I did not go to the hills—because I had no heart for that (and had no wish to tell my sister what might be seen from there): but sat grieving on a big box, in the lee of the shop, drumming a melancholy refrain with my heels. And there I sat while the sad light of day spread over the rocky world; and, by and by, the men came out of the cottages—and they went to the hills of God’s Warning, as I knew they would—and came back to the wharf to gossip: but in my presence were silent concerning what they had seen at sea, so that, when I went up to our house, I did not know what the sloop was making of the gale. And when I crossed the threshold, ’twas to a vast surprise: for my breakfast was set on a narrow corner of the kitchen table (and had turned cold); and the whole house was in an amazing state of dust and litter and unseasonable confusion—the rugs lifted, the tables and chairs awry, the maids wielding brooms with utmost vigour: a comfortless prospect, indeed, but not foreign to my sister’s way at troublous times, as I knew. So I ate my breakfast, and that heartily (being a boy); and then sought my sister, whom I found tenderly dusting in my mother’s room.
“’Tis queer weather, Bessie,” said I, in gentle reproof, “for cleanin’ house.”
She puckered her brow—a sad little frown: but sweet, as well, for, downcast or gay, my sister could be naught else, did she try it.
“Is you thinkin’ so, Davy?” she asked, pulling idly at her dust-rag. “Ah, well!” she sighed.
“Why,” I exclaimed, “’tis the queerest I ever knowed!”
“I been thinkin’,” she mused, “that I’d get the house tidied up—while the doctor’s away.”
“Oh, was you?”
“Ay,” she said, looking up; “for he’ve such a wonderful distaste for dust an’ confusion. An’ I’ll have the house all in order,” she added, with a wan smile, “when he gets back.”
’Tis the way of women to hope; but that my clever sister should thus count sure that which lay in grave doubt—admitting no uncertainty—was beyond my understanding.
“Does you think,” she asked, looking away, “that he will be back”—she hesitated—“the morrow?”