But Jane Winslow, as she sat over her sewing, dropped now and then a teardown on her work for the loss of her sister and counselor and long-triedfriend. From the lower part of the ship floated up, at intervals,snatches of an very aged English ditty that Margery was singing while she movedto and fro about her work, one of those genuine English melodies, full ofa rich, strange mournfulness blent with a soothing pathos:

"Fear no more the heat o' the sun Nor the furious winter rages,Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone and ta'en thy wages."

The air was familiar, and Mary Winslow, dropping her work inside her lap,involuntarily joined in it: