women, gathered in front of the houses, are talking softly, lingering
before going to sleep, beyond which there is always the unknown.

The light of the sea and the sky behind the houses, and the houses
and their bark roofs are black and sharp, and there is no
perspective: the houses that are far and those that are near seem to
stand side by side as if attached to one another, the roofs and the
walls embracing one another, pressing close to one another, seized
with the same uneasiness before the eternal unknown.

Right here there is also a little church, its side wall formed
crudely of rough granite, with a deep window which seems to be
concealing itself.

A cautious sound of women's voices is heard, softened by uneasiness
and by the approaching night.

"We can sleep peacefully to-night. The sea is calm and the rollers
are breaking like the clock in the steeple of old Dan."

"They will come back with the morning tide. My husband told me that
they will come back with the morning tide."

"Perhaps they will come back with the evening tide. It is better
for us to think they will come back in the evening, so that our
waiting will not be in vain.

"But I must build a fire in the stove."

"When the men are away from home, one does not feel like starting a