light of an autumn twilight. I wandered through the few small rooms of
the cottage, endeavoring to amuse myself, while the light lasted, with
two funeral sermons and an old newspaper. Then I sat down at a window,
and I well remember the gloomy landscape, seen through the rain, in
the dusk:--the marsh, with the creek dividing it, the bare round
eminence between the house and the beach, or rather the rocky cliffs,
and on either side the wide, lonely sands, with heavy foam-capped
breakers rolling in upon the shore, with a sound like a solemn
dirge. At a distance on the left, half hidden by the walnut-trees, lay
the ruins of a mill, which had always the air of being haunted. A
high, rocky hill, very nearly perpendicular on the side next the
house, was covered on the sides and top with junipers, pines, and
other evergreens. As the darkness thickened, I left the lonely "best
room" for the seat in the large chimney-corner, in the kitchen. The
old wife tottered round, making preparations for the evening meal, and
muttered recollections of shipwrecks which the storm brought to her
mind. Now and then she would go to a window, turn back her cap-border
from her forehead, put her face close to the glass, shading off the
firelight with her hand, and gaze out into the darkness.

"Asa did not go out either, thank the good Father!" she said. The dog
whined piteously. "St! St! Poor Scip! Here, shall have a piece! Good
dog! A fearful night indeed it is."

The two men came in from the barn, shook off the wet, and drew near
the fire.

"Just such a night, twenty-nine years ago come August, we ran afoul of
Hatteras. You remember, old woman, how they frighted ye about me,
don't ye?"