“I found a big hummock an’ sheltered under it, standun on my feet, wi nawthun to do but think, an’ think, an’ pray to God; an’ so I doned.  I couldn’ help feelun to God then, surely.  Nawthun to do, an’ no place to go, tull snow cleared away; but jes’ drift wi’ the great Ice down from the Nothe, away down over the say, a sixty mile a day, mubbe.  I wasn’ a good Christen, an’ I couldn’ help a-thinkun o’ home an’ she I was troth-plight wi’, an’ I doubled over myself an’ groaned,—­I couldn’ help it:  but bumby it comed into me to say my prayers, an’ it seemed as thof she was askun me to pray, (an’ she was good, Sir, al’ays,) an’ I seemed all opened, somehow, an’ I knowed how to pray.”

While the words were coming tenderly from the weather-beaten fisherman, I could not help being moved, and glanced over toward the daughter’s seat; but she was gone, and, turning round, I saw her going quietly, almost stealthily, and very quickly, toward the cove.

The father gave no heed to her leaving, but went on with his tale:—­

“Then the wind began to fall down, an’ the snow knocked off altogether, an’ the sun comed out; an’ I sid th’ Ice, field-ice an’ icebargs, an’ every one of ’em flashun up as ef they’d kendled up a bonfire, but no sign of a schooner! no sign of a schooner! nor no sign o’ man’s douns, but on’y ice, every way, high an’ low, an’ some places black water, in-among; an’ on’y the poor swiles bawlun all over, an’ I standun amongst ’em.

“While I was lookun out, I sid a great icebarg (they calls ’em) a quarter of a mile away, or thereabouts, standun up,—­one end a twenty fathom out o’ water, an’ about a forty fathom across, wi’ hills like, an’ houses,—­an’ then, jest as ef ‘e was alive an’ had tooked a notion in ’e’sself, seemunly, all of a sudden ‘e rared up, an’ turned over an’ over, wi’ a tarrible thunderun noise, an’ comed right on, breakun everything an’ throwun up great seas:  ’t was frightsome for a lone body away out among ’em!  I stood an’ looked at un, but then agen I thowt I may jes’ so well be goun to thick ice an’ over Noofundland-ways a piece, so well as I could.  So I said my bit of a prayer, an’ told Un I could n’ help myself; an’ I made my confession how bad I’d been, an’ I was sorry, an’ ef ‘E’d be so pitiful an’ forgive me; an’ ef I mus’ loss my life, ef ‘E’d be so good as make me a good Christen first,—­an’ make they happy, in course.

“So then I started; an’ first I goed to where my gaff was, by the mother-swile an’ her whelp.  There was swiles every two or three yards a’most, old uns an’ young uns, all round, everywhere; an’ I feeled shamed in a manner:  but I got my gaff, an’ cleaned un, an’ then, in God’s name, I took the big swile, that was dead by its dead whelp, an’ hauled it away, where the t’ other poor things could n’ si’ me, an’ I sculped[K] it, an’ took the pelt;—­for I thowt I’d wear un, now the poor dead thing did n’ want to make oose of un no more,—­an’ partly becase’t