It was windy weather: and had been—for an exasperating tale of dusks and dawns. It was not the weather of variable gales, which blow here and there, forever to the advantage of some Newfoundland folk; it was the weather of ill easterly winds, in gloomy conjunction bringing fog, rain, breaking seas, drift-ice, dispiriting cold. From Nanny’s Old Head the outlook was perturbing: the sky was hid, with its familiar warnings and promises; gigantic breakers fell with swish and thud upon the black rocks below, flinging lustreless white froth into the gray mist; and the grounds, where the men of Candlestick Cove must cast lines and haul traps, were in an ill-tempered, white-capped tumble—black waves rolling out of a melancholy fog, hanging low, which curtained the sea beyond.

The hands of the men of Candlestick Cove were raw with salt-water sores; all charms against the affliction of toil in easterly gales had failed—brass bracelets and incantations alike. And the eyes of the men of Candlestick Cove were alert with apprehensive caution: tense, quick to move, clear and hard under drawn brows. With a high sea perversely continuing beyond the harbor tickle, there was no place in the eyes of men for the light of humor or love, which thrive in security. Windy weather, indeed! ’Twas a time for men to be men!

“I ’low I never seed nothin’ like it,” Jonathan Stock complained.

The sea, breaking upon the Rock o’ Wishes, and the wind, roaring past, confused old Tom Lull.

“What say?” he shouted.

“Nothin’ like it,” said Jonathan Stock.

They had come in from the sea with empty punts, and they were now pulling up the harbor, side by side, toward the stage-heads, which were lost in the misty dusk. Old Tom had hung in the lee of the Rock o’ Wishes until Jonathan Stock came flying over the tickle breaker in a cloud of spray. The wind had been in the east beyond the experience of eighty years; it was in his aged mind to exchange opinions upon the marvel.

“Me neither,” said he.

They were drawing near Herring Point, within the harbor, where the noise of wind and sea, in an easterly gale, diminishes.

“I ’low I never seed nothin’ like it,” said Jonathan Stock.

“Me neither, Skipper Jonathan.”

“Never seed nothin’ like it.”

They pulled on in silence—until the froth of Puppy Rock was well astern.

“Me neither,” said Tom.

“I never seed nothin’ like it,” Jonathan grumbled.

Old Tom wagged his head.

“No, sir!” Jonathan declared. “Never seed nothin’ like it.”

“Me neither.”

“Not like this,” said Jonathan, testily.

“Me neither,” old Tom agreed. “Not like this. No, sir; me neither, b’y!”

’Twas a grand, companionable exchange of ideas! A gush of talk! A whirlwind of opinion! Both enjoyed it—were relieved by it: rid of the gathered thought of long hours alone on the grounds. Jonathan Stock had expressed himself freely and at length; so, too, old Tom Lull. ’Twas heartening—this easy sociability. Tom Lull was glad that he had waited in the lee of the Rock o’ Wishes; he had felt the need of conversation, and was now gratified; so, too, Jonathan Stock. But now, quite exhausted of ideas, they proceeded in silence, pulling mechanically through the dripping mist. From time to time old Tom Lull wagged his head and darkly muttered; but the words invariably got lost in his mouth.

Presently both punts came to Jonathan Stock’s stage.

“I ’low,” Jonathan exclaimed, in parting, “I never seed nothin’ like it!”

Old Tom lifted his oars. He drew his hand over his wet beard. A moment he reflected—frowning at the mist: deep in philosophical labor. Then he turned quickly to Jonathan Stock: turned in delight, his gray old face clear of bewilderment—turned as if about to deliver himself of some vast original conception, which might leave nothing more to be said.

“Me neither!” he chuckled, as his oars struck the water and his punt moved off into the mist.

Windy weather! Moreover, it was a lean year—the leanest of three lean years. The flakes were idle, unkempt, dripping the fog; the stages were empty, the bins full of salt; the splitting-knives were rusted: this though men and punts and nets were worn out with toil. There was no fish: wherefore, the feeling men of Candlestick Cove kept clear of the merchant of the place, who had outfitted them all in the spring of the year, and was now contemplating the reckoning at St. John’s with much terror and some ill-humor.

