Patsie, trembling, stared at her. “Not Orcutt, Delia?”
“Patsie, I’ve said it a dozen times. It wasn’t Orcutt, and yet ’twas somebody in your vessel. Oh, why did you mistake me that morning, Patsie? Would I be a woman and not have a word of pity for a man that came so nigh being lost as Captain Orcutt would have been but for Wesley Marrs? And you are such a backward man, Patsie. Don’t you hear me, Patsie? Then look at me, dear--look at me--it wasn’t-- And who can it be? Who was it, Patsie, that drove the _Delia_ over Sable Island bar, himself to the wheel?”
“Oh!” gasped Patsie--“Delia mavourneen, mavourneen, mavourneen!”
He drew back a step, got another look at her face, and clasped her again. “And ’twas me all the time, asthore?”
“You all the time. And if you hadn’t been in such a hurry I’d have told you that morning.”
“Oh, Delia, Delia,” and from his beard she caught the murmur--“and the black, black night I put in on Sable Island bar! Oh, the black, black night I almost left him and his men to die. Oh, Delia, Delia, there was hate and murder in my heart that night.”
“Never mind that now, Patsie. You had it out with yourself, and it wasn’t hate nor murder at the last, Patsie.”
“Delia, dear, but ’tis a wicked man couldn’t be good with you,” and gathered her to him.
“My breath, dear.” She raised her head and looked into his eyes. “Patsie, Patsie, but the strength of you!”
End of Project Gutenberg's The Deep Sea's Toll, by James B. Connolly