“’ Tuz naught to be smuckerun’ ot,” her mother reproved her.
“ The Samuels?” I intervened. “I don’t understand.”
“ Her four sons thot died.”
“ And were they all named Samuel?”
“ Aye.”
“ Strange,” I commented in the lagging silence.
“ Very strange,” Mrs. Ross affirmed, proceeding stolidly with the knitting of the woollen singlet on her knees—one of the countless under-garments that she interminably knitted for her skipper sons.
“ And it was only the Samuels that died?” I queried, in further attempt.
“ The others luved,” was the answer. “A fine fomuly—no finer on the island. No better lods ever sailed out of Island McGill. The munuster held them up oz models tull pottern after. Nor was ever a whusper breathed again’ the girls.”
“ But why is she left alone now in her ol