It was a lean year—a time of uneasy dread. From Cape Norman to the Funks and beyond, the clergy, acutely aware of the prospect, and perceiving the opportunity to be even more useful, preached from comforting texts. “The Lord will provide” was the theme of gentle Parson Grey of Doubled Arm; and the discourse culminated in a passionate allusion to “Yet have I never seen the seed of the righteous begging bread.” Parson Stump of Burnt Harbor—a timid little man with tender gray eyes—treated “Your Heavenly Father feedeth them” with inspiring faith.

By all this the apprehension of the folk was lulled; it was admitted even by the unrighteous that there were times when ’twas better to be with than without the clergy. At Little Harbor Shallow, old Skipper Job Sutler, a man lacking in understanding, put out no more to the grounds off Devil-may-Care.

“Skipper Job,” the mail-boat captain warned, “you better get out t’ the grounds in civil weather.”

“Oh,” quoth Job, “the Lard’ll take care o’ we!”

The captain was doubtful.

“An’, anyhow,” says Job, “if the Lard don’t, the gov’ment’s got to!”

His youngest child died in the famine months of the winter. But that was his fault....

Skipper Jonathan Stock was alone with the trader in the shop of Candlestick Cove. The squat, whitewashed building gripped a weather-beaten point of harbor shore. It was night—a black night, the wind blowing high, rain pattering fretfully upon the roof. The worried little trader—spare, gimlet-eyed, thin-whiskered, now perched on the counter—slapped his calf with a yardstick; the easterly gale was fast aggravating his temper beyond control. It was bright and warm in the shop; the birch billets spluttered and snored in the stove, and a great lamp suspended from the main rafter showered the shelves and counter and greasy floor with light. Skipper Jonathan’s clothes of moleskin steamed with the rain and spray of the day’s toil.

“No, John,” said the trader, sharply; “she can’t have un—it can’t be done.”

Jonathan slowly examined his wrist; the bandage had got loose. “No?” he asked, gently, his eyes still fixed on the salt-water sore.

“No, sir.”

Jonathan drew a great hand over his narrow brow, where the rain still lay in the furrows. It passed over his beard—a gigantic beard, bushy and flaming red. He shook the rain-drops from his hand.

“No, Mister Totley,” he repeated, in a patient drawl. “No—oh no.”

Totley hummed the opening bars of “Wrecked on the Devil’s Finger.” He broke off impatiently—and sighed.

“She can’t,” Jonathan mused. “No—she can’t.”

The trader began to whistle, but there was no heart in the diversion; and there was much poignant distress in the way he drummed on the counter.

“I wouldn’t be carin’ so much,” Jonathan softly persisted—“no, not so much, if ’twasn’t their birthday. She told un three year ago they could have un—when they was twelve. An’, dear man! they’ll be twelve two weeks come Toosday. Dear man!” he exclaimed again, with a fleeting little smile, “how the young ones grows!”

The trader slapped his lean thigh and turned his eyes from Jonathan’s simple face to the rafters. Jonathan bungled with the bandage on his wrist; but his fingers were stiff and large, and he could not manage the thread. A gust of wind made the roof ring with the rain.

“An’ the other little thing?” Jonathan inquired. “Was you ’lowin’ my woman could have—the other little thing? She’ve her heart sort o’ sot on that. Sort o’ sot on havin’—that there little thing.”

“Can’t do it, Jonathan.”

“Ay,” Jonathan repeated, blankly. “She was sayin’ the day ’twas sort o’ giddy of her; but she was ’lowin’ her heart was sort o’ sot on havin’—that little thing.”

Totley shook his head.

“Her heart,” Jonathan sighed.

“Can’t do it, John.”

“Mm-m-m! No,” Jonathan muttered, scratching his head in helplessness and bewilderment; “he can’t give that little thing t’ the woman, neither. Can’t give she that.”

Totley shook his head. It was not an agreeable duty thus to deny Jonathan Stock of Candlestick Cove. It pinched the trader’s heart. “But a must is a must!” thought he. The wind was in the east, with no sign of change, and ’twas late in the season; and there was no fish—no fish, God help us all! There would be famine at Candlestick Cove—famine, God help us all! The folk of Candlestick Cove—Totley’s folk—must be fed; there must be no starvation. And the creditors at St. John’s—Totley’s creditors—were wanting fish insistently. Wanting fish, God help us! when there was no fish. There was a great gale of ruin blowing up; there would be an accounting to his creditors for the goods they had given him in faith—there must be no waste of stock, no indulgence of whims. He must stand well. The creditors at St. John’s must be so dealt with that the folk of Candlestick Cove—Totley’s folk—could be fed through the winter. ’Twas all-important that the folk should be fed—just fed with bread and molasses and tea: nothing more than that. Nothing more than that, by the Lord! would go out of the store.

