I did not attempt to reason with her, for I knew of old that when Julia
was bilious and nervous she was quite deaf to reason. I only stroked the
hand that lay on my shoulder, and went on with my dinner as if my life
depended upon the speed with which I dispatched it.

"Uncle," she said, as my father came in with a small portmanteau in his
hand, "tell Martin he must not go. There is sure to be a storm
to-night."

"Pooh! pooh!" he answered. "I should be glad enough for Martin to stay
at home, but there's no help for it, I suppose. There will be no storm
at present, and they'll run across quickly. It will be the coming back
that will be difficult. You'll scarcely get home again to-night,
Martin."

"No," I said. "I'll stop at Gavey's, and come back in the Sark cutter if
it has begun to ply. If not, Tardif must bring me over in the morning."

"Don't go," persisted Julia, as I thrust myself into my rough
pilot-coat, and then bent down to kiss her cheek. Julia always presented
me her cheek, and my lips had never met hers yet. My mother was standing
by and looking tearful, but she did not say a word; she knew there was
no question about what I ought to do. Julia followed me to the door and
held me fast with both hands round my arm, sobbing out hysterically,
"Don't go!" Even when I had released myself and was running down the
drive, I could hear her still calling, "O Martin, don't go!"

I was glad to get out of hearing. I felt sorry for her, yet there was a
considerable amount of pleasure in being the object of so much tender