A fisherman who was pushing off his boat paused and marvelled, as well he might.
"That's Barnabas Thorpe. But who is the girl?"
They walked along the queer old street, that was bounded on one side by the shingle, and was often wave- as well as wind-swept, in the high spring-tides.
Barnabas knocked at a door. His mind was still running on St. Peter and the angel. "It 'ull be the mistress not the maid who will open to us here," he remarked.
The smell of a clover field was blown to them, and a cock crew lustily while they waited.
"The new day has begun," said the girl in a low voice.
The woman who opened the door, a muscular large-featured fish-wife, started when she saw them.
"Dear heart! it's the preacher,—and wet through," she cried. "Now step in, Barnabas, and I'll have a fire in a minute. Eh! what's this? What do you say? A maid as wants shelter?" her good-natured face fell. She had little doubt that it was some "unfortunate" the preacher had rescued.
"We—el—yes; let her come along, she'll do us no harm."
She took them into the parlour, and began to lay the sticks.