XIV
THE TWENTY-THIRD PSALM
Faith, but ’twas a bitter night! Men were drowning on our coast––going to death in the wreck of schooners. The sea broke in unmasked assault upon the great rocks of Whisper Cove; the gale worried the cottage on the cliff. But ’twas warm in the kitchen: the women had kept the fire for the cup o’ tea to follow the event; ’twas warm, and the lamp made light and shadow, and the kettle bubbled and puffed, the wood crackled, the fire snored and glowed, all serenely, in disregard of death, as though no mystery had come to appal the souls of us.
My uncle had Judith on his knee.
“I’m not able,” she sobbed.
“An’ ye’ll not try?” he besought. “Ye’ll not even try?”
We were alone: the women were employed in the other room; the parson paced the floor, unheeding, his yellow teeth fretting his finger-nails, his lean lips moving in some thankful communication with the God he served.
“Ah, but!” says my uncle, “ye’ll surely come t’ live along o’ me!”