Jonathan pushed back his dripping cloth cap and sighed. “’Tis fallin’ out wonderful,” he ventured.

Totley whistled to keep his spirits up.

“Awful!” said Jonathan.

The tune continued.

“She ’lows,” Jonathan went on, “that if it keeps on at this rate she won’t have none left by spring. That’s what she ’lows will happen.”

Totley proceeded to the chorus.

“No, sir,” Jonathan pleaded; “she’ll have nar a one!”

The trader avoided his eye.

“An’ it makes her feel sort o’ bad,” Jonathan protested. “I tells her that with or without she won’t be no different t’ me. Not t’ me. But she sort o’ feels bad just the same. You sees, sir,” he stammered, abashed, “she—she—she’s only a woman!”

Totley jumped from the counter. “Look you Jonathan!” said he, decisively, “she can have it.”

Jonathan beamed.

“She can have what she wants for herself, look you! but she can’t have no oil-skins for the twins, though ’tis their birthday. ’Tis hard times, Jonathan, with the wind glued t’ the east; an’ the twins is got t’ go wet. What kind she want? Eh? I got two kinds in the case. I don’t recommend neither o’ them.”

Jonathan scratched his head.

“Well, then,” said the trader, “you better find out. If she’s goin’ t’ have it at all, she better have the kind she hankers for.”

Jonathan agreed.

“Skipper Jonathan,” said the trader, much distressed, “we’re so poor at Candlestick Cove that we ought t’ be eatin’ moss. I’ll have trouble enough, this fall, gettin’ flour from St. John’s t’ go ’round. Skipper Jonathan, if you could get your allowance o’ flour down t’ five barrels instead o’ six, I’d thank you. The young ones is growin’, I knows; but—well, I’d thank you, Jonathan, I’d thank you!”

“Mister Totley, sir,” Jonathan Stock replied, solemnly, “I will get that flour down t’ five. Don’t you fret no more about feedin’ my little crew,” he pleaded. “’Tis kind o’ you; an’ I’m sorry you’ve t’ fret.”

“Thank you, Jonathan.”

“An’ ... you wouldn’t mind lashin’ this bit o’ cotton on my wrist, would you, sir? The sleeve o’ my jacket sort o’ chafes the sore.”

“A bad hand, Jonathan!”

“No—oh no; it ain’t bad. I’ve had scores of un in my time. It don’t amount t’ nothin’. Oh no—it ain’t what you might call bad!”

The wrist was bound anew. Jonathan stumbled down the dark steps to the water-side, glad that his wife was to have that which she so much desired. He pushed out in the punt. She was only a woman, he thought, with an indulgent smile, but she did want—that little thing. The wind was high—the rain sweeping out of the east. He turned the bow of the punt toward a point of light shining cheerily far off in the dark, tumultuous night.

Jonathan Stock had no more than got off his soggy boots, and washed his hands, and combed his hair, and drawn close to the kitchen fire—while his wife clattered over the bare floor about the business of his comfort—when Parson Jaunt tapped and entered: and folded his umbrella, and wiped his face with a white handkerchief, and jovially rubbed his hands together. This was a hearty, stout little man, with a double chin and a round, rosy face; with twinkling eyes; with the jolliest little paunch in the world; dressed all in black cloth, threadbare and shiny, powdered with dandruff upon the shoulders; and wearing a gigantic yellow chain hanging from pocket to pocket of the waistcoat, and wilted collar and cuffs, and patent-leather shoes, which were muddy and cracked and turned up at the toes. A hearty welcome he got; and he had them all laughing at once—twins and all. Even the chickens in the coop under the settee clucked, and the kid behind the stove rapturously bleated, and the last baby chuckled, and the dog yawned and shook his hind quarters, joyfully awake.

’Twas always comforting to have Parson Jaunt drop in. Wherever he went among the folk of Candlestick Cove, in wet weather or dry, poor times or bad, there was a revival of jollity. His rippling person, smiling face, quick laugh, amiable intimacy, his quips and questions, his way with children—these made him beloved. Ay, there was always a welcome for Parson Jaunt!

“Ha, ha! Yes,” the parson proceeded, “the brethren will be here on the next mail-boat for the district meeting. Ha, ha! Well, well, now! And how’s the baby getting along, Aunt Tibbie? Hut! you little toad; don’t you laugh at me!”

