“A little bit of Bible-reading do send people to sleep quick, don’t it, Denas?”
“I was so tired, mother.”
“Aw, my dear, you be no worse than Christian in the ‘Pilgrim’s Progress.’ He did go to sleep, too, when he was reading his roll. Come, my girl, it is 134 your time for bed. Sitting up won’t help you to bear trouble.”
“Mother, won’t it be time enough to bear trouble when it is really here to be borne?”
“It do seem as if it would. Love be a fearful looker-forward. Go to bed, my girl; maybe you will sleep sorrow away.”
So Denas went to bed and did not awake until the grey light of the stormy morning was over everything. She could hear the murmur of voices in the living-room, and she dressed quickly and went there. John Penelles sat by the fire drinking hot tea. His hair had yet bits of ice in it, his face still had the awful shadow that is cast by the passing-by of death. Denas put her arms around his neck and kissed him; she kissed him until she began to sob, and he drew her upon his knee, and held her to his breast, and said in a whisper to her:
“Ten men drowned, my dear, and three frozen to death; but through God’s mercy father slipped away from an ugly fate.”
“Oh, father, how could you bear it?”
“God help us, Denas, we must bear what is sent.”
“What a night it has been! How did you live through it?”