oking lanterns had been set against the wall and afforded the
only light cast upon the scene. Aunt Sibylla Cradlebow, the speaker, was
tall and dark-eyed, with an almost superhuman litheness of body, and a
weird, beautiful face.

"And, oh, my dear brothers and sisters and onconvarted friends!" she
continued; "how little do we realize the reskiness of our situwation
here on the Cape! Here we stand with them ar identical unbounded seas a
rollin' up on ary side of us! the world a pintin' at us as them that
should be always ready, with our lamps trimmed and burnin'! and, yit, oh
my dear brothers and sisters and onconvarted friends! as fur as I have
been inland--and I have been a consid'able ways inland, as you all know,
whar it would seem no more than nateral that folks should settle down
kind o' safe and easy on a dry land univarse--I say, as fur as I have
been inland, I never see sech keeryins on and carnal works, sech
keerlessness for the present and onconsarn for the futur', as I have
amongst the benighted critturs who stand before me this evenin', a
straddlin' this poor, old, Godforsaken Pot Hook!"

Clearer and louder grew Aunt Sibylla's tones; her eyes lightened with
terrible meaning; her words flowed with an unction that was unmistakable;
and, at length, "Oh, run for the Ark, ye poor, lost sinners," she
exclaimed. "Oh, run for the Ark, my onconvarted friends! Don't ye hear
the waves a comin' in? They're a rollin' swift and sure! They're a
rollin' in sure as death! Run for the Ark! Run for the Ark!"

Now, there was in Wallencamp a literal Ark, otherwise this exhortation
would have lacked its most convincing force and significance. But Aunt
Sibylla paused. Among the usually restless audience, there was a moment
of almost breathless suspense. Not half a mile away, behind a strip of
cedar woods, we could plainly hear the surf rolling in from the bay,
breaking hard against the shore with its awful, monotonous moan, moan,
moan.

My heart was already faint with home-sickness. The effect of that waiting
moment was as sombre as anything I had ever experienced. Much to my
distaste, I found myself sympathizing with the vague terror and unrest
around me. I can hear it still, the voice that then rose, singing,
through the sullen gloom of the school-room, a strangely sweet and
rapturous voice--Madeline's. I learned to know it well afterwards. I
listened with rapt surprise to the pathos with which it thrilled the
simple words o