CHAPTER XII.
A CLIMAX.
A bitter north wind, laden with sleet and rain, blew over Abersethin Bay, tearing the surface into streaks of foam.

The fishing boats were drawn up on the grassy slope which bordered the sandy beach, and weighted with heavy stones.

The cottage doors were all closed, and if a stray pedestrian was anywhere to be seen, he was hurrying on his way, his hands in his pockets and his cap tied firmly under his chin.

On the cliffs above, the wind swirled and rushed, blowing the grass all one way and sweeping over the stunted thorn bushes.

In the corners under the hedges, the cows and horses sheltered in little groups, and the few gaunt trees which grew on that exposed coast groaned and creaked as they bent away from the storm.
At Dinas the wind blew with bitter keenness through every chink and cranny, roaring and whistling round the bare gray house, rattling the doors and windows with every angry gust.