“The days are drawing in fast,” said he, by way of saying something.
“Yes, it is already growing dark. I cannot see the sea.”
“Ye needna care. It is an angry sea to-night, and the wind is rising.”
“Yes, the moan of it is in among the trees already, and before morning it will be a cry—a terrible sharp cry—that will not be shut out. An ill night for those at sea.”
“By no means. The folk at sea are safe enough, so that they bide away from the shore. There will be worse nights than this, and many of them, before the winter be over.”
“The long, long winter! And think what it must be in Greenland seas, with the ice and the dark, and the bitter cold.”
“Lassie, draw the curtains and come to the fire. What ails you at the wind and the sea to-night, more than usual? Draw the curtains, and shut out the night, and come and make the tea.”
And then when Jean did his bidding and turned from the window, he saw that her face was white and her eyes strained and anxious. She came to the fire and stooped down, warming her hands at the blaze.
“One would think you were a sailor’s wife, and that his ship was in danger,” said her father.
“It is the book she has been reading,” said her sister. “That American book about the men who sailed in search of Sir John Franklin and his crew. What pleasure there can be in poring over any thing so dismal, is more than I can tell.”