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“See, Miss Sullivan,” said he, “them oxen has stopped chewin’ the cud—another sure sign of a storm. The wind is sou’west. It’ll be short, but hot an’ heavy—a kind er horriken.”

“If the storm is severe, what will all these fishing-vessels do?” she asked. “I have counted nearly a hundred this afternoon.”

“Most on ’em will go birds’-nestin’ ’round in the bays an’ coves along shore. Some on ’em alluz gits caught, an’ that’s what makes me feel kind er anxious now. You see, my boy Willum has been buyin’ a schooner up to New Brunswick, with a pardner of his, and he’s jest as like as not to be takin’ her down to Boston about now.”

“I hope not!” cried Miss Sullivan, shuddering involuntarily in the hot chill of another isolated blast.

“Wal, worryin’ won’t mend nothin’,” said the father, with stoic calmness. “Come, Dan’l, we must hurry up with this ’ere hay,” and the two fell to work again; but the face of the elder man was very grave as he glanced, from time to time, at the grey sky and sullen sea.