!
here, in early spring, with drift-ice still coming in vast floes from
the north, queer weather to draw the sweat from us, while a midsummer
blue loom of the main-land hung high and fantastically shaped in the
thick air. Breathless, ominously colored weather! Why, the like, for
stillness and beggarly expression of intention, had never been known
to Twist Tickle: they talked with indignation of it on Eli Flack's
stage; 'twas a day that bred wrecks, said they. Ay, and 'twas an
outrage upon the poor fishermen of that coast: what was a man to do,
said they--what was he to do with his salmon-gear and cod-traps--in
this evil, wilful departure from traditional procedure? And what did
the weather mean? would it blow wet or dry? would it come with snow?
would the wind jump off shore or from the northeast? and how long, in
the name o' Heaven, would the weather sulk in distance before breaking
in honest wrath upon the coast? 'Twas enough, said they, to make a man
quit the grounds; 'twas enough, with _this_ sort o' thing keepin' up,
t' make a man turn carpenter or go t' Sydney!

All this I heard in passing.

"Ah, well, lads," says my uncle, "ye'll find winter skulkin' jus' over
the horizon. An' he'll be down," he added, confidently, "within a day
or two."

I led John Cather to the brink of Tom Tulk's cliff, where, in the
smoky sunshine, I might talk in secret with him. 'Twas in my mind to
confide my perplexity and miserable condition of heart, without
reserve of feeling or mitigation of culpable behavior, and to lean
upon his wisdom and tactful arts for guidance into some happier
arrangement with the maid I loved. It seemed to me, I recall, as I
climbed the last slope, that I had been, all my life, an impassive
lover, as concerned the welfare of the maid: that I had been
ill-tempered and unkind, marvellously quick to find offence, justified
in this cruel and stupid conduct by no admirable quality or grace or
achievement--a lad demanding all for nothing. I paused, I recall, at
the cairn, to sigh, overcome and appalled by this revelation; and
thereupon I felt such a rush of strenuous intention in my own
behalf--a determination to strive and scheme--that I had scarce breath
to reach the edge of the cliff, and could not, for the life of me,
begin to narrate my desperate state to John Cather. But John Cather
was not troubled by my silence: he was sprawled on the thick moss of
the cliff, his head propped in his hands, smiling, like