drownd’d

with the rest. What way will I live and the girls with me, and I an old woman looking for the grave?

Bartley lays down the halter, takes off his old coat, and puts on a newer one of the same flannel.

To Nora.—Is she coming to the pier?

Looking out.—She’s passing the green head and letting fall her sails.

Getting his purse and tobacco.—I’ll have half an hour to go down, and you’ll see me coming again in two days, or in three days, or maybe in four days if the wind is bad.

Turning round to the fire, and putting her shawl over her head.—Isn’t it a hard and cruel man won’t hear a word from an old woman, and she holding him from the sea?