’Twas a grand, companionable exchange of ideas! A gush of talk! A whirlwind of opinion! Both enjoyed it—were relieved by it: rid of the gathered thought of long hours alone on the grounds. Jonathan Stock had expressed himself freely and at length; so, too, old Tom Lull. ’Twas heartening—this easy sociability. Tom Lull was glad that he had waited in the lee of the Rock o’ Wishes; he had felt the need of conversation, and was now gratified; so, too, Jonathan Stock. But now, quite exhausted of ideas, they proceeded in silence, pulling mechanically through the dripping mist. From time to time old Tom Lull wagged his head and darkly muttered; but the words invariably got lost in his mouth. Presently both punts came to Jonathan Stock’s stage. “I _’low_,” Jonathan exclaimed, in parting, “I never seed nothin’ like it!” Old Tom lifted his oars. He drew his hand over his wet beard. A moment he reflected—frowning at the mist: deep in philosophical labor. Then he turned quickly to Jonathan Stock: turned in delight, his gray old face clear of bewilderment—turned as if about to deliver himself of some vast original conception, which might leave nothing more to be said. “Me neither!” he chuckled, as his oars struck the water and his punt moved off into the mist. Windy weather! Moreover, it was a lean year—the leanest of three lean years. The flakes were idle, unkempt, dripping the fog; the stages were empty, the bins full of salt; the splitting-knives were rusted: this though men and punts and nets were worn out with toil. There was no fish: wherefore, the feeling men of Candlestick Cove kept clear of the merchant of the place, who had outfitted them all in the spring of the year, and was now contemplating the reckoning at St. John’s with much terror and some ill-humor. It was a lean year—a time of uneasy dread. From Cape Norman to the Funks and beyond, the clergy, acutely aware of the prospect, and perceiving the opportunity to be even more useful, preached from comforting texts. “The Lord will provide” was the theme of gentle Parson Grey of Doubled Arm; and the discourse culminated in a passionate allusion to “Yet have I never seen the seed of the righteous begging bread.” Parson Stump of Burnt Harbor—a timid little man with tender gray eyes—treated “Your Heavenly Father feedeth them” with inspiring faith. By all this the apprehension of the folk was lulled; it was admitted even by the unrighteous that there were times when ’twas better to be with than without the clergy. At Little Harbor Shallow, old Skipper Job Sutler, a man lacking in understanding, put out no more to the grounds off Devil-may-Care. “Skipper Job,” the mail-boat captain warned, “you better get out t’ the grounds in civil weather.” “Oh,” quoth Job, “the Lard’ll take care o’ we!” The captain was doubtful. “An’, anyhow,” says Job, “if the Lard don’t, the gov’ment’s got to!” His youngest child died in the famine months of the winter. But that was his fault....