The funeral procession had now approached the grave, around which many of the congregation, who were deeply interested by the sad ceremonial, had gathered. "That was the lad's name," returned the stranger. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. But when he looked again, there she was! "I don't understand," he said, finally. "'Cos there's a gale a-getting up as'll perwent you, young freshwater," replied the tar. Nay, for aught I know, some of them may even now have got scent of me.
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