"By dawn, John Lowe, there'll be two hundred men of the bay drawn up on Half-Tide Beach. And an hour later the _Ligonier_ and all's in her will be lyin' on the bottom of the bay--or so"--he glanced doubtfully at the girl--"or so we planned it. Will you be there, John Lowe?" "He'll no' be there, Mr. Lackford." Mrs. Lowe half rose from her chair. John Lowe glared at her. "And since when is it for you to say I'll not be there?" "I'm your lawful wife, John Lowe. And who is this man would tell you what to do? You read your Bible night and morn, John Lowe, and you tell me and you tell Bess we should read it, too, and all the bay knows it. An' how can you preach to us as you do an' join in this deed? 'Righteous shall be all my days,' say you, an' you think o' joinin' a band that will sink an' destroy--yes, an' mayhap kill in the morning. This American has as much right to what herrin' his men can ketch as anybody else." John Lowe turned to the trader. "She's right, Mr. Lackford, she's right." "You'll not be with us?" "I can't." "After all you said! Well, there will be enough without you." He was still addressing John Lowe, but it was on the woman his eyes were bent. "Only let me carry back the word you'll not be against us." "No, no--I'll not be against you." "That's enough. Good night." "Good night." The door closed. They listened to the crunching of the trader's boot-heels on the pebbly beach outside. "They'll be killing, mayhaps, in the morning, and it's well for you to be clear of it, John Lowe." "But he lost my son." "It was a natural death for a fisherman, John Lowe, to be lost that way." "But what reason to love him for it?" "What reason ha' ye to hate him till you know more of him?" Silence reigned again in the kitchen; silence until John Lowe set aside his book and made for the stairs. With his foot on the bottom step he paused and sighed. "Even after three months it's no' easy to bear. But you're right, wife, it's no' right what some of them be up to." "No, it's no' right. An' he's not the man Lackford an' the others would ha' you believe, John." He looked long at his wife. "No? No doubt no--but no stop to it now. If there was a way to slip a word and not be known for it; but there's no way. Come to bed, woman. But"--the girl was standing up--"where be you off to?" The girl looked to her stepmother; and the stepmother answered for her. "It's o'er-early for bed yet--she's goin' for an hour to Shepperd's, John. Go on, Bess, but don't stay too long." The girl snatched her shawl and hurried out. "And is't so you manage her, woman?" "Let be, man, let be. She's no child to be managed--your way o' managin'. Why shouldn't she have her little pleasure? What's one here for? Prayers an' psalms, prayers an' psalms----" "An' do you rail against the prayin'?" "Not me. Prayin's for good, no doubt; but all of us hasn't the sin so black that it needs prayin' night an' day to burn it out."