It came to him suddenly that for two years he had never seen the sea, not even heard it except through the sound-carriers of the wind. The thought of it set his heart leaping, and to his shame and astonishment he found that he was afraid. He seemed to himself to be quite defenceless on the open road, with only the bank to stop what was coming out of the west. His terror degraded him in his own eyes, and he was as afraid of the fear as of the object of the fear. Perhaps it was because he was old that he was afraid, or because he had missed the daily miracle for so long. At all events, he trembled and gazed, and felt his hands turn cold, and longed to be at the farm. It was amazing that folk who knew what the sea could do should drive so slowly in the line of the dormant tide. If there had been any sign of the tide he would have clutched at the reins, and frightened Bob to death by shouting at the horse. He looked at the land and wondered why panic wasn’t abroad, and why the stock, with its sure sense of coming ill, didn’t stare and cower. Once that far, smooth water had lifted and turned, there seemed no reason why it should ever stop. He knew only too well, of course, that it did not always stop. He himself had seen it under an angry moon, lift and lift into a huge and white-topped wall, and sweep the marsh into a tumbling sea.... “We’d best be getting on,” he said in a sharp tone, and Bob heard the fear in his voice, and glanced at him in surprise. The old man must be getting tired, he thought; he had seemed so quiet and contented at the start. He did his best to encourage the slow horse, but they only jolted a little more, and seemed no nearer to the farm. Presently he spoke again, as if he had come to some slow conclusion of his own. “Tide’s low, just now,” he said, as if to himself, and at once felt his father relax and settle back. “You’ll hear next to nowt on it to-night. I reckon it’ll gang nigh as soon as it comes....”