When I got home, I peeped in at Connie's door the first thing, and saw that she was raised a little more than usual; that is, the end of the conch against which she leaned was at a more acute angle. She was sitting staring, rather than gazing, out at the wild tumult which she could see over the shoulder of the down on which her window immediately looked. Her face was paler and keener than usual. "Why, Connie, who set you up so straight?" "Mr. Turner, papa. I wanted to see out, and he raised me himself. He says I am so much better, I may have it in the seventh notch as often as I like." "But you look too tired for it. Hadn't you better lie down again?" "It's only the storm, papa." "The more reason you should not see it if it tires you so." "It does not tire me, papa. Only I keep constantly wondering what is going to come out of it. It looks so as if something must follow." "You didn't hear me come into your room last night, Connie. The storm was raging then as loud as it is now, but you were out of its reach--fast asleep. Now it is too much for you. You must lie down." "Very well, papa." I lowered the support, and when I returned from changing my wet garments she was already looking much better. After dinner I went to my study, but when evening began to fall I went out again. I wanted to see how our next neighbours, the sexton and his wife, were faring. The wind had already increased in violence. It threatened to blow a hurricane. The tide was again rising, and was coming in with great rapidity. The old mill shook to the foundation as I passed through it to reach the lower part where they lived. When I peeped in from the bottom of the stair, I saw no one; but, hearing the steps of someone overhead, I called out. Agnes's voice made answer, as she descended an inner stair which led to the bedrooms above-- "Mother's gone to church, sir." "Gone to church!" I said, a vague pang darting through me as I thought whether I had forgotten any service; but the next moment I recalled what the old woman had herself told me of her preference for the church during a storm. "O yes, Agnes, I remember!" I said; "your mother thinks the weather bad enough to take to the church, does she? How do you come to be here now? Where is your husband?" "He'll be here in an hour or so, sir. He don't mind the wet. You see, we don't like the old people to be left alone when it blows what the sailors call 'great guns.'" "And what becomes of his mother then?" "There don't be any sea out there, sir. Leastways," she added with a quiet smile, and stopped. "You mean, I suppose, Agnes, that there is never any perturbation of the elements out there?" She laughed; for she understood me well enough. The temper of Joe's mother was proverbial. "But really, sir," she said, "she don't mind the weather a bit; and though we don't live in the same cottage with her, for Joe wouldn't hear of that, we see her far oftener than we see my mother, you know."