The little haven of Stromness was ever a quiet place, but never did it seem so quiet as during the calm which succeeded the storm of the past week, especially as that calm came on a Sunday, that quietest of all days in the North.  Even the twittering of the sparrows on the quaint housetops seemed less noisy than usual, and the women who stood in groups in the narrow street, with their clean mutch caps, their crimson hubbie jackets and coarse blue gowns, suppressed their voices almost into whispers as they talked of the growing quarrel between my father and his new rival, Carver Kinlay.  The solemn stillness of the June Sabbath was everywhere apparent.  The healthy scent of the peat smoke, mingled with a certain fishy odour, permeated the little town, while the cool, fresh smell of the seaweed, and the sweet perfume of the Dutch clover, came from the shores of the bay.  The few men who were in port lounged about in sight of the sea, looking lazily outward at the anchored ships.

On the little jetty at the Anchor Close my father sat on an upturned herring creel, smoking his pipe, and watching a flock of sea mews floating gracefully on the green water.  Occasionally these birds would rise in the sunny air with long outstretched wings, and give utterance to cries not unlike the mewing of kittens.  Some wind-bound vessels lay at anchor in their own reflections, keel to keel, with gay colours streaming from their mastheads.  I had never before seen the bay looking so still and beautiful.  But from the outer shores of the Ness came the prolonged murmur of the Atlantic waves, falling upon the ear like an everlasting sigh.

I was seated in the stern of the Curlew, as the boat lay against the pier upon which my father sat smoking.  Looking over her side down into the clear water, I could see the small fish dart about like flashes of silver light in the emerald depths, where the many-coloured seaweeds swayed softly to and fro with the motion of the tide; while far below, on their sandy bed, the bright shells, the sea urchins, and the green mossy stones gleamed like brilliant gems.  And the low swish of the tide against the stone pier made a pleasant, sleepy sound.

Sometimes, as I sat there dreamily, my eyes would wander across the smooth blue water to the distant hills, following the steady, swooping flight of an eagle.  Nearer at hand, the flight of a flock of sea larks along the links of the shore would attract my attention, while once I heard the splash of a solan goose diving in the bay, and saw the spray rise in a glittering column high above the water.

Suddenly my dreamy meditations were interrupted.  Hurried footsteps sounded in the silent street, and looking up the passage of the Anchor Close I saw a company of men quickly passing.  Among them were Carver Kinlay and his son Tom.

I told my father who they were, at which he expressed much wonder, and tried to assign a cause for their hurrying.  But soon our questioning was fully answered by the unexpected appearance of my sister Jessie.