"
"I'd as soon not have my flaish creep down the spine 'pon Sundays as not,"
confessed Thomasin, "but Michael's Michael, an' so all's said."
Uncle Chirgwin went to smoke a pipe and water his horse at this juncture;
but he returned within less than ten minutes.
"It's blowin'," he said, "an' the fust skew o' gray rain's breakin' over
the sea. I knawed 'twas comin' by my corns. The bwoats is sailin' back
tu--a frothin' in proper ower the lumpy water."
"Then you'd best be movin'," said Mrs. Tregenza. "I judged bad-fashioned
weather was comin' tu when I touched the string o' seaweed as hangs by the
winder. 'Tis clammy to the hand. God save us!" she continued, turning from
the door, "theer's ourn at the moorin's! They've been driv' back 'fore us
counted 'pon seein' 'em by the promise of storm. Get you gone, for the love
o' the Lard; an' go Mouzle way, else you'll run on top o' Michael for
sure."
"Ban't no odds if us do. Joan had a mind to see en," answered the farmer;
but Joan spoke for herself. She explained that she now wished to depart
without seeing her father if possible.
It was, however, too late to escape the meeting. Even as the twain bade
Mrs. Tregenza a hasty farewell, heavy feet sounded on the cobbles at the
cottage door and a moment later Tregenza entered. His oilskins were wet and
shiny; half a dozen herrings, threaded through the gills on a string, hung
from his right hand.
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