Mrs. Whinnerah made no complaint of the approaching change. She was ready to go, not with the decision of personal choice, but with the apathy of one led by destiny. Lanty asked at last where they thought of moving when the time came for breaking-up. There was a pause after the question, and he saw Wolf’s eyes travel to his wife, as if, in this moment, some urgent problem must be solved, but she gave him no assistance. “You’ll think it queer, likely,” he began, filling his pipe with slow fingers, “but I’m hoping you’ll not say no to an old man’s wish. There’s yon cottage your father built, you’ll think on--that on the new land as they call the ‘Pride.’ It’s been empty a good bit, but it’s taken no harm. The key’s here, and I’ve had a look round now and then. Folk say it’s over lonesome; they get flate at night, hearkening to the sea, them as hasn’t been bred by it an’ learned to like it. I’d never rest without the song of it coming and going, but there’s folk can’t abide it. Well, I’ve got a fancy for that cottage, Mr. Lancaster. It’s nigh on Ninekyrkes land, and I’d be able to reach an eye over the old spot from the door. With a bit o’ practice I’ll likely learn not to mind seeing other folk at my job. It’ll not be for that long, I doubt.” “Come, you’re good for many a year yet!” Lancaster put in, as cheerfully as he could. “I can have the cottage put in order for you if you’re really set on it, but don’t you think you’d be wiser to pitch your tent somewhere else altogether? Living within a stone’s-throw will only set you hankering after the farm. You’d be happier away. What has your wife to say to it?” He turned to the woman, but before she could answer there came a sharp crack right across the empty sands, and with a strangled cry she half rose to her feet, gripping the wooden arms of the chair, her face livid and her arms rigid, her glassy eyes fixed on the inscrutable beyond. “It’s through!” she said in a choked voice, so full of horror that it drew Lancaster to his feet beside her, but Wolf sat still and snarled from his chair. “Yon’s thunder, nowt else! Look ye there!” and as a fierce flicker of lightning danced down the pane, she sank back into her chair, biting her lips to steady them, and knotting her trembling hands together on her knee. She was calm again almost immediately, and Lancaster, at the window, watching the blue daggers stabbing the dead waste, and hearkening to the long rattle of charging clouds, marvelled that she showed no further signs of agitation. Shock after shock broke overhead, leaving her unmoved, and the vivid flashes scarcely shut her eyes. It was not the storm that had frightened her, he told himself. What was it?