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‘We’re in for a storm,’ said Wal Jessop, as he was generally called. ‘I hope there’s no vessel making for the harbour; they’d better keep away from our coast to-night.’

‘I’m right glad you have no occasion to go to sea on such nights,’ said his wife. ‘It would make an old woman of me before my time if you were out in these storms.’

‘I weathered a good many storms before I met you,’ said Wal Jessop, ‘but I don’t feel much inclined for it again when I come to such comfortable quarters as these.’

A low murmuring sound could be heard, a door banged, and the windows creaked ominously.

‘It’s coming,’ said Jessop. ‘Make everything snug, my lass; there’ll be a perfect hurricane before morning.’

As Wal Jessop sat at the well-laden tea-table, he suddenly put down his knife and fork, and drew a paper from his coat-pocket.

‘I’d quite forgotten,’ he said. ‘I hope they’re not making for Sydney in such a gale as this will be.’

‘What ship do you mean?’ asked his wife.

‘The Distant Shore is due here early next week. It’s Saturday, and the agents expect her on Monday at the latest. I hope Captain Manton has not made an extra quick passage. She’s a clipping sailer, is the Distant Shore, and he’s a bit venturesome—likes to make a rapid run. I shouldn’t wonder if she’s not far away to-night.’