"Suppose that Bathsheba is dead!"

We hadn't said more than a word or two to each other for a week;
indeed, till yesterday we had to shout in each other's ear to be
heard at all. My father filled a pipe and said, "Don't be a fool."

"I see your hand shaking," said I.

Said he, "That's with the cold. At my age the cold takes a while to
leave a man's extremities."

"But," I went on in an obstinate way, "suppose she is dead?"

My father answered, "She is a well-built woman. The Lord is good."

Not another word than this could I get from him. That evening--the
wind now coming easy from the south, and the swell gone down in a
wonderful way--as I was boiling water for the tea, we saw a dozen
fishing-boats standing out from the Islands. They ran down to within
two miles of us and then hove-to. The nets went out, and the sails
came down, and by and by through the glass I could spy the smoke
coming up from their cuddy-stoves.

"They might have brought news," I cried out, "even if 'tis sorrow!"

"Maybe there was no news to bring."

"'Twould have been neighbourly, then, to run down and say so."

"And run into the current here, I suppose? With a chance of the wind