But the baby would.

“Ha-a-a, you rat! You will laugh, will you? He’s a fine child, that.... And I was thinking, Skipper Jonathan, that you and Aunt Tibbie might manage Parson All of Satan’s Trap. Times are hard, of course; but it’s the Lord’s work, you know.... Eh? Get out, you squid! Stop that laughing!”

The baby could not.

“Stop it, I say!”

The baby doubled up, and squirmed, and wiggled his toes, and gasped with glee.

“Yes,” the parson continued, “that you might manage Parson All of Satan’s Trap.”

“T’ be sure!” cried Skipper Jonathan. “We’ll manage un, an’ be glad!”

Aunt Tibbie’s face fell.

“That’s good,” said the parson. “Now, that is good news. ’Tis most kind of you, too,” he added, earnestly, “in these hard times. And it ends my anxiety. The brethren are now all provided for.... Hey, you wriggler! Come out of that! Ha, ha! Well, well!” He took the baby from the cradle. “Gi’ me a kiss, now. Hut! You won’t? Oh, you will, will you?” He kissed the baby with real delight. “I thought so. Ha! I thought so.” He put the baby back. “You little slobbery squid!” said he, with a last poke. “Ha! you little squid!”

Aunt Tibbie’s face was beaming. Anxiety and weariness were for the moment both forgot. ’Twas good, indeed, to have Parson Jaunt drop in!

“Eh, woman?” Jonathan inquired.

“Oh, ay!” she answered. “We’ve always a pillow an’ a bite t’ eat for the Lard’s anointed.”

“The Lord’s anointed!” the parson repeated, quickly. “Ah, that’s it, sister,” said he, the twinkle gone from his upturned eyes. “I’ve a notion to take that up next Sunday. And Parson All,” he continued, “is a saintly fellow. Yes, indeed! Converted at the age of seven. He’s served the Lord these forty years. Ah, dear me! what a profitable season you’ll be having with him! A time of uplifting, a time of—of—yes, indeed!—uplifting.” The parson was not clever; he was somewhat limited as to ideas, as to words; indeed, ’twas said he stuttered overmuch in preaching and was given to repetition. But he was sincere in the practise of his profession, conceiving it a holy calling; and he did the best he could, than which no man can do more. “A time,” he repeated, “of—of—yes—of uplifting.”

Aunt Tibbie was taken by an anxious thought. “What do he fancy,” she asked, “for feedin’?”

“Ha, ha!” the parson exploded, in his delightfully jocular way. “That’s the woman of it. Well, well, now! Yes, indeed! There speaks the good housewife. Eh, Skipper Jonathan? You’re well looked after, I’ll warrant. That’s rather good, you know, coming from you, Aunt Tibbie. Ha, ha! Why, Aunt Tibbie, he eats anything. Anything at all! You’ll want very little extra—very, very little extra. But he’ll tell you when he comes. Don’t worry about that. Just what you have for yourselves, you know. If it doesn’t agree with him, he’ll ask for what he desires.”

“Sure, sir!” said Skipper Jonathan, heartily. “Just let un ask for it.”

“Ay,” Aunt Tibbie echoed, blankly; “just let un ask for it. Sure, he can speak for hisself.”

“Of course!” cried the parson, jovially. “Why, to be sure! That’s the hospitality for me! Nothing formal about that. That’s just what makes us Newfoundlanders famous for hospitality. That’s what I like. ‘Just let un ask.’”

The clock struck. Skipper Jonathan turned patiently to the dial. He must be at sea by dawn. The gale, still blowing high, promised heavy labor at the oars. He was depressed by the roar and patter of the night. There came, then, an angry gust of rain—out of harmony with the parson’s jovial spirit: sweeping in from the black sea where Jonathan must toil at dawn.

“Ay,” he sighed, indifferently.

Aunt Tibbie gave him an anxious glance.

“Yes, indeed! Ha, ha!” the parson laughed. “Let me see, now,” he rattled. “To-morrow. Yes, yes; to-morrow is Tuesday. Well, now, let me see; yes—mm-m-m, of course, that’s right—you will have the privilege of entertaining Brother All for four days. I wish it was more. I wish for your sake,” he repeated, honestly, being unaware of the true situation in this case, “that it could be more. But it can’t. I assure you, it can’t. He must get the mail-boat north. Pity,” he continued, “the brethren can’t linger. These district meetings are so helpful, so inspiring, so refreshing. Yes, indeed! And then the social aspect—the relaxation, the flow of soul! We parsons are busy men—cooped up in a study, you know; delving in books. Our brains get tired. Yes, indeed! They need rest.” Parson Jaunt was quite sincere. Do not misunderstand him. ’Twould be unkind, even, to laugh at him. He was not clever; that is all. “Brain labor, Skipper Jonathan,” he concluded, with an odd touch of pomposity, “is hard labor.”

