"Wall, wall, ma," he said, "it don't make no difference whether it's a wind-storm or a rain-storm that I know on, but a tempest it's brewin', sartin sure. I remember once, we'd had a spell o' weather jest like this, and it begun to gether up in the same way. It was in the same latitude, teacher, same latitude. I was off cruisin' with Bob Henchy--whew! That ar' was a singin' gale! I remember it as well as yesterday. I was off with Bob----" "Are you sure it was Bob ye was off with, pa," interrupted Grandma. "I could almost write a book, pa, while you was tellin' a story." "Wall, wall, ma! Write a book, if ye want to!" exclaimed Grandpa, with sweeping force. "I'm sure nobody wants to hender yer writing a book if ye want to, ma!" Grandma Keeler heeded not those derisive words. Her mind was bent on pursuits of a far loftier and more engrossing nature. In respect to the weather--except on Sabbath mornings, when it was impossible to credit Grandpa with perfect fairness and impartiality of judgment--Grandma, it must be said, had real faith in the old sea-captain's prognostications. "It does look like a shower, and a mighty sudden one," said Emily. She thrust her knitting-work in her pocket, donned her sun-bonnet, and departed with other chance occupants of the doorsteps. And Grandma, too, admitted the prospect of foul weather by throwing a handkerchief over her head and going out to fetch the milk-pans. Since early spring Grandma Keeler had put her milk-pans to dry in the sun on a bench half-way up the "Pastur-Hill." Why she should choose to place them at such a seemingly capricious and unnecessary distance from the house, for it was really no inconsiderable journey for Grandma, taking into account her peculiar style of locomotion; whether she considered that the rays of the morning sun visited them more directly on that plane, or that the elevation exposed them to peculiar atmospheric advantages; these were questions which the curious mind was left to solve for itself, for the grave office of carrying out and bringing in the milk-pans was performed by Grandma with an air of mysterious calm, which admitted of no profane comment or speculation. Madeline laughed, watching her, the musical notes ringing out with a touch of insane gayety. "If ma knew it was Judgment Day," said she, "she'd carry those milk-pans up the hill to dry, and if she knew it was Judgment Hour she'd go to fetch 'em." The scene grew rapidly weird as the sky darkened. A low sigh, like a premonition, crept through the heavy atmosphere and shivered among the peach-blossoms. The first gust of wind seized Grandma, returning with the milk-pans. It was a zephyr compared with the blasts that followed, but it had the effect of giving to that good soul's usually composed and reassuring presence, something of the appearance of a crazy and dismantled ship, rolling in a high sea.