"Though He slay me, yet will I put my trust in Him."

Judith Macpherson was of a different spirit. She was a passionate
old woman, and the sea had taken her husband and five sons, and her
only daughter. Accordingly she hated the sea. That some day it would
be "no more" was her triumphant consolation. She delighted in
preaching to it this sentence of annihilation. If Judith was seen
standing on the cliffs, with her arms uplifted, and her white head
thrown backward, the village knew she was reminding its proud waves of
their doom of utter destruction. The passionate flaming language
of her denunciations will not bear transcribing, but the oldest
sailors said it was "awesome and no' to be listened to, or spoken
o'." That afternoon she had been seen on the sands, in one of her
frenzies of hatred, and when Neil entered her cottage, she was still
rocking herself to and fro, and muttering threats and curses.

She had attended skillfully and tenderly to Cluny's bruises and
nervous excitement, but he was frightened and depressed by her mood,
and he begged Christine to stay wi' him an hour or twa. And Christine
had been willing. Judith was always kind to her, and the handsome lad
with his boyish adoration was at least a settled feature of her life.
This night she let him tell her all his plans for their happy future,
and did not feel any pressure of duty to deny his hopes. He had just
come out of the very jaws of Death. What could she do, but let him
dream his dream and have his say?

However, in all troubles, either personal or public, it is a great
thing to be still, and to whisper to the soul--"This, too, will pass!"
It is behind us today, tomorrow it will be still farther away. In a
week we shall not talk of it, in a month it will have passed from
Life, and belong only to Memory. There is scarcely any sorrow that may
not be greatly helped and soothed by this reflection. For God does not
willingly afflict the children of men, and it is He Himself, that has
appointed Time to be the consoler of Sorrow.

By the end of October, the village was in its normal mood and
condition. All the expenses of the fishing season had been paid, and
the profits satisfactorily ascertained and divided. Great quantities
of cord had been procured, and the women and the older men were busily
making nets for the next season, while the younger men were ready for
the winter's line-fishing. There was an air of content and even of
happiness over the