“Ay,” said Skipper Jonathan, sympathetically; “you parsons haves wonderful hard lines. I Wouldn’t like t’ be one. No, sir; not me!”

In this—in the opinion and feeling—Skipper Jonathan was sincere. He most properly loved Parson Jaunt, and was sorry for him, and he must not be laughed at.

“But,” the parson argued, “we have the district meetings—times of refreshing: when brain meets brain, you know, and wit meets wit, and the sparks fly. Ha, ha! Yes, indeed! The social aspect is not to be neglected. Dear me, no! Now, for illustration, Mrs. Jaunt is to entertain the clergy at the parsonage on Thursday evening. Yes, indeed! She’s planned the refreshments already.” The parson gave Aunt Tibbie a sly, sly glance, and burst out laughing. “Ha, ha!” he roared. “I know what you want. You want to know what she’s going to have, don’t you? Woman’s curiosity, eh? Ha, ha! Oh, you women!” Aunt Tibbie smiled. “Well,” said the parson, importantly, “I’ll tell you. But it’s a secret, mind you! Don’t you tell Brother All!” Aunt Tibbie beamed. “Well,” the parson continued, his voice falling to a whisper, “she’s going to have a jelly-cake, and an angel-cake, and a tin of beef.” The twins sat up, wide-eyed with attention. “Eh? Ha, ha!” the parson laughed. “You got that? And she’s going to have something more.” Aunt Tibbie leaned forward—agape, her eyes staring. The twins were already overcome. “Yes, indeed!” said the parson. “She’s got a dozen bananas from St. John’s! Eh? Ha, ha! And she’s going to slice ’em and put ’em in a custard. Ha, ha!”

The twins gasped.

“Ha, ha!” the parson roared.

They were all delighted—parson, skipper, housewife, and twins. Nor in providing this hospitality for the Black Bay clergy was the parson in thought or deed a selfish shepherd. It would be unkind—it would be most unfair—to think it. He was an honest, earnest servant of the Master he acknowledged, doing good at Candlestick Cove, in fair and foul weather. He lived his life as best he could—earnestly, diligently, with pure, high purpose. But he was not clever: that is all. ’Twould be an evil thing for more brilliant folk (and possibly less kindly) to scorn him.

“Yes, indeed!” the parson laughed. “And look here, now—why, I must be off! Where’s my umbrella? Here it is.... Will you look at that baby, Aunt Tibbie? He’s staring at me yet. Get out, you squid! Stop that laughing. Got a kiss for me? Oh, you have, have you? Then give it to me.... A fine baby that; yes, indeed! A fine baby.... Get out, you wriggler! Leave your toes be. Ha-a-a! I’ll catch you—yes, I will!... What a night it is! How the wind blows and the rain comes down! And no sign of fish, Skipper Jonathan? Ah, well, the Lord will provide. Good-night. God bless you!”

“You’ll get wonderful wet, sir,” said Aunt Tibbie, with a little frown of anxiety.

“I don’t mind it in the least,” cried the parson. “Not at all. I’m used to it.”

Skipper Jonathan shut the door against the wind.

“Will it never stop blowin’!” Aunt Tibbie complained.

Outside, wind and rain had their way with the world. Aunt Tibbie and Skipper Jonathan exchanged glances. They were thinking of the dawn.

“I’m wantin’ t’ go t’ bed, Tibbie,” Jonathan sighed, “for I’m wonderful tired.”

“An’ I’m tired, too, dear,” said Aunt Tibbie, softly. “Leave us all go t’ bed.”

They were soon sound asleep....

