“Yes,” he said.
We sat for a moment without speaking. The gale went whipping past—driving madly through the breaking day: a great rush of black, angry weather. ’Twas dim in the room. I could not see his face—but felt his arm warm about me: and wished it might continue there, and that I might fall asleep, serene in all that clamour, sure that I might find it there on waking, or seek it once again, when sore need came. And I thought, even then, that the Lord had been kind to us: in that this man had come sweetly into our poor lives, if but for a time.
“You isn’t goin’ alone, is you?”
“No. Skipper Tommy is coming to sail the sloop.”
Again—and fearsomely—the gale intruded upon us. There was a swish of wind, rising to a long, mad shriek—the roar of rain on the roof—the rattle of windows—the creaking of the timbers of our house. I trembled to hear it.
“Oh, doctor!” I moaned.
“Hush!” he said.
The squall subsided. Rain fell in a monotonous patter. Light crept into the room.
“Davy!”
“Ay, zur?”