“It was the fourteenth you left off at,” said Thora.

“Aweel, then, the fifteenth:  ’Now, when he’—­Odd, but I think we read that before.”

“Nay, you didna read it before, father, for it was the fourteenth verse you left off at.”

“Nay, I’m sure it couldn’t be that, for I remember readin’ ’Now, when he,’ before.”

“But I’m sure, father, ye’re wrong,” persisted Thora.  “Look you if the fourteenth doesn’t end with ‘people,’ and ‘people’ was the last word you read.”

“‘People, people!’” said Carver, searching for the place.  “Odd, lassie, I see no ‘people.’  There’s one verse that ends with ‘people,’ but it’s not the fourteenth.  It had been that, ye silly lass, instead o’ the fourteenth.”

“Well, well, goodman, what dos’t matter what verse you left off at,” said his wife.  “A good tale’s none the worse of being told twice.”

“Nay, but,” said Thora, “just look for fun and see what the fourteenth verse ends with.”

“Fun, lassie! fun!” exclaimed Carver, as though he was seriously shocked.  “Would you speak o’ fun and the Holy Scripture lying open before you?”

“O, but, father, I had no mind.  A body canna aye be minding.  Look and see not for fun, then.”

“Tut, tut!” said the mother, becoming impatient, “can you not begin at the fifteenth verse?  What dos’t matter if ye read it before?”

“Aweel, then, the fifteenth verse, ‘Now, when he’”—­

“Listen, father!” cried Thora, again interrupting, “did you not hear something?”

“Well did I hear something, and I hear it yet—­the rain pelting on the window.  I’m sure you’ve heard it this two hours and more.”

“Nay, but it was like something twirling at the handle of the door.”

“You hear things nobody else hears, Thora.  Who could be at the door on a day like this?  You just think you hear things.  I was sure ‘people’ was not the last word.”

Carver listened, however, for a time.  The rain beat harder than ever on the windows, and from the neighbouring cliffs came the sound of the waves like a rumbling of distant thunder.  But as he looked up from his book I knocked gently on the door.

“Who’s there?” he asked in a gruff tone that had in it no echo of charity.

Thora rose from her seat and came towards the door, where I stood in a stream of water that ran from my wet clothes.

“Oh, Halcro!” she exclaimed as she looked down at my cold, bare feet and saw the blood issuing from the wound in my ankle.  “Oh, Halcro, what has happened?” and she opened wide the door to admit me.

“What does the lad want here?” asked Carver.

I had never been asked such a question before.  I had been accustomed to go about the island all my boyhood, and to walk in at any door I came to with the assurance that no person would question me as to what I wanted.  At length, without going further than the threshold, I said: