THE LIBRARY 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 . 
 

 
 BY THE SEA.
 
 BY THE SEA 
 
 MRS. SOPHRONIA CURRIER, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "ALICE TRACT." 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY, 
 
 713 BROADWAY. 
 
 1871.
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, oy 
 
 E. P. DOTTON AND COMPANY, 
 in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 
 RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: 
 PRINTED BY H. 0. HOUOHTON AND COMPANY.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. THE SANDS 7 
 
 II. THE VISION 15 
 
 III. HOLT THURSDAY 23 
 
 IV. THE LIGHTHOUSE KEEPEB 31 
 
 V. THE BROTHERS 42 
 
 VL BRENDICE 55 
 
 VLL. Revanche 70 
 
 VIII. ON THE GUFF 81 
 
 IX. THE MIDNIGHT VISITOR 104 
 
 X. AT THE HOCKS 116 
 
 XL AT LAST 128 
 
 XII. THE FAITHFUL DEPARTED 143 
 
 XIII. BACK TO THE OLD HOME 161 
 
 XIV. ALL-SAINTS' DAT 185 
 
 XV. CHRISTMAS EVE 197 
 
 XVI. BURIED TALENTS 208 
 
 XVII. THE CONVOT LIGHT 221 
 
 XVIII. BREAD UPON THE WATERS 233 
 
 XIX. MEASURE TOR MEASURE 250 
 
 XX. GLORIA Tim, DOMINIE 265 
 
 XXI. THE EASTER-OFFERING 280 
 
 XXII. UNDER THE EVERGREENS * 303 
 
 XXIII. EASTER-FLOWERS 321 
 
 XXIV. OUT OF THE SEA 334 
 
 XXV. AFTER Two YEARS . . .357 
 
 1692522
 
 BY THE SEA. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE SANDS. 
 
 | HE name of " The Sands " was given to a \vide 
 stretch of low beach of white sand, that was 
 terminated on the south by a broad, shallow 
 inlet, into which a noisy stream, leaping down from the 
 neighboring hills, poured its clear, sparkling waters. 
 
 On the north, looking from the high, bold cliff which 
 rose, on three sides, well nigh perpendicularly from out the 
 almost mountainous ridge of boulders which the ocean had 
 piled up to mark the limit of its domain, the eye of the 
 careless observer saw little but the horizon. 
 
 The deep blue line was, however, broken at night by the 
 red glare of a beacon light ; and, very infrequently, when 
 the sun's earliest beams shot out widely over the sea, it was 
 fancied that the tall windows in the tower of St. Mary's, the 
 sweet, silvery tones of whose bell sometimes fell on the 
 listening ear, could be seen shining as the lamps burned low. 
 One thought, who often turned her sad, wistful eyes towards 
 
 the north, that the light from the church tower was a no less 
 
 (7)
 
 8 By the Sea. 
 
 needed ray, calling to goodness all the day long, as 
 through the hours of the night the beacon had warned 
 against ill. 
 
 Away to the east, just within the limit of vision, was a 
 group of small, rocky islands, two or three of which were 
 inhabited by a few fishermen and their families. 
 
 The men were a set of rough, wild fellows, and some of 
 them, it was said, had not always been engaged in their 
 present peaceful and lawful employment. The women and 
 children, who never went to the mainland, and who seldom 
 had any intercourse whatever with any one outside their little 
 world, were regarded by the few strangers who occasionally 
 went down from the neighboring city to have a picnic or a 
 clam-bake on the rocks of one of the uninhabited islands, as 
 little less than savages. 
 
 On the smallest of these islands, and the one farthest out 
 toward the ocean, which, from its position and the purpose 
 for which it was employed, the fishermen had named the 
 " Convoy," was another light-house. 
 
 The keeper of the light at the period when this narrative 
 commences, was a man of fifty years or more. The last 
 fifteen years of his life, it was generally said, had been 
 passed entirely on the island. A man named Greyson, who 
 was of rather inferior intellect, but strong and active, and 
 much more at home on the water than on the land, though 
 he had a pleasant little cottage near the sea-shore, at no 
 great distance from " The Sands," supplied him with the few 
 necessaries he required in his hermit-like existence. 
 
 "With the inhabitants of the adjacent islands, the Commo 
 dore, as he was called, though he was so far from being en-
 
 The Sands. 9 
 
 titled to the name that it was not certain that he had over 
 been a seafaring man, had no intercourse whatever. 
 
 The fishermen manifested no greater desire to be on 
 friendly terms with him than did Mr. Aden that was the 
 name he was known by on the mainland with them ; and 
 the women and children who, in guiding their little boats 
 for fishing or for sport through the channels which separated 
 the islands, occasionally caught a glimpse of his tall, muscu 
 lar, but attenuated form, and his white, wan face, around 
 which the thick hair, whose jetty hue was yet scarcely 
 touched by time, closely curled, and which was lighted up 
 by deep-set burning black eyes, always regarded the stranger 
 with a superstitious fear, which deepened into terror as time 
 passed away. 
 
 At his appointment to the post at " The Rocks," which 
 was more than a score of years before, Mr. Aden had seemed 
 disposed to form the acquaintance of the islanders, and to 
 be on friendly terms with them, though they never had 
 encoura.ged his advances. When, however, the light-keeper's 
 intercourse with the people on the mainland had suddenly 
 ceased, he also restricted himself entirely to his own island ; 
 and it was very seldom that any one was disposed to disturb 
 his solitude there. 
 
 Back from " The Sands," lay the village of H , a 
 
 quiet, unpretending little town ; its inhabitants being far 
 more interested in acquiring for themselves a comfortable 
 livelihood, than in making a show in the great world ; gather 
 ing the rewards of their industry and frugality frc-m both the 
 ocean and the sandy soil, which about equally contributed to 
 their support,
 
 io By the Sea. 
 
 Halfway between the high cliff and the broad shallow bay 
 were the "fish-houses," which, with two exceptions, were 
 mere sheds, containing only the conveniences for preparing 
 fish for market sacks of salt, large iron kettles for boiling 
 lobsters, pickling tubs for mackerel, rude tables for dressing 
 the cod, and the " flakes " outside the shed, on which they 
 were spread to dry. 
 
 The work done here was performed principally by young 
 women and girls, the homes of most of whom were within 
 half a mile of " The Sands," and when the fishing season was 
 over the " houses " were unused ; but the two families whose 
 buildings were at some distance from each other, and both 
 of them a little apart from the other fish-houses, made these 
 places their permanent abodes. One of these two buildings 
 had been increased in size by the addition of two pleasant, 
 convenient apartments ; but the owner of the other had 
 made no improvement in the abode of himself and his 
 daughter beside closing the open side of the shed, making a 
 division of the one large-sized room by running a thin parti 
 tion across one end of it, hanging a good, firm door, and 
 putting in two small windows. 
 
 These two families, the last referred to being named Du 
 Bois, and the other Maitland, had not always been residents 
 of the neighborhood. 
 
 The Maitlands had come to H nearly twenty years 
 
 before. They were young people then ; Mr. Maitland being 
 a little past thirty years of age, and his wife, who brought 
 with her a child of three summers, was fully ten years 
 younger than her husband. 
 
