Then he walked away to his mother's cottage. He was vexed. He knew that his wife had bought the toy with the deliberate intent of disappointing and wounding her mother-in-law; and he was afraid that he would find the old lady deeply mortified and incensed. As he entered the dingy lane, he noticed that her door was partly open. The aged woman was on the seat by the table at the window, lying forward clasping the ship, and the two masts were run through her white hair; her head rested, partly on the new ship and partly on the table. "Mother!" said he. "Mother!" There was no answer. The feeble old heart had given way under the blow, and had ceased to beat. * * * * * I was accustomed, a few summers past, to spend a couple of months at Portstephen. Jonas Rea took me often in his boat, either mackerel fishing, or on excursions to the islets off the coast, in quest of wild birds. We became familiar, and I would now and then spend an evening with him in his cottage, and talk about the sea, and the chances of a harbour of refuge being made at Portstephen, and sometimes we spoke of our own family affairs. Thus it was that, little by little, the story of the ship _Bold Venture_ was told me. Mrs. Jane was no more in the house. "It's a curious thing," said Jonas Rea, "but the first ship my mother made was no sooner done than my boy Peter died, and when she made another, with two masts, as soon as ever it was finished she died herself, and shortly after my wife, Jane, who took a chill at mother's funeral. It settled on her chest, and she died in a fortnight." "Is that the boat?" I inquired, pointing to a glass case on a cupboard, in which was a rudely executed schooner. "That's her," replied Jonas; "and I'd like you to have a look close at her." I walked to the cupboard and looked. "Do you see anything particular?" asked the fisherman. "I can't say that I do." "Look at her masthead. What is there?" After a pause I said: "There is a grey hair, that is all, like a pennant." "I mean that," said Jonas. "I can't say whether my old mother put a hair from her white head there for the purpose, or whether it caught and fixed itself when she fell forward clasping the boat, and the masts and spars and shrouds were all tangled in her hair. Anyhow, there it be, and that's one reason why I've had the _Bold Venture_ put in a glass case--that the white hair may never by no chance get brushed away from it. Now, look again. Do you see nothing more?" "Can't say I do." "Look at the bows." I did so. Presently I remarked: "I see nothing except, perhaps, some bruises, and a little bit of red paint." "Ah! that's it, and where did the red paint come from?" I was, of course, quite unable to suggest an explanation.