But when the old sailor-nurse would have taken her place for the morning watch, she shook her head. She went back and lay down on the cot beside her husband; he moved his hand, as if he groped for hers, and she was sorry that he had missed it for a moment. “It shall not happen again,” she thought. Then exhaustion and vigil overcame her, for she had watched for many nights; and thinking that she waked, she slept. When she came to herself it was broad, bright day. Her hand had a strange feeling; when she tried, she could not move it, for he held it fast. There were people in the room,--her father, her mother, Captain Hap. She stirred a little, leaning towards her husband’s pillow. “Dear, are you better this morning?” But some one came up, and gently laid a hand upon her eyes. XXX. Job Slip went down to the water, and it was dark. He walked apart, and took himself into that solitary place on the wharves which he remembered, where he had knelt in the rain, one night, and said, “God,” for Mr. Bayard. A mackerel keg was there--the same one, perhaps; he overturned it, and sat down, and tried to understand. Job had not been able to understand since Mr. Bayard was hurt. Thought came to him slowly, and with pain like that caused by the return of congested blood to its channels. “He is dead,” said Job. “Lord A’mighty, he ain’t alive. Seems I couldn’t get it into my head. They’ve killed him. He’s goin’ to be buried.” Job clenched his gnarled hands together, and shook them at the sky; then they dropped. “Seems like shakin’ fists at _him_,” thought Job. “I ain’t a-goin’ to. S’posen he’s up yander. That’s the idee. Lord A’mighty, what do you mean by it? You didn’t stop to think of us reformed men, did you, when you let this happen?... For Christ’s sake. Amen,” added Job, under the impression that he had been giving utterance to a prayer. “Mr. Bayard?” called Job aloud. He slipped off the keg and got upon his knees. As he changed his position, the fisherman vaguely noticed the headlight of the schooner on which he was to have taken his trip, that night. “There goes the Tilly E. Salt,” said Job, interrupting himself; “she’s got to weigh without me, this time. I’m guard of honor for the--the--I can’t _say_ it!” groaned Job. “It’s oncredible him bein’ in a--him put in a--Lord, he’s the livin’est man I ever set my eyes on; he CAN’T die!... Mr. Bayard? _Mr. Bayard, sir?_” Job paused, as if he expected to be answered. The water dashed loudly against the old pier. The distant cry of the buoy came over the harbor. The splash of retreating oars sounded faintly somewhere, through the dark. “He’s livin’ along,” said Job, after some thought. “He can’t get fur out of Angel Alley. He wouldn’t be happy. He’d miss us, someways; he’s so used to us; he’s hoverin’ in them hymn-toons and that gymnasium he set so much by. I’ll bet he is. He’s lingerin’ in us poor devils he’s spent three year makin’ men of.... He’s a-livin’ _here_.”