Parson All turned out to be a mild little old man with spectacles. His eyes were blue—faded, watery, shy: wherein were many flashes of humor and kindness. His face was smooth and colorless—almost as white as his hair, which was also long and thin and straight. When Jonathan came in from the sea after dark—from the night and wet and vast confusion of that place—Parson All was placidly rocking by the kitchen fire, his hands neatly folded, his trousers drawn up, so that his ankles and calves might warm; and the kitchen was in a joyous tumult, with which the little old man from Satan’s Trap was in benevolent sympathy. Jonathan had thought to find the house solemn, the wife in a fluster, the twins painfully washed and brushed, the able seamen of the little crew glued to their stools; but no! the baby was crowing in the cradle, the twins tousled and grinning, the wife beaming, the little crew rolling on the floor—the whole kitchen, indeed, in a gratefully familiar condition of chaos and glee.

At once they sat down to supper.

“I’m glad t’ have you, parson,” said Jonathan, his broad, hairy face shining with soap and delight. “That I is. I’m glad t’ have you.”

The parson’s smile was winning.

“Jonathan haves a wonderful taste for company,” Aunt Tibbie explained.

The man defended himself. “I isn’t able t’ help it,” said he. “I loves t’ feed folk. An’ I isn’t able, an’ I never was able, an’ I never will be able t’ help it. Here’s your brewis, sir. Eat hearty of it. Don’t spare it.”

“They’s more in the pot,” Aunt Tibbie put in.

The parson’s gentle eye searched the table—as our eyes have often done. A bit of hopeful curiosity—nothing more: a thing common to us all, saints and sinners alike. We have all been hungry and we have all hoped; but few of us, I fancy, being faint of hunger—and dyspeptic—have sat down to a bowl of brewis. ’Tis no sin, in parson or layman, to wish for more; for the Lord endowed them both with hunger, and cursed many, indiscriminately, with indigestion. Small blame, then, to the parson, who was desperately hungry; small blame to Jonathan, who had no more to give. There is no fault anywhere to be descried. Ah, well! the parson’s roving eye was disappointed, but twinkled just the same; it did not darken—nor show ill-humor. There was a great bowl of brewis—a mountain of it. ’Twas eyed by the twins with delight. But there was nothing more. The parson’s eye—the shy, blue, twinkling eye—slyly sought the stove; but the stove was bare. And still the mild eyes continued full of benevolence and satisfaction. He was a man—that parson!

“Windy weather,” said he, with an engaging smile.

“Never seed nothin’ like it!” Jonathan declared.

The twins were by this time busy with their forks, their eyes darting little glances at the parson, at the parson’s overloaded plate, at the ruin of the mountain.

“Wind in the east,” the parson remarked.

Jonathan was perturbed. “You isn’t very hearty the night,” said he.

“Oh, dear me, yes!” the parson protested. “I was just about to begin.”

The faces of the twins were by this overcast.

“Don’t spare it, parson.”

The parson gulped a mouthful with a wry face—an obstinately wry face; he could not manage to control it. He smiled at once—a quick, sweet comprehensive little smile. It was heroic—he was sure that it was! And it was! He could do no more. ’Twas impossible to take the brewis. A melancholy—ay, and perilous—situation for a hungry man: an old man, and a dyspeptic. Conceive it, if you can!

“That ain’t hearty,” Aunt Tibbie complained.

“To be frank,” said the parson, in great humiliation—“to be perfectly frank, I like brewis, but—”

The happiness faded from Aunt Tibbie’s eyes.

“—I don’t find it inspiring,” the parson concluded, in shame.

The twins promptly took advantage of the opportunity to pass their plates for more.

“Dyspepsey?” Aunt Tibbie inquired.

“It might be called that,” Parson All replied, sweeping the board with a smile, but yet with a flush of guilt and shame, “by a physician.”

“Poor man!” Aunt Tibbie signed.

There was a brief silence—expectant, but not selfishly so, on the part of the parson; somewhat despairing on the part of the hosts.

“Well, parson,” Skipper Jonathan said, doggedly, “all you got t’ do is ask for what you wants.”

“No, no!”

“That’s all you got t’ do,” Jonathan persisted.

“Most kind of you, sir! But—no, no!”

“Please do!” Aunt Tibbie begged.

But the parson was not to be persuaded. Not Parson All of Satan’s Trap—a kindly, sensitive soul! He was very hungry, to be sure, and must go hungry to bed (it seemed); but he would not ask for what he wanted. To-morrow? Well, something had to be done. He would yield—he must yield to the flesh—a little. This he did timidly: with shame for the weakness of the flesh. He resented the peculiarity of brewis in his particular case. Indeed, he came near to rebellion against the Lord—no, not rebellion: merely rebellious questionings. But he is to be forgiven, surely; for he wished most earnestly that he might eat brewis and live—just as you and I might have done.