 When they came to the place, they were believed to be in
 
 The Sands. 1 1 
 
 quite affluent circumstances ; but they had the appearance 
 of not having been long accustomed to the possession of 
 wealth, and they seemed to have come rather unexpectedly 
 into its enjoyment. In fact, the young woman, though 
 gentle in her manners, and very far from being intentionally 
 ostentatious, frequantly made such thoughtless, ingenuous 
 allusions to her husband's pecuniary affairs, that a people 
 less inclined to mind their own business than were those 
 among whom the Maitlands had come to live, would have 
 had their curiosity excited to an inordinate degree. 
 
 Sometimes the landlady of the little inn where they 
 boarded the greater part of the first three years of their 
 stay at the place, would repeat the young stranger's un 
 guarded remarks to a few female friends she met with at a 
 " quilting party," or " apple bee ;" but the comments which 
 they elicited would soon be forgotten in the speculations as 
 to the rise or fall in price of the few commodities the indus 
 trious people had for sale, and in comparing their different 
 successes in fishing, in the dairy, or with their poultry. 
 
 It was not until some years after the Maitlands' first ar 
 rival there, that "The Sands" began to be the somewhat 
 fashionable watering-place it now is ; but even then it was 
 no unusual thing for a family to come down from the city 
 and spend a few summer months by the sea ; and conse 
 quently the strangers excited less attention than they other 
 wise would have done; and when Mr. Maitland, on the third 
 year of his coming there for the winter months were spent 
 elsewhere by the family began to erect for himself a hand 
 some residence near the foot of the cliff overlooking " The 
 Sands," the people with whom they came in contact had
 
 12 By the Sea. 
 
 become accustomed to the reserved, silent, haughty de 
 meanor of the man, and the little girlish, ingenuous ways 
 of the simple-hearted woman. 
 
 Mr. and .Mrs. Maitland were a remarkably fine-looking 
 couple, but in strong contrast with each other; he, tall, dark 
 and muscular, with an intellectual face, and highly polished 
 manners, but repellant in his cold, glittering black eye, 
 and the firm, measured tones of his deep voice ; repellant in 
 his every word and gesture ; and she, a little fair, fragile 
 thing, with cheeks and lips of the faintest rose tint, violet 
 eyes, and a face like an April day; with a heart large enough 
 to embrace the whole world, but with a head that held no 
 more wisdom than was needed to be good and true. 
 
 But, evidently, the man had not yet begun to tire of his 
 wife. Perhaps a nature like his can love longest and best 
 such a gentle nature as was hers. And she, glad to be with 
 him, as he rowed his boat over the bright, wavy waters, in 
 the calm summer evening, or following him in the cool, 
 breezy morning, as he sauntered with his fowling-piece in 
 his hand, up the smooth, white beach, or with her little boy 
 playing about her, sitting on the rocks, nestling to his side, 
 as she listened to the tales he told her of the far-off lands he 
 visited before he had seen her, watched the tide coming in, 
 the white crests of the waves jewelled by the light of the 
 crimsoning west, and looked at the green hills, rising like 
 terraces far away, and the mountain stream, hurrying from 
 them like a swift-footed happy child hastening to its mo 
 ther's arms, on to meet the sea, with a sound like glad 
 music, and ripples like merry smiles often wondered, 
 while her dilating eyes were swimming with the tears
 
 The Sands. 13 
 
 which flowed, she knew not why, as she gazed alternately 
 at the face of her husband, and the distant blue above, and 
 thought of the words she often read : 
 
 " Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither- hath it entered 
 into the heart of man to conceive" wondered if it really 
 could be true ; if there was, in the wide universe of God, a 
 place so beautiful as the scene about her, if there could be 
 a life fuller of enjoyment than was her own. Ah! the sky 
 over her was clear, and she could not see that cloud, so 
 frightfully dark, and so surcharged with lightnings and con 
 centrated tempests, which was to break so suddenly upon her. 
 
 The third summer they had passed at " The Sands" was 
 nearly ended, and the new residence would, by mid-autumn, 
 be completed, when one evening, as the young wife was 
 dancing with girlish delight through the spacious rooms 
 which the workmen had cleared lately of their tools and 
 shavings, the fancy seized her of passing the night in the 
 chamber designed for their sleeping apartment, and she re 
 quested her husband to have a mattress brought over from 
 their boarding-house. 
 
 The windows and doors of the building were yet without 
 fastenings, but when he talked about intruders, and tried, in 
 an unusually playful manner for him, to frighten her, she only 
 laughed, and finally he yielded to her child-like entreaties. 
 
 But though he was in a sound sleep soon after stretching 
 himself on the mattress, Mrs. Maitland was strangely wakeful. 
 She could not tell whether it was the thought that her child 
 was not near her, as he had been every night before since 
 his birth, which kept her so sleepless, or the moonlight which 
 came in such great white sheets through the uncurtained
 
 14 By the Sea. 
 
 windows, or the sound of dipping oars she fancied she could 
 hear mingling with the voices of the vast deep, with the 
 grating of a boat against the rocks, for the tide was coining 
 in, and the fall of a foot coming up over the ledge, and 
 drawing nearer and nearer to the dwelling, and, at length, 
 faintly echoing through the empty rooms below stairs ; 
 though this could not be, she was sure, as such low sounds 
 would be lost in the ocean's roar ; or whether it was the re 
 membrance which fastened itself with strange, ever-increas 
 ing distinctness, as the hours passed away, of one terrible 
 night in her pleasant life, she suddenly opened the eyes, 
 which she had persistently kept shut in the vain endeavor to 
 find sleep, and starting up to a sitting posture, put her arms 
 quickly, but so lightly as not to disturb him, around her 
 husband, and bent her head to his ; and then she became 
 aware that some one was stooping over them. 
 
 She looked up, and the moonlight was falling full on a face 
 she had seen years before, distorted, then, with an agony 
 worse than that of death, and a hate more terrible still ; 
 sinking down into a flame-lighted sea. The hate was yet 
 there, and the merciful darkness which came to her then, 
 at that never-to-be-forgotten moment, was again before her 
 vision ; and her eyes closed, and she felt herself falling back 
 without power to arouse her husband. 
 
 When her consciousness returned, though but a brief 
 period had passed, for the moon seemed not to have shifted 
 her place in the heavens, her husband was gone from her 
 side, and from that hour to the present, though fifteen years 
 had oh, so slowly since gone by, she had never seen or 
 heard a word from him.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE VISION. 
 
 I HKOTJGH the autumn and winter which followed 
 his departure, Mrs. Maitland had lived on the 
 hope of her husband's return. 
 His strange absence was not associated in her mind 
 with the appearance of that terrible face she had seen 
 on the night he had left her. In fact, what seemed to her then 
 such a frightful apparition, was afterwards, in her great 
 grief, little dwelt on ; for she regarded it only as one of 
 those fearful dreams if dreams they were, for they seemed 
 always to come between the moments of waking and sleep 
 ing which had visited her at brief intervals for the last four 
 years, ever since that fearful night at sea. 
 
