“Poor things!” said Mrs. Coombes. “If any of them comes ashore, they’ll be sadly knocked to pieces on the rocks in a night like this.” She had caught a little infection of her husband’s mode of thought. “It’s not likely to clear up before morning, I fear; is it, Joe?” “I don’t think so, sir. There’s no likelihood.” “Will you condescend to sit down and take a share with us, sir?” said the old woman. “There would be no condescension in that, Mrs. Coombes. I will another time with all my heart; but in such a night I ought to be at home with my own people. They will be more uneasy if I am away.” “Of coorse, of coorse, sir.” “So I’ll bid you good-night. I wish this storm were well over.” I buttoned my great-coat, pulled my hat down on my head, and set out. It was getting on for high water. The night was growing very dark. There would be a moon some time, but the clouds were so dense she could not do much while they came between. The roaring of the waves on the shore was terrible; all I could see of them now was the whiteness of their breaking, but they filled the earth and the air with their furious noises. The wind roared from the sea; two oceans were breaking on the land, only to the one had been set a hitherto--to the other none. Ere the night was far gone, however, I had begun to doubt whether the ocean itself had not broken its bars. I found the whole household full of the storm. The children kept pressing their faces to the windows, trying to pierce, as by force of will, through the darkness, and discover what the wild thing out there was doing. They could see nothing: all was one mass of blackness and dismay, with a soul in it of ceaseless roaring. I ran up to Connie’s room, and found that she was left alone. She looked restless, pale, and frightened. The house quivered, and still the wind howled and whistled through the adjoining bark-hut. “Connie, darling, have they left you alone?” I said. “Only for a few minutes, papa. I don’t mind it.” “Don’t he frightened at the storm, my dear. He who could walk on the sea of Galilee, and still the storm of that little pool, can rule the Atlantic just as well. Jeremiah says he ‘divideth the sea when the waves thereof roar.’” The same moment Dora came running into the room. “Papa,” she cried, “the spray--such a lot of it--came dashing on the windows in the dining-room. Will it break them?” “I hope not, my dear. Just stay with Connie while I run down.” “O, papa! I do want to see.” “What do you want to see, Dora?” “The storm, papa.” “It is as black as pitch. You can’t see anything.” “O, but I want to--to--be beside it.” “Well, you sha’n’t stay with Connie, if you are not willing. Go along. Ask Wynnie to come here.”