“Now, Parson All,” Jonathan demanded, “you just got t’ tell.”

And, well, the parson admitted that a little bread and a tin of beef—to be taken sparingly—would be a grateful diet.

“But we’ve none!” cried Aunt Tibbie. “An’ this night you’ll starve!”

“To-night,” said the parson, gently, “my stomach—is a bit out—anyhow.”

Presently he was shown to his bed....

“I ’low,” said Aunt Tibbie, when the parson was stowed away and she had caught Skipper Jonathan’s wavering eye, “he’d better have more’n that.”

“He—he—he’ve just got t’ have more.”

“He’ve a weak stomach,” Aunt Tibbie apologized. “Poor man!”

“I tells you, Tibbie,” Jonathan declared, “them parsons haves wonderful hard times. They isn’t able t’ get out in the air enough. Too much book-study. Too much brain labor. I wouldn’t change places with a parson, woman, for all the world!”

Aunt Tibbie nodded absently.

“I ’low,” said Jonathan, “I’d better be gettin’ under way for the shop.”

The man drew on his boots and got into his oil-skins, and had his wrists bandaged and went out. It was a long pull to the shop; but his mind was too full of wonder and sly devising to perceive the labor of the way.... And the trader was silting alone in the shop, perched on the counter, slapping his lean calf with a yardstick, while the rain pattered on the roof and the wind went screaming past.

“You got a parson, Jonathan,” said he, accusingly. “Yes, you is.”

“Ay,” Jonathan admitted, “I got one.”

“An’ that’s what brings you here.”

“It be,” Jonathan replied, defiantly.

The silence was disquieting.

“I’m ’lowin’,” Jonathan stammered, “t’—t’-t’ sort o’ get four tins o’ beef.”

The trader beat his calf.

“An’ six pound o’ butter,” said Jonathan, “an’ some pickles.”

“Anything else?” the trader snapped.

“Ay,” said Jonathan, “they is.”

The trader sniffed.

“The parson haven’t said nothin’, but Tibbie’s got a notion that he’s wonderful fond o’ canned peaches,” Jonathan ventured, diffidently. “She ’lows they’ll keep his food sweet.”

“Anything else?”

“No—oh no!” Jonathan sighed. “I ’low you wouldn’t give me three pound o’ cheese?” he asked. “Not that the parson mentioned cheese, but Tibbie ’lows he’d find it healthful.” The trader nodded. “About four cans o’ peaches,” said Jonathan.

“I see,” said the trader.

Jonathan drew a great hand over his narrow brow, where the rain still lay in the furrows. It passed over his red whiskers. He shook the rain-drops from his hand.

“Oh, dear!” he sighed.

“Jonathan,” said the trader, sharply, “you’re a fool. I’ve long knowed it. But I loves a fool; an’ you’re the biggest dunderhead I ever knowed. You can have the cheese; you can have the beef; you can have the peaches. You can have un all. But—you got t’ pay.”

“Oh, ay,” said Jonathan, freely. “I’ll pay!”

“You’ll go without sweetness in your tea,” the trader burst out, “all next winter. Understand? No sweetness in your tea. That’s how you’ll pay. If you takes these things, mark you, Jonathan!—an’ hearken well—if you takes these things for your parson, there’ll be no molasses measured out for you. You’ll take your tea straight. Do you understand me, Jonathan Stock?”

“’Tis well,” said Jonathan.

“An’—”

“The other?” Jonathan interrupted, anxiously. “You wasn’t ’lowin’ t’ have the woman give up that, was you? ’Tis such a little thing.”

The trader was out of temper.

“Not that!” Jonathan pleaded.

“Just that!” Totley exclaimed. “I’ll not give it to her. If you’re t’ have parsons, why, pay for un. Don’t come askin’ me t’ do it for you.”

“But she—she—she’s only a woman! An’ she sort o’ feels bad. Not that ’twould make any difference t’ me—not t’ me. Oh, I tells her that. But she ’lows she wants it, anyhow. She sort o’ hankers for it. An’ if you could manage—”

“Not I!” Totley was very much out of temper. “Pay for your own parson,” he growled.

“Ah, well,” Jonathan sighed, “she ’lowed, if you made a p’int of it, that she’d take the grub an’ do without—the other. Ay, do without—the other.”

So Jonathan went home with what the parson needed to eat, and he was happy.