 Her husband had told her that the man she had seen 
 drowning on that night, was found, the morning after, 
 floating upon the water, buoyed up by a life-preserver, but 
 quite lifeless and frightfully charred ; and though she felt 
 that there was something in the past which was not revealed 
 to her, that there was a shadow over him which her eye 
 
 could not penetrate, she never suspected that he wished to 
 
 (15)
 
 1 6 By the Sea. 
 
 deceive her in the slightest particular ; and she loved him 
 all the more, perhaps, for the air of mystery there was about 
 him. Lately she had not spoken to her husband of this 
 phantasm, or whatever it was, which had been presenting 
 itself so unwelcomely to her, so excited had he been by her 
 last reference to it. 
 
 Previously she had always waked him in the night, and 
 tried then to describe to him the scene which had been 
 passing before her closed eyes ; but this time it was in 
 broad daylight that she had told him, with her gaze fixed on 
 his face ; and she had seen that firmly-built, strong frame 
 tremble as with an ague, those tightly-closed, proud, red 
 lips draw away from each other, convulsed and colorless, 
 while great drops of perspiration came out on the suddenly 
 pallid and furrowed brow. 
 
 And then he had laughed ; and his laugh was very fright 
 ful, it was so wild and reckless and so spasmodic. But in a 
 moment he was himself again, and very soon he began to 
 talk softly and soothingly to his wife, drawing her head to 
 his bosom ; and when, as he told her, she had regained her 
 composure, he explained to her, with many expressions of 
 the deepest and tenderest solicitude, what had given rise to 
 his emotion. 
 
 Sometimes, he said, the terrible fear had come to him that 
 his darling wife was scarcely in the full possession of her 
 reason. Her nervous system had once been so greatly dis 
 turbed that it was not strange it should require a long time 
 to regain its former tone. But she must endeavor to banish 
 such thoughts as she had been indulging in, and especially 
 she must never express them when they did come to her ;
 
 The Vision. 1 7 
 
 and his love and care, and the quiet life by the sea, would, 
 he believed, soon restore her mental powers to their accus 
 tomed vigor. 
 
 She had accepted his explanation. She could not feel that 
 it was really so, that her reason was, sometimes, almost 
 leaving her ; but then what lunatic ever did believe himself 
 really mad ? and her husband was a great deal wiser than 
 herself, and of course he knew. And she did not trouble 
 him any more by speaking of these strange fancies, though, 
 notwithstanding her best endeavors, they would present 
 themselves to her mind no less vividly, till, at length, with 
 open eyes, and in the bright moonlight, she saw that face 
 bending over her. 
 
 And what was the dream, or the vision ? 
 
 Mrs. Maitland was the only child of a poor fisherman 
 whose home had been near a little hamlet on the Kentish 
 coast ; and her husband was a shipwrecked man whom her 
 father had picked up and carried to his home, and nursed, 
 with the aid of his daughter, through a long and dangerous 
 illness ; and when he had recovered his health, the stranger 
 had asked her to become his wife, and her father had given 
 her to him, with his blessing, though she was very young ; 
 for she had been motherless for years, and her surviving 
 parent, who was her only relative, and beside whom there 
 was no one to care for her, was so infirm that he had lived 
 scarcely a year after his daughter's marriage. 
 
 During that year, and the two which had succeeded it, 
 Mr. Maitland found employment in the village on the out 
 skirts of which was their humble home ; and he had labored 
 very industriously, for his business was far from being a
 
 1 8 By the Sea. 
 
 lucrative one ; and his young wife had managed her little 
 domestic affairs with great prudence and economy, so that 
 a sum of money might be laid aside sufficient to take them 
 across the ocean beyond which, her husband had told her, 
 his former home had been and to enable them to com 
 mence housekeeping there in an unpretending way. At 
 length with their son, now two years of age, they had em 
 barked on an ill-fated ship for their yoyage over the sea. 
 
 The passage was not quite half completed, when, one day, 
 just as the sun was going down, Mrs. Maitland, almost 
 fainting, and well nigh frantic with grief and terror, but 
 clasping her little boy closely in her arms, felt herself 
 guided, with swift firm hands, into a boat already well- 
 filled ; though the occupants had called out to the two 
 men, one of whom was her husband, and the other a pale, 
 delicate-looking man, apparently in ill-health, who, rather 
 supported by, than sustaining, the beautiful woman by his 
 side, was gazing with fixed eyes up to heaven, while words 
 in a foreign language were coming in agonized tones from 
 his lips, the occupants of the boat had called out : 
 
 "Boom for the women and children!" 
 
 The French woman had a babe in her arms as well as 
 Mrs. Maitland, a little, peacefully-slumbering thing, not 
 more than three months old. 
 
 " Koom for the women and children ! The men must wait 
 for the other boat." 
 
 Mrs. Maitland saw her husband glance around him. 
 There were no people on that part of the burning ship 
 beside themselves and the two foreigners, who did not 
 immediately comprehend the meaning of the words ; but
 
 The Vision. 19 
 
 when Mr. Maitland began quickly to guide his wife to the 
 ship's side, the stranger saw what was meant, and a smile 
 almost gloriously beautiful in its deep thankfulness, came 
 over his suddenly-flushed face, and with a glance of paternal 
 affection at the unconscious infant, an instant's firm clasping 
 of his arms about his wife, and a look of unutterable love, 
 he put her, after placing a small casket into her handj 
 resolutely from him ; for with her disengaged arm she was 
 clinging to her husband with a firmness which implied that 
 death would be preferable to separation. 
 
 Mrs. Maitland had observed all this. Notwithstanding 
 the almost maddening realization of her own, her husband's, 
 and her child's danger, the scene which passed before her 
 had fastened itself with the most wonderful clearness on 
 her mind ; and the countenances of the two strangers had 
 such a fascination for her, that har marnory never after 
 suffered one of their features to lose a portion of its distinct 
 ness. 
 
 She knew that the man would not trust his own trembling 
 hands to guide his wife to the boat. Mr. Maitland would 
 do that. How firm and steady his hold on herself was ! 
 But, oh ! though she had reached the boat in safety, and 
 her little boy was by her side, her husband was again on the 
 deck of the burning ship. 
 
 Some one said that the other boat was far less safe than 
 this. Perhaps she would never again feel the clasp of his 
 arms about her ; perhaps she was forever separated from his 
 side. She struggled from the hands of those who were 
 placing her upon a seat, and rose to her feet, stretching out 
 her arms in a wild, mute agony towards him, and looking
 
 2O By the Sea. 
 
 after him, through the hot smoke, which a sudden, swift 
 breeze swept in such a dense volume down the ship's side as 
 to blind all eyes but those despairing ones, which had better 
 have been darkened forever than to have seen what was 
 passing within the folds of that cloud. 
 
 And what did she see ? 
 
 Assuredly nothing ! No one in the boat with her saw 
 anything wrong. There was a shriek from a woman in the 
 water, and the low wail of a young child ; but there were 
 many cries, and wild prayers, and fierce oaths mingling with 
 the war of the fire. The boat was pulled away from the 
 ship, for the flames, in the rising breeze, flared widely out. 
 There was no time to look for the drowning woman. Every 
 one must think only of his own safety ; and, beside, the 
 boat was now full. 
 
 Mrs. Maitland had sunk down, she afterwards thought, in a 
 . swoon ; but when consciousness returned, her husband was 
 by her side, and his arm was about her, though his face was 
 turned away, and he was not speaking to her ; neither could 
 she address him, for the fancy it could be nothing else 
 which had come to her as she was falling into that swoon, 
 and which had followed her ever since in her dreams, seemed 
 then so like a horrible reality that the power of speech had 
 forsaken her. She only sought her husband's eyes. 
 
 They were fixed with a sort of fascination upon the water, 
 which a light flame, suddenly leaping up through the cloud 
 of smoke, seemed to change to a sea of fire. Mrs. Maitla,nd 
 looked too, and away, coming out of the shadow which that 
 brightness made so deep, though the light was more fright 
 ful than the shade, she saw the figure of a man struggling
 
 The Vision. 2 1 
 
 through the water, making almost superhuman efforts to 
 reach the boat, which was yet but a short distance from the 
 buruing ship. 
 
 The red glare fell on his uplifted face, and she dis 
 tinguished the countenance as that of the Frenchman ; but 
 what a change had passed over those features, whose ex 
 pression, as he neared the boat, was almost as clearly 
 defined as if the light of noonday was falling upon it ! The 
 agony of grief, of deepest hate and of vengeful purpose 
 seemed striving for the mastery in that countenance ; and 
 words, which were uttered in the bitterest tone, came fast 
 from his lips, though she could not understand them ; and, 
 perhaps, they were not fully comprehended by any one on 
 board the boat. But stern faces began to be turned towards 
 Mr. Maitland, and some one threw a life-preserver to the 
 sinking man, for his strength was now exhausted. He 
 made a feeble clutch at it, but whether he reached it or not 
 she could not tell, for as that face disappeared beneath the 
 water, Mrs. Maitland sank insensible at her husband's feet. 
 
 And what had sbe fancied that she saw when he was 
 standing on the deck of the ship, when she, with such 
 acute vision, was looking through the dense smoke which 
 blinded all other eyes ? 
 
 He had stretched out his hands towards the young 
 French woman, to whose countenance there seemed to 
 come, as her eyes met his, a look of recognition ; .and lifted 
 her over the ship's side, apparently with care and gentleness; 
 and then then his fingers let go their hold on hers ; and 
 she lost her footing, and went down, with the babe in her 
 arms ; but the casket remained in Mr. Maitland's hand !
 
 22 By the Sea. 
 
 Tears had passed since that terrible evening ; the night 
 of Mr. Maitland's strange disappearance was almost its 
 fourth anniversary ; and time had glided by, like a summer 
 day, to the young wife. The change in her husband's pecu 
 niary affairs, which had become very apparent to her imme 
 diately after their arrival in America, was explained by him 
 to his wife in a manner which would have been satisfac 
 tory to a more inquiring mind than was hers. 
 
 To another woman, it might have seemed strange that he 
 did not take her to his native city, after being so long absent 
 from it as he had been, and introduce her to some of his 
 former acquaintances ; (his near relatives, he had told his 
 wife, were all dead,) and not many wives whose husbands are 
 in such affluent circumstances as Mr. Maitland appeared to 
 be, would be quite satisfied to remain, for a length of time, 
 so completely shut out from society as she was ; for though 
 the winter months had, thus far, been spent in the city, and 
 Mr. Maitland had intended to use his dwelling near " The 
 Sands," only as a summer residence, her situation there had 
 been almost as isolated as it was by the sea-shore ; an 
 occasional visit to some public place of amusement, a few 
 rides, and now and then a little shopping expedition, were 
 all the variations in her monotonous boarding-house life. 
 
 But the gentle, loving wife and mother never thought she 
 had cause for complaint. She was perfectly satisfied with 
 everything, about her. The society and affection of her 
 husband and her child were all that she desired, and con 
 sequently when he had left her, all but her child was gone. 
 
 In the wide world there was not one more than another to 
 whom she could look for assistance or advice.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 HOLY THUESDAY. 
 
 [HE finishing of the new house did not go on for 
 more than a week or two after Mr. Maitland's 
 disappearance. The materials for its construc 
 tion had, most of them, been paid for ; but the workmen 
 employed on it had received no compensation for their 
 labor, and the deserted wife, while certain that her hus 
 band had means enough at his command, knew not where 
 to find a dollar except by the sale of her clothing, or 
 her inexpensive jewelry ; and though the Maitlands had 
 always paid their landlady in advance, the quarter was now 
 within a few days of its expiration. 
 
 The people among whom she was, were as kind and 
 considerate as one could expect them to be ; but before 
 winter came, the unfinished house was sold, the purchaser 
 promising that, if her husband should return within six 
 months after his disappearance, the building might be 
 redeemed for the price paid for it. 
 
 Fortunately it brought enough, even in the forced sale, 
 to pay all the debts, to defray the moderate expenses of her-
 
 24 By the Sea. 
 
 self and her now six-year-old boy, through the winter, and 
 to leave her a trifle at the opening of spring. She had re 
 fused to receive a dollar more than was left after the debts 
 were paid. 
 
 While the winter months had been passing away, her 
 hopes of her husband's return were becoming fainter and 
 fainter. They quite died out when the bright spring came, 
 and the anniversary of the day returned when she and her 
 husband had first walked over " The Sands " together. 
 
 The carpenters had resumed their work on the dwelling 
 which was to have been her home. There were changes to 
 be made in the original design, for it was the intention 
 of its present owner to make a fine hotel of it; and Mrs. 
 Maitland would sit for hours together at the window of her 
 boarding-house, looking out through her fast-dropping 
 tears, watching the progress of the work, every blow of the 
 hammer falling on her ear with a knell-like sound. 
 
 One night, it was a mild evening late in May, and the 
 soft land-breeze, passing over " The Sands," was filled with 
 the breath of spring, the aroma from the fresh, fragrant 
 grasses, and the sweet-scented blossoms of the fruit trees, 
 from the ferns and mosses, and swelling buds, and bursting 
 flowers in the wooded hills rising up far away. One year 
 since, on such a day as this had been, she had wandered by 
 her husband's side, seeking the sweet spring flowers, some of 
 which were new to her, which were forcing their way up 
 through the thick matting that autumn 1 \a t spread over 
 the ground, or timidly shrinking away with their little 
 modest faces bent to the earth, in the sheltered nooks 
 among the rocks, and gathering the young, spicy leaves
 
 Holy Thursday. 25 
 
 of the wintergreen, and sweet red berries, which looked, in 
 the cunning little moss baskets her fingers had so deftly 
 fashioned, like beautiful precious things. 
 
 She remembered the thoughts which had come to her then; 
 simple, child-like thoughts they were, but they seemed very 
 pleasant to her, how, through the long winter, the wind, 
 the cold, the snow, through the short, sunless days, and the 
 dreary lengthened nights, when everything appeared so in 
 ert and lifeless, those little flower-buds, hidden away among 
 the withered leaves, had trustingly waited for the dawning 
 of their morning ; and those sweet, red berries, nestling 
 close to each other, were busily dyeing their blood -red cov 
 ering, while their little unchilled heads were growing pure 
 and white. 
 
 Patiently waiting, and patiently working! and at length 
 their hour of reward had come. 
 
