sed and veiled in black made
no impression on anyone. She left her trunk in the baggage-room and
went by the familiar road down the cliff-breast. It had been raining,
of course, and the ground was heavy and wet; but the sky was clear,
and the half-moon made a half-twilight among the bare branches and
shed a faint bar of light across the ocean.

At the last reach she stood still a moment and looked at the clustered
cottages and the boats swaying softly on the incoming tide. A great
peace was over the place. The very houses seemed to be resting. There
was fire or candle light in every glimmering square of their windows;
but not a man, or a woman, or a child in sight. As she drew near to
her father's cottage, she saw that it was very brightly lighted; and
then she remembered that it was Friday night, and that very likely the
weekly religious meeting was being held there. That would account for
the diffused quiet of the whole village.

The thought made her pause. She had no desire to turn her home-coming
into a scene. So she walked softly to the back of the little house and
entered the curing shed. There was only a slight door--a door very
seldom tightly closed--between this shed and the cottage room. She
knew all its arrangements. It was called a curing shed, but in reality
it had long been appropriated to domestic purposes. Joan kept her milk
and provisions in it, and used it as a kind of kitchen. Every shelf
and stool, almost every plate and basin, had its place there, and
Denas knew them. She went to the milk pitcher and drank a deep
draught; and then she took a little three-legged stool, and placing it
gently by the door, sat down to listen and to wait.

Her father was talking in that soft, chanting tone used by the fishers
of St. Penfer, and the drawling intonations, with the occasional rise
of the voice at the end of a sentence, came to the ears of Denas with
the pleasant familiarity of an old song.

As he ceased speaking some woman began to sing "The Ninety-and-Nine,"
and so singing they rose and passed out of the cottage and to their
own homes. One by one the echoes of their voices ceased, until, at the
last verse, only John and Joan were singing. As they finished, Denas
looked into the room. Joan was lifting the big Bible covered with
green baize. Between this cover and the binding all the letters Denas
had sent them were kept, and the fond mother was touching and
straightening them. John, with his pipe in one