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 out. Fawnie was rocking her body in fear, her arms clasping her head. Phœbe sat nursing the baby. One of Fawnie's little brothers, the one who was accustomed to carry the idiot boy, stood in a dark corner, the whites of his eyes prominent with fear. "What's the matter?" repeated Derek. "Was it the tree? That's all right. There are plenty more." He went to Fawnie and took her arms from her head. She threw herself against his shoulder, sobbing, "Oh, I am so scared! I am so scared! Another of them will fall and smash the roof. Oo—I wish I was in the shack! It's this high ceiling—if it was to fall on us, from so far, it'd kill us sure."

"Nonsense," said Derek. "It's a very low ceiling. See, I can almost touch it with my hand." Still Fawnie cried.

"She's worse than the baby," said Phœbe. "He's a lamb, ain't ye, my pet? A lamb, if ever there was one. Look at his eyes dancin', Mr. Vale. Blue, ain't they? Look at his little hands. Hello, fat fingers—" she mumbled his chubby fists and dandled him.

"What is Lisgar doing here?" asked Derek of Fawnie. He did not want her family hanging about the house.

"He was gettin' a point of milk when the storm came on. I brought him in here out of the kitchen 'cause that ole Snailem, and Hugh, and some Mistwell fellers was teasin' him. I'll put him out in the storm, if you like, Durek."

"No, no. It's all right. Get him a piece of cake, Phœbe, and he'll forget to be afraid."

Phœbe, the baby tucked under her arm, went to the kitchen. She brought back a tray covered with tea cups, a pot of tea, and a plate heaped with seed-cake. A sound of scraping chairs came from the kitchen as the men drew up to the table for a like refreshment. Lisgar's bright eyes grew round and he drew near the tray, yet, when Derek