 Mrs. Maitland wrapped her shawl about her, her little boy 
 was sleeping, and stepping out into the open air, took her 
 way up the cliff. 
 
 The sound of the workmen's tools had ceased within the 
 new building, and she paused a moment as she passed the 
 windows, for the carpenters had left for their homes, and 
 looked in ; and then, with a quickened pace pursued her way 
 up the cliff, almost dropping to the earth as she reached its 
 brow. She had not been there before since her husband left 
 her, though this had formerly been a favorite walk of hers. 
 Almost daily, when the weather was pleasant, she had come 
 here to look out on the sea as the sun was going down. 
 
 Beside her, her head was resting on it now, was the round 
 white stone Mr. Maitland had, one day, spent hours in roll- 
 
 2
 
 26 By the Sea. 
 
 ing up here, and partially imbedded in the earth, that it 
 might serve as a seat for her; and there were the handfuls of 
 white pebbles and sea-shells, scattered about in the short, 
 scanty grass, with which he and his little boy had often 
 playfully pelted at each other. 
 
 Would they ever meet again, the father and his son ? 
 
 The desolate woman did not think, now, that she should 
 ever again see her husband. She believed that her life was 
 passing away, for as the spring advanced her health seemed 
 to fail, and she did not even for her child's sake wish it to be 
 prolonged. She hoped that the people among whom she ex 
 pected to leave him, would be kind to her boy when she was 
 gone from him forever. 
 
 The sun had some moments since disappeared from the 
 horizon, its last lingering ray had faded even from the sum 
 mit of the cliff, and here and there a twinkling eye was 
 faintly peeping down from the deep blue heaven. The tide 
 was in, and the low monotone of the ocean sounded like a 
 soothing lullaby. The fishing-boats were going out that 
 night ; they had, some time since, pushed off from the shore, 
 and the cheerful tones which, not long before, had come up 
 from the fish-houses, were hushed now, and not a human 
 sound was heard, or living thing but herself seen anywhere 
 near. 
 
 Mrs. Maitland lifted her head. 
 
 Yes, there was some one in the dress of a fisherman, 
 walking up and down the bea^h just below the cliff, stopping 
 now and then and looking out over the water, as if waiting 
 and watching for something ; and following him, clad in a 
 little dark frock, was a child, not more than three or four
 
 Holy Thursday. 27 
 
 years of age, who was striving, but for the most of the time 
 ineffectually, its companion made such long and rapid 
 strides, to keep by his side ; sometimes falling down on the 
 wet sand when the man walked near the water's edge, but 
 picking up its little self as best it could, for its mishaps 
 seemed not to be observed by its companion, and trying to 
 wipe the salt, bitter sand from its face with its short, scanty 
 dress. 
 
 Mrs. Maitland watched the two for some time. She knew, 
 by sight, at least, all the fishermen in the neighborhood, and 
 their children ; but though they were at such a distance 
 from her, that their features could not be distinguished, she 
 thought they must be strangers. For a few moments, while 
 looking at them, she forgot her own sorrows, and her heart 
 was filled with pity for the little one. The child stooped 
 down to the ground, digging its little fingers into the sand, 
 apparently to unearth some fancied treasure, and then tried, 
 though it seemed to be growing weary, to run fast to over 
 take its companion, turning its face up to his when he at 
 length stopped, and reaching out the small hand which held 
 the treasure ; but he put away the little creature so rudely 
 that it fell to the ground; and the tears came to the woman's 
 eyes as she gazed and wondered if the man could be the 
 child's father, and if it had a mother living. 
 
 She watched them till they walked away ; the child, as if 
 discouraged by its repulse, following the man at a short 
 distance, and at length they passed beyond her sight ; but 
 she thought they had entered one of the fish-houses, the 
 most distant one, and that which was situated farthest apart 
 from the others.
 
 28 By the Sea. 
 
 She began to think of her own child, then, and to ask her 
 self if it was not very selfish and wicked in her to be 
 unwilling to bear the burden which was laid upon her, and 
 cheerfully too, for his sake ; and the thoughts she had been 
 dwelling upon half an hour before, came back to her mind. 
 
 Patiently waiting, and patiently watching ; and at length 
 the hour of reward had come ! 
 
 And then through the silent air, silent but for the 
 ocean's soft lullaby as it seemed rocking itself to rest, there 
 came to her ear the sound of a distant bell ; very faint at 
 first, but growing more and more distant, as she listened 
 with hushed breath. 
 
 This was the first time she had ever, from this spot, caught 
 the sound, though she had been told that one of the bells at 
 " The Port," was sometimes heard at "The Sands ;" and she 
 suddenly remembered that this was Holy Thursday. 
 
 " Who is the King of Glory ?" 
 
 And fuller of silvery sweetness, and of happy rejoicing, St. 
 Mary's bell seemed to ring out the refrain : 
 
 " Who is the King of glory?" 
 " The Lord strong and mighty, 
 
 Even the Lord of hosts 
 
 He is the King of glory !" 
 
 " The Lord of hosts!" 
 
 were the words borne to her by the undulating air ? Did 
 they come up from the depths of the ocean ? Did her mem 
 ory take utterance and whisper them in her ear ? or was it 
 the still, small Voice, which came after the wind, the earth 
 quake, and the fire, the Voice, at whose sound the prophet
 
 Holy Thursday. 29 
 
 " wrapped his face in his mantle, and stood at the entering 
 in of the cave " ? 
 
 " Thy Maker is thy husband ; the Lord of hosts is his 
 name. In a little wrath I hid my face from thee ; but with 
 everlasting kindness will I have mercy on thee, saith the 
 Lord, thy Redeemer. " 
 
 And she cast down her burden at His feet, and with 
 quivering lips answered in the words of the Psalm she had 
 read that day, in her loneliness and despair, almost with 
 out thought, but which came to her now in all their comfort 
 ing significance : 
 
 " Thou art my defence and my shield, and my trust is in 
 thy word !" 
 
 The next morning Mrs. Maitland rose from her bed some 
 time before the sun was up, combed out her long, fair curls, 
 and bound them in close braids, and with flying fingers 
 made for herself a long wide apron, and put a deep tuck in the 
 skirt of her plainest dress ; and when, to the great astonish 
 ment oi her landlady, she had arrayed herself in these gar 
 ments, and tied a handkerchief about her head, she walked 
 with ungloved hands down to the fish-houses on "The 
 Sands" to seek employment. 
 
 Her father was a fisherman, and had often been in such 
 ill-health that he had needed her assistance in all the details 
 of his business, so she could do anything which might be re 
 quired of her by an employer. 
 
 This she said very simply to the pleasant-faced young 
 woman to whom she offered her services ; and her offer was 
 accepted, though the little thin hands, long unused to labor 
 now, did not look as if they could ever earn for her and her
 
 30 By the Sea. 
 
 child their daily bread ; and many times, during the first 
 day's labor, the young fish-woman left her own work to give 
 a helping hand to Mrs. Maitland. 
 
