"If I do go, you must promise to call properly on her to-morrow. Wear that summer silk. It's not made as I saw them in town, but Jane's not particular as to fashion. But as for this absurd bathing rig—”

Jane, meanwhile, with the envy and jealous rage which belongs to women of her caliber, and which is so often kindled by a matter of hats and petticoats, watched the bathing rig: watched Niel Goddard's rapt scrutiny of it and every motion of its wearer, as he lay idle on the sand, the fire gone out in his cigar.

"Fleet-footed Atalanta skims across the plain,' he murmured, his eyes passing critically over Audrey, from the wavy masses of reddish-brown hair to the delicate blue-veined feet.

"It would have been more to the pur

pose if Atalanta had sent for her stockings," Miss Derby replied.

He laughed. "Jenny," flinging away his cigar, "I mean to give serious thought to that idea of yours, about making Audrey my wife. It strikes me as if you had drawn up the curtain from a landscape with which I was long familiar. A woman of absolute, original power is really, after all, what 1 need. It would be a daily cordial to give me life. Of course, I never should have burthened myself with work for the support of a wife. What I am I have dedicated to art. But the farm would clear away the money difficulty-" "O, yes. The farm-it all arranges itself very comfortably." She got up as she spoke and fell to gathering sea-weed; but Niel did not follow her stumpy figure with his eyes.

"Though in fact, Jenny," he reflected, "has a narrow intense power of affection, as valuable in its way as grace of body or attractive features. That old, ever recurring domestic type of woman! There it comes again, even in a scribbler for the press who lives by her wits! Well, well! I wonder if it is not the best for a man to have about him, after all?"

"What now, Abram! Watchin' that little craft out yonder? Likely to get a duckin' ef they run her in here now, ain't they? Could ha' done it ten minutes ago.' And the stalwart fisherman puffed away at his pipe, lounging on the side of the boat with his eyes fixed on the straining vessel. "There she goes!" as the blast veered suddenly and drove her straight against the low rocks. "No, she's off-there, it's changed again-push off, Abram, I'll take an oar." And with their heads well bent to the driving rain, the two fishermen pulled steadily towards the dangerous rocks where they could still discern the dim outline of mast and spars.

66

But the fog came down thicker and thicker, and the wind changed from point to point, now in their faces, now behind them, till-knowing the coast as they did they were at a loss as to their whereabouts. Lay to, Ben, till the fog lifts. We're fighting in the dark now." And with anxious eyes peering through the gloom, and ears strained to catch the faintest sound above the whistling of the wind, and the dash of the waves, they rested on their oars. Suddenly Abram tightened his grasp. "Steady now, Ben, pull to wind'ard.

They rowed in silence for some minutes, the oars sounding muffled in the thick darkness that encompassed them.

"I thought we was right on her that time. I heerd a thud an' a shiver like, an' I thought she'd struck."

Ben Lawson was listening intently

Rock. The wind is changed a point or two, an' the fog 'll lift soon; and mebbe we'll find some on 'em.'

"Ay, ay, Abram. Pull away, lads," and the men bent to their oars, and the boats shot forward under the firm, steady strokes, vanishing like specters in the terrible white gloom.

"Now, Ben, you an' me's got the worst. but keep clear o' the rock an' we'll weather it yet. Pull to wind'ard, my lad, and we'll come to somethin' sure."

The cloud lifted a little as they came nearer, showing the jagged line over which the rising tide broke sullenly. "There's no use lookin' for 'em here," and Ben Lawson pointed to the line of foam circling the treacherous Black Rock. "What with the tide an' the undertow, they're lost sure." Abram shook his head gravely, but presently his cheeks flushed-"Pull in Ben, pull in close, there's somethin' on the rocks," and leaping out on one not yet covered by the water, he stooped over a bundle. "Ben, it's a child!" he cried excitedly, and carefully loosening the shawl, he lifted the little one in his arms. "She's fainted, poor dear, leastways she's cold an' limp like-but her heart beats yet, we'll save her any how. Now pull, Ben," he added as he took his place in the stern, “pull just as hard as ever you did, and Marthy'll hev her all right in no time."

