We held a housewarming in my hut the night it was roofed. It was the end of the third day of a fierce storm which had swung around the compass from the south-east to the north-west, and which was then blowing directly in upon us. The beaches of the outer cove were thundering with the surf, and even in our land-locked inner cove a respectable sea was breaking. No high backbone of island sheltered us from the wind, and it whistled and bellowed about the hut till at times I feared for the strength of the walls. The skin roof, stretched tightly as a drumhead, I had thought, sagged and bellied with every gust; and innumerable interstices in the walls, not so tightly stuffed with moss as Maud had supposed, disclosed themselves. Yet the seal-oil burned brightly and we were warm and comfortable. It was a pleasant evening indeed, and we voted that as a social function on Endeavour Island it had not yet been eclipsed. Our minds were at ease. Not only had we resigned ourselves to the bitter winter, but we were prepared for it. The seals could depart on their mysterious journey into the south at any time, now, for all we cared; and the storms held no terror for us. Not only were we sure of being dry and warm and sheltered from the wind, but we had the softest and most luxurious mattresses that could be made from moss. This had been Maud’s idea, and she had herself jealously gathered all the moss. This was to be my first night on the mattress, and I knew I should sleep the sweeter because she had made it. As she rose to go she turned to me with the whimsical way she had, and said: “Something is going to happen—is happening, for that matter. I feel it. Something is coming here, to us. It is coming now. I don’t know what, but it is coming.” “Good or bad?” I asked. She shook her head. “I don’t know, but it is there, somewhere.” She pointed in the direction of the sea and wind. “It’s a lee shore,” I laughed, “and I am sure I’d rather be here than arriving, a night like this.” “You are not frightened?” I asked, as I stepped to open the door for her. Her eyes looked bravely into mine. “And you feel well? perfectly well?” “Never better,” was her answer. We talked a little longer before she went. “Good-night, Maud,” I said. “Good-night, Humphrey,” she said. This use of our given names had come about quite as a matter of course, and was as unpremeditated as it was natural. In that moment I could have put my arms around her and drawn her to me. I should certainly have done so out in that world to which we belonged. As it was, the situation stopped there in the only way it could; but I was left alone in my little hut, glowing warmly through and through with a pleasant satisfaction; and I knew that a tie, or a tacit something, existed between us which had not existed before. CHAPTER XXXII