 But after a week had passed, strength began to come to 
 her ; a faint color returned to the pale face, and her step 
 was firmer ; and though her words were very few now, the 
 tones of her voice expressed patience and resignation. So 
 changed was she that her thrifty landlady, who, while she had 
 felt very sorry for her, did not understand how Mrs. Mait 
 land could have sat, as she had been doing, all through those 
 months which had followed her husband's departure, with 
 her hands lying idly on her lap, and her eyes almost blinded 
 with tears, thus making herself thinner and paler every day ; 
 and prophesied that before a year had passed, her child and 
 she, too, unless she mourned herself to death before that 
 time, would be dependent on public charity for support now 
 declared it her belief that there was more in the yoting 
 woman than any one could have supposed. 
 
 With a little encouragement, Mrs. Brown thought, and the 
 assistance which her boy would very soon render her, for he 
 was very strong and active for his age, she would soon be 
 able to take care of herself and him quite comfortably.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE LIGHT-HOUSE KEEPEE. 
 
 jjALF an hour after sunset on the night of Mr. 
 Maitland's desertion of his wife and child, two 
 people were walking slowly up and down the 
 weedy and grass-grown gravel walk that led from a broken, 
 hingeless gate, to an old dilapidated dwelling nearly a mile 
 
 distant from that part of N designated by the residents 
 
 at " The Sands," as " The Port." 
 
 It was something unusual that there should be more than 
 one walking there, and she, a young woman of nineteen or 
 twenty years, was not often visible in front of the house ; 
 though many times during the day, and in all sorts of 
 weather, she might be observed far back in the wide, almost 
 entirely neglected garden, sometimes busying herself in a 
 little vegetable patch, or gathering the fruits which would 
 grow without care ; but usually wandering idly about with 
 a sad and listless air. 
 
 Her countenance, as she walked beside her companion, 
 who was a tall, fine-looking man, a dozen or more years her 
 
 senior, was as dejected as ever, though it was now sufficiently 
 
 (31)
 
 32 By the Sea. 
 
 animated in expression ; and her words, for she seemed to 
 be the principal speaker, came in low and soft, but very rapid 
 tones, from her thin white lips. 
 
 Thin and white; and the cheeks were pale, and the hands, 
 which would have been fair, though they were accustomed 
 to labor, were far too delicate to be beautiful. 
 
 Near by them sat one whom a careless observer might 
 have called a very aged man, but whom a second glance 
 showed to be infirm before his time. He was sitting in an 
 old, uncushioned, straight-backed chair, which had been 
 drawn out to a safe place on the veranda, much of the floor 
 ing of which, rotted by time and neglect, was crumbling 
 away ; his poor, bent body lying heavily against the 
 arm of the chair, and his feet, which occasionally moved 
 as if from pain, resting on an uncomfortably high wooden 
 stool. 
 
 He was very poorly clad, but everything about him was 
 scrupulously clean. Not a speck of dust was upon his 
 clothing, and every thread of the yet slightly silvered hair 
 lay smoothly on his bowed head. 
 
 His eyes, which were so bright and piercing that one 
 might have fancied they had drawn to themselves all the 
 vitality of the whole body, followed the two who walked up 
 and down the gravel path, but not scrutinizingly ; the few 
 words which he occasionally addressed to them were kind 
 and pleasant, and the answers which were returned, not in a 
 heightened tone, though the speakers drew near him when 
 they replied, were so loving and respectful that they always 
 brought a smile to the old man's face. 
 
 " He is so very good, and tries to be so kind to me, that I
 
 The Light-house Keeper. 33 
 
 do not like to reply fully to your questions, George !" said 
 the girl. 
 
 She and her companion were turning again down the 
 path, after exchanging a few words with their friend. The 
 tears had come into her eyes as she was speaking. 
 
 " But yoii come here so seldom now, that I may not have 
 another opportunity for telling you." 
 
 " You know why I do not come here oftener, Rachel !" 
 her companion replied, earnestly and inquiringly. 
 
 Perhaps she might have known, but she did not say so ; 
 and after a moment she continued : 
 
 " He tries, as he has always done, ever since he brought 
 me, a poor little friendless orphan to his home, to make 
 me happy : only he does not know how to render me so. 
 He does not see that a few dollars spent now for things 
 absolutely necessary for his comfort as well as my own, would 
 do me much more good than to hear so often of the many 
 thousands which he intends, by-and-by, shall be mine ; 
 especially as I know I can never be his heir, for I shall not 
 live." 
 
 "Rachel!" 
 
 " It is true, George ! I cannot live if I remain here. Life 
 is a burden to me, not only from the weariness and useless- 
 ness of my existence yes, uselessness, for some one with 
 more energy and strength of mind than I possess, would 
 soon make such a change in everything about him, that he 
 would be far more comfortable and happy than he is with 
 me ; not only from weariness and the conscious uselessness 
 of my existence, but from actual want. 
 
 '' \Ve have no books, no society : there is no employment 
 
 2*
 
 34 -By the Sea. 
 
 but what is too laborious for me to perform ; nothing to 
 occupy my thoughts, nothing interesting to busy my hands ; 
 and, besides, we are often in need of proper food, to say 
 nothing of suitable clothing ; and Mr. Hall is continually be 
 coming more penurious. 
 
 " Every night, when I go to bed," the girl was laughing 
 now, but she was still sadly in earnest " every night when I 
 go to bed I am afraid the old house will tumble down upon 
 us before morning. 
 
 "But what distresses me more than anything else, just 
 now," she continued, "is a fact that I learned yesterday, by 
 accident, from an old friend of my guardian. He came here 
 to talk with Mr. Hall about his sister, whose husband had 
 lately died, leaving her and a family of young, interesting 
 girls in very indigent circumstances, and to entreat him to 
 concern himself with her affairs ; and his reply was that he 
 had promised to give Rachel all his property, and conse 
 quently could do nothing for any one else, not even his only 
 sister. 
 
 " I rushed into his room the moment the old gentleman 
 left the house," the girl went on, hurriedly, " and threw my 
 self at his feet, and tried to thank him for what he had done, 
 and for what he intended to do for me ; and then I prayed 
 him to make a comfortable home for his sister and her 
 daughters, and hereafter to live with them, and let them 
 know they were to be his heirs : and that I may I tell you 
 what more I said to him, George ?" 
 
 " Yes, Rachel, and I hope you told him what I wished 
 you to months ago !" said the young man, earnestly. 
 
 "I began to," she replied, dropping her eyes. "J said,
 
 The Light-house Keeper. 3.5 
 
 ' There is a young man whom you and every one else who 
 knows him, highly respects, who will, with your consent, ask 
 me to be his wife, and will provide for me.' But he inter 
 rupted me there, and with such hard, cruel words that I 
 could only rise to my feet, and stand trembling before him. 
 Strangely enough, he thought it was young Captain Sin 
 gleton to whom I referred, and I did not undeceive him, for 
 I could not have heard him apply those opprobrious epithets 
 to you, George, which he bestowed on him ; though cousin 
 Edgar is as deserving of respect as yourself. 
 
 " I am glad his ship is to sail in the morning, for I think 
 Mr. Hall, who has been greatly discomposed, until within 
 the past hour, ever since I so spoke to him, is now comfort 
 ing himself with the determination of sending to Captain 
 Singleton to-morrow, and forbidding his coming here again ; 
 and that would distress me very much, Edgar has been so 
 kind to me since he learned I was his cousin." 
 