But it did take time to bring the child back to consciousness, for her soul had wandered so near the confines of another world that it seemed sorely loth to return to this but Martha's nursing was at last rewarded by the little one opening her eyes; and looking from one to another, and then around the room, she said quietly"I like this place.'

"You do, dear?" said Abram, his face shining with his great delight, "Well, I'm mighty glad o' that now."

Who are you?" asked the child, gravely, fixing her eyes on his without the slightest look of fear.

66

Oh! I'm Uncle Abram," nodding and smiling re-assuringly.

"Oh!—and," turning to Martha, “you're Aunt Abram-very well," and, closing her eyes, she dropped asleep.

Pretty dear," and Abram lifted one little hand tenderly, "how old is she, Marthy, do you think?"

"'Bout five, I guess; leastways she has a locket round her neck, with somethin'

'bout fifth birthday on it. none of 'em found yet?"

But ain't there Abram shook his head. "The yacht's ashore 'round the point, but there ain't a human critter dead or alive been found yet; mebbe the tide will wash 'em ashore when it's flood again."

But it never did, and though they watched it closely, the sea gave no clue to the resting place of those its strong arms had gathered and now held so closely. From the child's story it appeared that she had been asleep when the vessel struck, and so knew nothing of what had happened. For some days she talked of "her papa," who would come for her," but when day after day she was disappointed she confided to Abram that "her papa had gone away again on a big ship, to take care of his soldiers,-he had told her he would some day," and they did not attempt to undeceive her.

"I'll go an' inquire arter her friends, Marthy," Abram said one day, "it ain't jest right to keep her, tho' she do seem to belong to us now."

66

But his search was useless. The yacht had been hired by a party of English tourists, two ladies, three gentlemen, and the little girl, and "the gentlemen would manage the boat themselves,"-this was all they could learn. So the child remained in Abram's cottage, delighting him with her. pretty ways and quaint, sweet speeches, and winning her way slowly, but surely, into the sterner heart of Aunt Abram,' as she still called her. She was a strange contradiction, this little waif, sometimes appearing so much older, sometimes so much younger, than her age; but when Martha would express alarm at her ignorance, Abram would lay his broad hand gently on the golden curls-"Never mind, Marthy, she's all right; her little soul's only feelin' its way yet.

"Won't you come and talk to me a while, please, Aunt Abram?" said the child plaintively, one day.

Poor Martha looked sorely puzzled. "Talk! child, what about?”

"Oh, I don't know, I'm so very lonely, Aunt Abram."

She had been sitting quietly on the door-step, in the sun, watching the gulls as they flew over the water or followed the tide with their quick, graceful motions and watchful eyes; the fishing boats were a constant source of delight to her, but she had grown weary even of this; Abram was

'Why, he told me he had a sister, for he said her eyes were just like mine."

"Well, so he had," said Martha, looking down into the interested face at her knee, and thinking with a sudden thrill how strangely sweet it was to have a child's hand clinging to her dress, she paused so long that the little one became impatient. Well, tell me about the sister."

66

66

There ain't much to tell, dear, she was sick all the time, an' I come here to tend her, an' wait on her, an' then I just stayed on to look after the house an' the cow, for Abram he took on so when she died he didn't tend to nothin'."

Died! what is died?" questioned the child. "Is it growing all cold and white like my pretty mamma, and being put in a stone house all over lions and swords like the spoons and things, to wait for the angels?"

And Martha completely at a loss how to answer, said "yes" to it all, then her conscience pricking her, she added-" Only Hetty wasn't put in a house all over lions, she was put out there in the ground, an' we covered her up with grass, an' the flowers grew on her." "Covered up with grass, and flowers growing on her," repeated the child musingly. "I'd like that better than a house, but if I mustn't call you Aunt Abram, who are you? 1?" "I'm Martha."

"Martha! Oh! then I know all about

you."

"You do?" and the worthy spinster looked at the child with a curious mixture of awe and amusement. "Well, land! what next!"

"Oh! yes," and she nodded her head in a satisfied way, "somebody told me about you once, and your sister Mary, and your brother, what was his name?— Oh! I know, Lazarus, were'n't you glad to get him back? I always thought it was very good of you to make nice things for dinner, and I think Mary might have helped you a little. I'm so glad I've found