be quiet and silent."

"And listen to the wind? No, that is terrible."

"I love the fire. I should like to sleep near the fire, but my husband
does not allow it."

"Why doesn't old Dan come here? It is time to strike the hour."

"Old Dan will play in the church to-night; he cannot bear such
silence as this. When the sea is roaring, old Dan hides himself and is
silent--he is afraid of the sea. But, as soon as the waves calm down,
Dan crawls out quietly and sits down to play his organ."

The women laugh softly.

"He reproaches the sea."

"He is complaining to God against it. He knows how to complain well.
One feels like crying when he tells God about those who have perished at
sea. Mariet, have you seen Dan to-day? Why are you silent, Mariet?"

Mariet is the adopted daughter of the abbot, in whose house old Dan, the
organist, lives. Absorbed in thought, she does not hear the question.

"Mariet, do you hear? Anna is asking you whether you have seen Dan
to-day."

"Yes, I think I have. I don't remember. He is in his room. He does not
like to leave his room when father goes fishing."

"Dan is fond of the city priests. He cannot get used to the idea of a
priest who goes fishing, like an ordinary fisherman, and who goes to sea
with our husbands."

"He is simply afraid of the sea."

"You may say what you like, but I believe we have the very best priest
in the world."

"That's true. I fear him, but I love him as a father."

"May God forgive me, but I would have been proud and always happy, if I
were his adopted daughter. Do you hear, Mariet?"

The women laugh softly and tenderly.

"Do you hear, Mariet?"

"I do. But aren't you tired of always laughing at the same thing? Yes,
I am his daughter--Is it so funny that you will laugh all your life at
it?"

The women commence to justify themselves confusedly.

"But he laughs at it himself."

"The abbot is fond of jesting. He says so comically: 'My adopted
daughter,' and then he strikes himself with his fist and shouts: 'She's
my real daughter, not my adopted daughter. She's my real daughter.'"

"I have never known my mother, but this laughter would have been
unpleasant to her. I feel it," says Mariet.

The women grow silent. The breakers strike against the shore dully with
the regularity of a great pendulum. The unknown city, wrapped with fire
and smoke, is still being destroyed in the sky; yet it does not fall
down completely; and the sea is waiting. Marie