his night. My daughter Felicia, the
brightest-tempered creature of the female sex that I have ever met with,
tried to give a cheerful turn to her aunt's depressing prognostication.
"If the ships must be lost," she said, "we may surely hope that the men
will be saved." "God willing," I put in--thereby giving to my daughter's
humane expression of feeling the fit religious tone that was all it
wanted--and then went on with my written record of the events and
reflections of the day. No more was said. Felicia took up a book. Judith
took up her knitting.

On a sudden, the silence was broken by a blow on the house-door.

My two companions, as is the way of women, set up a scream. I was
startled myself, wondering who could be out in the rain and the darkness
and striking at the door of the house. A stranger it must be. Light or
dark, any person in or near Cauldkirk, wanting admission, would know
where to find the bell-handle at the side of the door. I waited a
while to hear what might happen next. The stroke was repeated, but more
softly. It became me as a man and a minister to set an example. I went
out into the passage, and I called through the door, "Who's there?"

A man's voice answered--so faintly that I could barely hear him--"A lost
traveler."

Immediately upon this my cheerful sister expressed her view of the
matter through the open parlor door. "Brother Noah, it's a robber. Don't
let him in!"

What would the Good Samaritan have done in my place? Assuredly he would
have run the risk and opened the door. I imitated the Good Samaritan.

A man, dripping wet, with a knapsack on his back and a thick stick in
his hand, staggered in, and would, I think, have fallen in the passage
if I had not caught him by the arm. Judith peeped out at the parlor
door, and said, "He's drunk." Felicia was behind her, holding up a
lighted candle, the better to see what was going on. "Look at his
face, aunt," says she. "Worn out with fatigue, poor man. Bring him in,
father--bring him in."

Good Felicia! I was proud of my girl. "He'll spoil the carpet," says
sister Judith. I said, "Silence, for shame!" and brought him in, and
dropped him dripping into my own armchair. Would the Good Samaritan have
thought of his carpet or his chair? I did think of them, but I overcame
it. Ah, we are a decadent generation in these latter days!

"Be quick, father"' says Felicia; "he'll faint if you don't give him
something!"

I took out one of our little