagoodbitofworkonthewhole—hiseightchildren.Theyshowedhedidnotdamnthepoorlittleuniverseentirely,foronaneveninglikethis,hethought,lookingatthelanddwindlingaway,thelittleislandseemedpatheticallysmall,halfswallowedupinthesea.

           "Poorlittleplace,"hemurmuredwithasigh.

           Sheheardhim.Hesaidthemostmelancholythings,butshenoticedthatdirectlyhehadsaidthemhealwaysseemedmorecheerfulthanusual.

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