It was still windy weather. Dusks and dawns came in melancholy procession. The wind swept in the east—high, wet, cold. Fog and rain and drift-ice were to be met on the grounds of Candlestick Cove. From Nanny’s Old Head the outlook was more perturbing than ever: the sea’s distances were still hid in the mist; the breakers on the black rocks below gave the waste a voice, expressed its rage, its sullen purpose; the grounds where the men of Candlestick Cove must fish were still in a white-capped tumble; and the sores on the wrists of the men of Candlestick Cove were not healed. There was no fish; the coast hopelessly faced famine; men and women and children would all grow lean. The winter, approaching, was like an angry cloud rising from the rim of the sea. The faces of the men of Candlestick Cove were drawn—with fear of the sea and with dread of what might come to pass. In the meeting-house of Candlestick Cove, in district meeting assembled, the Black Bay clergy engaged in important discussions, with which the sea and the dripping rocks and the easterly wind had nothing to do....

The Black Bay parsons were exchanging farewells at the landing-stage. The steamer was waiting. There had been no change in the weather: the wind was blowing high from the east, there was fog abroad, the air was clammy. Parson Jaunt took Parson All by the arm and led him aside.

“How was you fixed, brother?” he whispered, anxiously. “I haven’t had time to ask you before.”

Parson All’s eyebrows were lifted in mild inquiry.

“Was you comfortable? Did you get enough to eat?”

There was concern in Parson Jaunt’s voice—a sweet, wistful consideration.

“Yes, yes!” Parson All answered, quickly. “They are very good people—the Stocks.”

“They’re clean, but—”

“Poor.”

“Very, very poor! Frankly, Brother All, I was troubled. Yes, indeed! I was troubled. I knew they were poor, and I didn’t know whether it was wise or right to put you there. I feared that you might fare rather badly. But there was nothing else to do. I sincerely hope—”

Parson All raised a hand in protest.

“You was fixed all right?” Parson Jaunt asked.

“Yes, brother,” answered Parson All, in genuine appreciation of the hospitality he had received. “It was touching. Praise the Lord! I’m glad to know that such people live in a selfish world like this. It was very, very touching.”

Parson Jaunt’s face expressed some surprise.

“Do you know what they did?” said Parson All, taking Parson Jaunt by the lapel of the coat and staring deep into his eyes. “Do you know what they did?”

Parson Jaunt wagged his head.

“Why, brother,” Parson All declared, with genuinely grateful tears in his eyes, “when I told Skipper Jonathan that brewis soured on my stomach, he got me tinned beef, and butter, and canned peaches, and cheese. I’ll never forget his goodness. Never!”

Parson Jaunt stared. “What a wonderful thing Christianity is!” he exclaimed. “What a wonderful, wonderful thing! By their fruits,” he quoted, “ye shall know them.”

The Black Bay clergy were called aboard. Parson Jaunt shook off the mild old Parson All and rushed to the Chairman of the District, his black coat-tails flying in the easterly wind, and wrung the Chairman’s hand, and jovially laughed until his jolly little paunch shook like jelly....

That night, in the whitewashed cottage upon which the angry gale beat, Skipper Jonathan and Aunt Tibbie sat together by the kitchen fire. Skipper Jonathan was hopelessly in from the sea—from the white waves thereof, and the wind, and the perilous night—and Aunt Tibbie had dressed the sores on his wrists. The twins and all the rest of the little crew were tucked away and sound asleep.

Skipper Jonathan sighed.

“What was you thinkin’ about, Jonathan?” Aunt Tibbie asked.

“Jus’ ponderin’,” said he.

“Ay; but what upon?”

“Well, Tibbie,” Jonathan answered, in embarrassment, “I was jus’—ponderin’.”

“What is it, Jonathan?”

“I was ’lowin’, Tibbie,” Jonathan admitted, “that it wouldn’t be so easy—no, not so easy—t’ do without that sweetness in my tea.”

Aunt Tibbie sighed.

“What you thinkin’ about, dear?” Jonathan asked.

“I got a sinful hankerin’,” Aunt Tibbie answered, repeating the sigh.

“Is you, dear?”

“I got a sinful hankerin’,” said she, “for that there bottle o’ hair-restorer. For I don’t want t’ go bald! God forgive me,” she cried, in an agony of humiliation, “for this vanity!”

“Hush, dear!” Jonathan whispered, tenderly; “for I loves you, bald or not!”

But Aunt Tibbie burst out crying.