They all trembled--they had forgotten the coat--it was all over; the coat would tell the tale. “Aweel,” said she, “I could sweer that's Liston Carnie's coat, a droukit wi' the rain;” then she looked again at it, and added, slowly, “if I did na ken he has his away wi' him at the piloting.” And in another moment she was in her own house, leaving them all standing there half stupefied. Christie had indeed endeavored to speak, but her tongue had cloven to her mouth. While they stood looking at one another, and at Beeny Liston's door, a voice that seemed incredibly rough, loud and harsh, jarred upon them; it was Sandy Liston, who came in from Leith, shouting: “Fifty pounds for salvage, lasses! is na thaat better than staying cooard-like aside the women?” “Whisht! whisht!” cried Christie. “We are in heavy sorrow; puir Liston Cairnie and his son Willy lie deed at the bottom o' the Firrth.” “Gude help us!” said Sandy, and his voice sank. “An', oh, Sandy, the wife does na ken, and it's hairt-breaking to see her, and hear her; we canna get her tell't; ye're the auldest mon here; ye'll tell her, will ye no, Sandy?” “No, me, that' I will not!” “Oh, yes; ye are kenned for your stoot heart, an' courage; ye come fra' facing the sea an' wind in a bit yawl.” “The sea and the wind,” cried he, contemptuously; “they be ----, I'm used wi' them; but to look a woman i' the face, an' tell her her mon and her son are drowned since yestreen, I hae na coorage for that.” All further debate was cut short by the entrance of one who came expressly to discharge the sad duty all had found so difficult. It was the Presbyterian clergyman of the place; he waved them back. “I know, I know,” said he, solemnly. “Where is the wife?” She came out of her house at this moment, as it happened, to purchase something at Drysale's shop, which was opposite. “Beeny,” said the clergyman, “I have sorrowful tidings.” “Tell me them, sir,” said she, unmoved. “Is it a deeth?” added she, quietly. “It is!--death, sudden and terrible; in your own house I must tell it you--(and may God show me how to break it to her).” He entered her house. “Aweel,” said the woman to the others, “it maun be some far-awa cousin, or the like, for Liston an' me hae nae near freends. Meg, ye idle fuzzy,” screamed she to her servant, who was one of the spectators, “your pat is no on yet; div ye think the men will no be hungry when they come in fra' the sea?” “They will never hunger nor thirst ony mair,” said Jean, solemnly, as the bereaved woman entered her own door. There ensued a listless and fearful silence. Every moment some sign of bitter sorrow was expected to break forth from the house, but none came; and amid the expectation and silence the waves dashed louder and louder, as it seemed, against the dike, conscious of what they had done.