 They walked on for some moments in silence, when she 
 had ceased speaking, and then the young man said, in an 
 altered tone : 
 
 "And so your cousin's fine new ship is to sail in the 
 morning ; and the physician whom I consulted, a few days 
 since, says that a sea voyage would, most likely, be very 
 beneficial to your health. Eachel, does it not surprise you, 
 that loving you as you know I do, and seeing how miserable 
 you are here, suffering an almost daily death, I do not ask 
 you, without waiting for any one's consent, to leave this old 
 man, whose heart was always good, but whose intellect, 
 aside from his business capacity, was rather feeble, and is 
 most surprisingly so now, and whose wealth, even if he had
 
 36 By the Sea. 
 
 no relations to care for his comfort, would secure for him 
 all the service he needs that I do not ask you to go with 
 me, to become my cherished, happy wife?" 
 
 The girl did not reply otherwise than by the tears which 
 now dropped fast from the downcast eyes, and after a brief 
 pause, he continued ; speaking at first with an effort, but 
 afterwards proceeding rapidly. 
 
 "Eighteen years ago, as you probably are aware, Mr. 
 Hall was engaged in business in a distant southern city. 
 He was then a very active and energetic man. One could 
 hardly suppose it possible that, unless he had been visited 
 by some severe and protracted disease, so short a period of 
 time could produce such a change in him as I, better than 
 you, Rachel, can see ; for I was then, and had been, for a 
 twelvemonth, in his employ." 
 
 "You?" 
 
 " Yes ! he would not be likely to tell you that ; I and my 
 brother, whom I believe to be now dead, as I have not heard 
 from him for more than a dozen years. I was then but 
 fifteen, and though we had not the same father, there was 
 less than two years difference in our ages. Neither of us 
 resembled his father, tut both inherited our mother's looks, 
 and from the time, which was in early childhood, when I 
 had attained to his stature and size, through boyhood and 
 youth, until the day when we were parted forever, as I think, 
 we were so strikingly alike, that some of our most intimate 
 associates could only, by some article of our clothing, distin 
 guish one of us from the other. Indeed very few, beside 
 our mother, who died soon after we came into Mr. Hall's
 
 The Light-house Keeper. 37 
 
 employ, could tell, for a certainty, which was Philip and 
 which was George. 
 
 " Our employer never knew one from the other, as my 
 brother, after we entered his establishment, always insisted 
 on dressing precisely as I did ; and on the night I am 
 telling you, Rachel, what probably no one in the world but 
 our old friend yonder, and myself, know, on the night when 
 at an unusual hour he went into his counting-room, he 
 found one of us in the very act of abstracting a large sum of 
 money from his safe, he could not tell, I have often thought 
 as unfortunately for the one as for the other, which of the 
 two was before him. 
 
 " He has not known, for a certainty, to this day, which it 
 was ; for when he called us, next morning, before him, the 
 guilty one, who had eluded his grasp when he was discovered, 
 though he made no attempt to escape farther than to his 
 boarding-house stood boldly erect, with a countenance 
 TChich expressed only astonishment and grief, while the other 
 was trembling with fear and shame the very personification 
 of guilt. 
 
 "But neither of us denied, or confessed the attempted 
 theft. Mr. Hall had, for years before we came into his 
 employ, been very kind to us our invalid mother, and her 
 two fatherless sons ; and he was still a true friend to us, 
 though he told us that this was not the first time one of us 
 had sought to rob him of money. 
 
 " He asked no questions after saying this, for one of the 
 boys had sunk on the floor at his feet ; but he remarked 
 that we must be separated very widely from each other, and 
 he hoped we should never meet again.
 
 38 By the Sea. 
 
 " One of us, he said, was a true, noble-hearted boy he 
 would not criminate his brother ; but the other must have 
 been born a villain. Time, and the experience of this hour, 
 might, though he hoped it would not, change the character 
 of the former ; and when we became men, it would be well 
 for us, if, in the accidents of life, my brother and I should 
 never jostle each other. We must be separated. Philip, he 
 would send to a business partner of his in Italy ; and George 
 might remain with him. 
 
 " My brother went, and a good account of him was fre 
 quently sent back to Mr. Hall, until the business connection 
 between the two houses was dissolved. Since that time I 
 have never heard from him, and my frequent attempts to 
 gain intelligence of him have resulted in the conviction that 
 he is no longer living. 
 
 " I remained with my employer until he gave up business, 
 and when he came north he requested me to accompany 
 him, in order that 
 
 "Rachel, when you told Mr. Hall that the man who 
 wished you to become his wife was one whom he highly 
 respected, it was not strange that his thoughts did not turn 
 to me ; for when he requested me to accompany him on his 
 return to the north, it was because he wished, still, to keep 
 me under his surveillance ; for he has always been disposed 
 to think it was I who attempted to rob him. 
 
 " Without my knowledge, he procured the appointment 
 at The Rocks for me ; and as the retirement suited my 
 disposition and my taste for study, I gladly accepted it. 
 He thought I should be out of the reach of temptation there ; 
 and he is well pleased that I make my visits to the mainland
 
 The Light-house Keeper. 39 
 
 as infrequent as I do, though that is not the reason why I 
 come here no oftener. 
 
 " The reason is because it is so hard to look on you, so 
 lonely and wretched here, and refrain from asking you to go 
 away with me to the pleasant home I could hope to make for 
 you. And you now know why I am compelled to be silent. 
 
 " Good-night, Eachel !" 
 
 They had turned from the gravel walk as he began to speak, 
 and had wandered away through the garden, the grounds of 
 which ran down to the water's edge, where, at the foot of the 
 steep, ledgy bank, down whose side nice, broad steps had 
 been cut into the solid rock, waited the little boat in which 
 Mr. Aden had come over from The Rocks. 
 
 They were standing on the topmost of this flight of steps, 
 when he said, " Good-night, Rachel !" and as she did not 
 reply, he turned and looked in her face. 
 
 It was lifted up to the sky, and a sharp pain went through 
 his heart, when he saw the expression of her countenance. 
 How brief, even with the tenderest care, that young life 
 would most likely be ! 
 
 She was the last of a large family, all of whose members 
 had died of consumption ; and the withering touch of the 
 destroyer seemed already to have been laid upon her. 
 
 After a little pause, she echoed his simple leave-taking, 
 and was moving away without farther word, when he detain 
 ed her. 
 
 " Eachel !" he said, slowly and solemnly, " you shall suffer 
 no longer; neither will I. It is not right that we should. 
 "We both love that old man and he merits our affection, and 
 we would do much to make him happy. But we will not
 
 4<D By the Sea. 
 
 give him our lives, especially when there are others who can 
 take better care of him than you can possibly do. I will 
 spend this night in thought, and in prayer to Heaven. 
 Perhaps a way will open before me. Come down here in 
 the morning, at daybreak, and I will tell you what is the 
 result of my reflections, or the answer to my prayers." 
 
