“I think it will. But the sea is His, and He made it. If there is a storm He is guiding it. Ye ken how often we sing ‘He plants His footsteps on the sea, and rides upon the storm.’” And so, sweet-eyed and fearless, she went away, but left peace and blessing behind her.
In the living room, she laid more peats on the fire. Then she went to her own room. Some words had been singing in her heart as she moved about, and she took the big copy book out of the drawer, and stooping to the crusie burning on the table, she wrote them down:
The night is black, the winds are wild,
The waves are taking their own will,
Dear Jesus, sleeping like a child,
Awake! and bid the storm be still.
She read the words over with a smile. “They might be worse,” she thought, “but Christine! You hae 114 been writing poetry. You’ll hae to stop that nonsense! Weel, it wasna my fault. It came o’ itsel’, and I dinna feel as if I had done anything much out o’ the way—and I was maist asleep, if that is ony kind o’ an excuse. I——”