"Yes, Ju—an unprofitable task."
"Oh, papa!"
"Yes, unprofitable. The next wind from the sea that blows—one will blow in an hour—and all my work is undone."
"But, my dear papa!" Judith stooped and looked into the bucket. "Why!—what has made you bring a load of sand up here? We want none in the garden. And such a distance too!—from the church. No wonder you are tired."
"Have I brought it?" he asked, without looking at the bucket.
"You have, indeed. That, if you please, is unprofitable work, not the digging of the church out of the sand-heaps that swallow it."
"My dear, I did not know that I had not emptied the pail outside the church-yard gate. I am very tired; perhaps that explains it."
"No doubt about it, papa. It was work quite as unprofitable but much more exhausting than my ball -play. Now, papa, while you have been digging your church out of the sand, which will blow over it again to-night, you say, I have been pitching and tossing guelder-roses. We have been both wasting time, one as much as the other."
"One as much as the other," repeated the old man. "Yes, dear, one as much as the other, and I have been doing it all my time here—morally, spiritually, as well as materially, digging the church out of the smothering sands, and all in vain—all profitless work. You are right, Ju."
"Papa," said Judith hastily, seeing his discouragement and knowing his tendency to depression, "papa, do you hear the sea how it roars? I have stood on the bench, more than once, to look out seaward, and find a reason for it; but there is none—all blue, blue as a larkspur; and not a cloud in the sky—all blue, blue there too. No wind either, and that is why I have done well with my ball-play. Do you hear the roar of the sea, papa.?" she repeated.
"Yes, Ju. There will be a storm shortly. The sea is thrown into great swells of rollers, a sure token that something is coming. Before night a gale will be on us."
