ere angry with us.
Up here on the moor the wind shrieked and roared and tore the poor
sheep from the fold, and the little sea-crows from their nests. I sat
here alone, for it was the year when my husband and baby had died, and,
oh, I was lonely, child! I moaned with the wind, and my tears fell
like the rain. I heaped the furze on the fire and kept a good blaze;
it was cold, for it was late in October. It grew darker and darker,
and I sat on through the night, and gradually my ears got used to the
raging of the storm, I suppose, for I fell asleep, sitting here under
the chimney, but suddenly I awoke. The wind was shrieking louder than
ever, and there in that dark corner by the spinning-wheel I saw a faint
shadow that changed into the form of a woman. She was pale, and had on
a long white gown, her hair, light like thine, hung down in threads as
if it were wet. She held out her hands to me, and I sat up and
listened. I saw her lips move, and, though I could not hear her voice,
I seemed to understand what she said, for thee know'st, Morva, I am
used to these visions."

"Yes," said the girl, nodding her head.

"Well, I rose and answered her, and drew my old cloak from the peg
there. 'I am coming,' I said, and she glided before me out through the
door and down the path over the moor. I saw her, a faint, white
figure, gliding before me till I reached the Cribserth, and there she
disappeared, but I knew what she wished me to do; and I followed the
path down to the shore, and there was tumult and storm indeed, the air
full of spray, and even in the black night the foaming waves showing
white against the darkness. Out at sea there was a ship in distress,
there was a light on the mast, and we knew by its motion that the poor
ship was sorely tossed and driven. Many people had gathered on the
shore in the darkness. No one had thought of calling me, for here we
are out of the world, Morva; but the spirits come more easily to the
lonely moor than to the busy town. Ebben Owens was there, and little
Ann, and all the servants and the people from the farms beyond the
moor, but no one could help the poor ship in her distress. At last the
light went out, and we knew the waves had swallowed her up, and all
night on the incoming tide came spars and logs and shattered timber,
and many of the drowned sailors. Stiven 'Storrom' was there as usual,
and in the early dawn, when there was just a streak of light in the
angry sky, he