'Tis the auld broom
as Christ brought in the world as routs into the dark corners like nothin'
else."
"I be glad you spawk to en," said Mary. "Seed sawed do bring forth fruit in
a 'mazin'' way."
"I reckoned he'd a smote me, but he dedn'. He just turned rosy red an'
stood glazin' at me as if I was a ghost."
"I never see en look like that afore," declared Joan; "he 'peared to be
afeared. But the door's shut 'gainst me now. I caan't do no more'n I have
done. He'll never forgive."
"As to that, Joan, I won't say. You bide quiet till the seed sprouts. I lay
now as you'll hear tell about your faither an' maybe get a message from en
'fore the year's a month older."
With which hopeful prediction Uncle Chirgwin ended the discussion.
That night the circular storm, which had died away at dark, turned upon
itself and the wind moaned at window latches and down chimneys, prophesying
autumn. Dawn broke on a drenched, gray world, but the storm had clean
passed, and at noon the gray brightened to silver and burned to gold when
the sun came out. The wind wore to the west, and on to northwest; the
weather settled down and days of a rare late summer pursued their even way.
A fortnight passed, and the farmer's belief that Gray Michael would
communicate with his daughter began to waver.
"Pharaoh's a soft-'earted twoad to this wan," he declared gloomily. "It do
beat me to picksher sich a man.
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