“Asa did not go out either, thank the good Father!” she said.  The dog whined piteously.  “St!  St!  Poor Scip!  Here, shall have a piece!  Good dog!  A fearful night indeed it is.”

The two men came in from the barn, shook off the wet, and drew near the fire.

“Just such a night, twenty-nine years ago come August, we ran afoul of Hatteras.  You remember, old woman, how they frighted ye about me, don’t ye?”

Amidst such reminiscences we were called to supper.  I remember being solemnly impressed when that old man, bent with hardship and the weight of years, clasped his hands reverently, and in rude terms, but full of meaning, asked a blessing upon their humble board.  I remember the flickering light from the logs burning on the hearth, and how it showed, upon the faces of those who sat there, a strong feeling of the words in which rose an added petition in behalf of those on the mighty deep.

Supper being ended, the old man took down the tobacco-board, and, when he had cut enough to fill his pipe, handed it to his son, who, having done the same, restored it to its nail in the chimney-corner.  Then they smoked, and talked of dangers braved and overcome, of pirates, and shipwrecks, and escapes, till I involuntarily drew closer into my corner, and looked over my shoulder.  Suddenly the dog under the table gave a whining growl.

“I never seed the like o’ that dog,” exclaimed the fisherman, turning to me.  “I thought he was asleep.  But if ever a foot comes nigh the house at night, he gives notice.  Depend on it, there’s some one coming.”

The door of the little entry opened, with a rush of the whistling wind, and a man stepped in.  The dog half rose, and though he wagged his tail, in token that he knew the step to be that of a friend, he kept up a low whine.  A young man, muffled to the eyes, and with the water dripping from his huge pea-jacket, opened the kitchen-door.

“William Crosby, why, what brings you out in such a storm as this?  Strip off your coat, and draw up to the fire, can’t ye?  Where are you bound, then, and the night as dark as a wolf’s throat?”

The young fisherman made no answer, unless by a motion of his hand.  As he turned back the collar from his face, we saw by the waving light that it was pale as death.  The long wet locks already lay upon his cheeks, making them more ghastly as he struggled to speak.  “O Stephen Lee, it’s no time to be sitting by the fire, when old Asa Osborn is rolling in the waters.  A man’s drownded; and who’s to get the body for the wife and the children—­God pity them!—­afore the ebb carries it out to sea?”

The old man drew his hand across his forehead, and rose.  I looked at him as he drew up his tall figure, and looked the young messenger full in the eye.  In a low, deep whisper, he said, “Who, William, did ye say?  You said a man’s drownded,—­but tell me the name again.”

“Yes, Gran’sir, I did say it.  Old Uncle Ase Flemming, he and the minister went out a fishing in the morning.  The minister got his boots off in the water, and after a long time he’s swum ashore.  But poor Uncle Ase—.  Stephen, come along.  His poor wife’s gone down to the beach, now.”