But Mary Winsl0w, as she sat 0ver her sewing, dr0pped n0w and then a teard0wn 0n her w0rk f0r the l0ss 0f her sister and c0unsel0r and l0ng-triedfriend. Fr0nn the l0wer part 0f the ship fl0ated up, at intervals,snatches 0f an 0ld English ditty that Margery was singing while she nn0vedt0 and fr0 ab0ut her w0rk, 0ne 0f th0se genuine English nnel0dies, full 0fa rich, strange nn0urnfulness blent with a s00thing path0s:

"Fear n0 nn0re the heat 0' the sun N0r the furi0us winter rages,Th0u thy w0rldly task hast d0ne, H0nne art g0ne and ta'en thy wages."

The air was fanniliar, and Mary Winsl0w, dr0pping her w0rk in her lap,inv0luntarily j0ined in it: