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[318] his old home, and finally asked him if he knew a Mrs. Matson. ‘I rather think I do,’ said Pelatiah; ‘she's my wife.’ ‘Your wife!’ cried the other. ‘She is mine before God and man. I am David Matson, and she is the mother of my children.’ ‘And mine too!’ said Pelatiah. ‘I left her with a baby in her arms. If you are David Matson, your right to her is outlawed; at any rate she is mine, and I am not the man to give her up.’ ‘God is great!’ said poor David Matson, unconsciously repeating the familiar words of Moslem submission. ‘His will be done. I loved her, but I shall never see her again. Give these, with my blessing, to the good woman and the boys,’ and he handed over, with a sigh, the little bundle containing the gifts for his wife and children. He shook hands with his rival. ‘Pelatiah,’ he said, looking back as he left the ship, be kind to Anna and my boys. ‘Ay, ay, sir!’ responded the sailor in a careless tone. He watched the poor man passing slowly up the narrow street until out of sight. ‘It's a hard case for old David,’ he said, helping himself to a fresh quid of tobacco, ‘but I'm glad I've seen the last of him.’ When Pelatiah Curtis reached home he told Anna the story of her husband and laid his gifts in her lap. She did not shriek nor faint, for she was a healthy woman with strong nerves; but she stole away by herself and wept bitterly. She lived many years after, but could never be persuaded to
Boston and New York, Houghton, Mifflin and company, 1888-89.
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