Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. HTML version by Al Haines. THE SEABOARD PARISH BY GEORGE MAC DONALD, LL.D. VOL. III. CONTENTS OF VOL. III. I. A WALK WITH MY WIFE II. OUR LAST SHORE-DINNER III. A PASTORAL VISIT. IV. THE ART OF NATURE V. THE SORE SPOT VI. THE GATHERING STORM. VII. THE GATHERED STORM. VIII. THE SHIPWRECK IX. THE FUNERAL X. THE SERMON. XI. CHANGED PLANS. XII. THE STUDIO. XIII. HOME AGAIN. CHAPTER I. A WALK WITH MY WIFE. The autumn was creeping up on the earth, with winter holding by its skirts behind; but before I loose my hold of the garments of summer, I must write a chapter about a walk and a talk I had one night with my wife. It had rained a good deal during the day, but as the sun went down the air began to clear, and when the moon shone out, near the full, she walked the heavens, not "like one that hath been led astray," but as "queen and huntress, chaste and fair." "What a lovely night it is!" said Ethelwyn, who had come into my study--where I always sat with unblinded windows, that the night and her creatures might look in upon me--and had stood gazing out for a moment. "Shall we go for a little turn?" I said. "I should like it very much," she answered. "I will go and put on my bonnet at once." In a minute or two she looked in again, all ready. I rose, laid aside my Plato, and went with her. We turned our steps along the edge of the down, and descended upon the breakwater, where we seated ourselves upon the same spot where in the darkness I had heard the voices of Joe and Agnes. What a different night it was from that! The sea lay as quiet as if it could not move for the moonlight that lay upon it. The glory over it was so mighty in its peacefulness, that the wild element beneath was afraid to toss itself even with the motions of its natural unrest. The moon was like the face of a saint before which the stormy people has grown dumb. The rocks stood up solid and dark in the universal aether, and the pulse of the ocean throbbed against them with a lapping gush, soft as the voice of a passionate child soothed into shame of its vanished petulance. But the sky was the glory. Although no breath moved below, there was a gentle wind abroad in the upper regions. The air was full of masses of cloud, the vanishing fragments of the one great vapour which had been pouring down in rain the most of the day. These masses were all setting with one steady motion eastward into the abysses of space; now obscuring the fair moon, now solemnly sweeping away from before her. As they departed, out shone her marvellous radiance, as calm as ever. It was plain that she knew nothing of what we called her covering, her obscuration, the dimming of her glory. She had been busy all the time weaving her lovely opaline damask on the other side of the mass in which we said she was swallowed up.