 The girl returned with quick steps to the house, and her 
 companion, after her form had disappeared from his view, 
 walked slowly down to the water's edge, and re-entered his 
 boat, which a lively breeze soon bore over the smooth sea to 
 the little inlet at the base of the light-house, where the fish 
 erman, young Greyson, was patiently waiting his return ; or 
 rather, impatiently, for there was a subject of great moment 
 weighing on his mind that night. 
 
 The Commodore it was from young Greyson he had 
 received that cognomen on his first arrival at The Eocks, 
 when the then half-grown lad who had come over early to 
 offer his services to the new keeper, in a fit of greater 
 stupidity and familiarity than usual, had splashed some 
 drops of salt water in Mr. Aden's face the Commodore 
 knew what was in the fisherman's thoughts. It was a 
 subject which he himself had suggested to the young fellow, 
 who had been making him, for the. last three months, his 
 confidant in his love affairs. 
 
 Mr. Aden was becoming rather weary of his mode of life, 
 and he had lately told Greyson, greatly to the young man's 
 delight, that if he should marry Miss Jones, who was a 
 notable housekeeper, he might come over to the island and 
 occupy the cabin belonging to the light-house, renfrfree, and 
 should be paid liberally for his, Mr. Aden's board ; and it
 
 The Light-hoiise Keeper. 41 
 
 was to discuss this matter that he had waited, after dis 
 charging the duties entrusted to him, during the keeper's 
 few hours' absence to the mainland, for the return of the 
 boat. 
 
 " And what about Miss Sally to-night, Jerry ?" he asked 
 pleasantly, as he stepped on shore. 
 
 Young Greyson transferred his forefinger from the corner 
 of his mouth to the long, straggling lock of yellow hair 
 that dangled over his eyes, and giving it a twist and a pull, 
 replied that he .had told Miss Jones what they had been talk 
 ing about ; but she had not fully decided yet what she would 
 do, at least she had not made known her decision to him. 
 If the Commodore would invite her over to the island, how 
 ever, and she liked the appearance of things there, she might 
 make up her mind very soon. 
 
 Mr. Aden, not knowing what decision he should himself 
 arrive at, in relation to his own affairs, made answer that 
 Jerry might call at the island next day, and he should, very 
 likely, have the note of invitation ready for him. 
 
 But this, accompanied, as it was, with the bit of silver for 
 "keeping the light-house" in the Commodore's absence, 
 made the perfectly honest and trustworthy, though very 
 miserly young fellow, entirely happy ; and he jumped into 
 his boat and rowed off briskly towards the mainland.
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 THE BBOTHEES. 
 
 |B. ADEN, after securing his boat, went up into 
 the light-house. 
 
 His home was there. 
 
 There was another building it has already been referred 
 to on the little rocky island, fitted up comfortably for the 
 residence of a family ; but he seldom occupied it. 
 
 To the broad floor at the foot of that long, weary flight of 
 stairs, he had taken various articles appertaining to a very 
 primitive housekeeping ; and high up the ascent he had 
 carried a mattress, his books, telescopes and maps, and here 
 the greater part of his solitary life was spent. 
 
 The hours of the night were passing away, but they were 
 not employed this evening, as they very frequently were, in 
 making astronomical observations. 
 
 Mr. Aden was looking away over the stretch of water his 
 boat had just, crossed, and trying to devise some way in 
 which he could make poor Rachel Boss and himself happy, 
 without being branded by the old man whom he loved and 
 wished to honor, as an ingrate and a thief, which he was 
 
 sure Mr. Hall would do if he sought to make her his wife ; 
 
 (42)
 
 The Brothers. 43 
 
 and thinking of the past which the recital he had just made 
 to Rachel had brought so vividly to his mind. 
 
 He was feeling particularly grateful to Mr. Hall to-night, 
 that he had been separated early from his brother ; and he 
 hoped that they would never meet again until earthly 
 passions should have no more power over them. 
 
 There had been many times in the long, weary past, when 
 the hard, cold man, as he was often called, had repeated 
 audibly to himself, and with a simple, child-like faith, the 
 words which his mother had taught him in his earliest 
 youth : 
 
 " Commit thy way unto the Lord ; trust also in Him and 
 He shall bring forth thy righteousness as the light." 
 
 And he had felt, at those moments, that should he ever 
 meet his brother again, he would try to forgive him, and 
 trust himself and his cause in the hand of God. 
 
 But this was not one of those moments. 
 
 It was one of those other seasons which came more fre 
 quently ; usually after lengthened, absorbing thought on 
 some subject of deepest interest. 
 
 Sometimes* the face of his brother would come up sud 
 denly before him, rising out of the sea, as his boat was glid 
 ing over the waves, maddening him with that look of inno 
 cent astonishment and grief which Philip knew so well how 
 to assume ; sometimes the bold, erect figure would stand 
 within range of his fowling-piece, as his eye was sweeping 
 the horizon, in search of some aquatic bird ; and again, the 
 calm, fearless eyes had met his, looking up out of the dark 
 ness, as he had been, in the silent night, walking over those 
 long winding stairs . And he had brought his oar down into
 
 44 By the Sea. 
 
 the water with a violence which had almost upset his boat, 
 and then, darting swiftly away, listened to catch the cry 
 which he thought would have been a welcome sound the 
 cry of a drowning man ; he had discharged his gun, and 
 stood still, waiting for a death-shriek to meet his ear ; he 
 had struct out his clenched hand into the darkness, and 
 bent forward to hear a heavy body falling down, step after 
 step, over that lengthened stairway, the low moans becoming 
 fainter and fainter, till, at length, all should be dread silence 
 again. 
 
 Pursued as if he had not only intentionally but really been 
 guilty, and so pertinaciously, by those evil thoughts, that he 
 sometimes fancied he was a criminal hiding from justice 
 when his brain was again unfrenzied, he thought how much 
 he needed Rachel's gentle companionship to rescue him from 
 the power which seemed urging him on to madness ; even 
 more than she needed his strong arm to lean upon. Near 
 her he could trust in heaven. 
 
 He had just told her that he would spend the night in 
 calm reflection and in prayer for Divine guidance ; and now, 
 he was busying himself with his lamps, if h<5 turned his 
 head, his overwrought imagination would conjure up that 
 hateful yes, hated figure, he felt very sure now that he had 
 not forgiven his brother, and his hand, nerved to iron, would 
 be ready to strike out into that phantom face, whose dark, 
 fearless eyes were so calmly triumphant in their expression. 
 
 Suddenly there fell on his quick ear the sound of a foot 
 step, softly echoing up the spiral stairway. It was a quick, 
 even, but very peculiar tread. How like to the tread of 
 that foot, after the ankle joint had been partially stiffened !
 
 . The Brothers. 46 
 
 His hands trembled so that .the oil spilled over the lamps, 
 but the teeth were set firmly together, and there was a look 
 of settled determination on that face as it turned to the 
 visitor, who, in a wonderfully brief space of time had 
 ascended that long flight of steps, and now stood on the 
 topmost stair, glaring so wildly into the room that the figure 
 might well have been taken for a supernatural one. 
 
 But Mr. Aden's wild imaginings all left him at the instant 
 he recognized that face left him to return no more forever; 
 for as he gazed on that countenance, he looked, too, into his 
 own heart, and read the deeply-engraven record there, which 
 he had failed before to render aright. 
 
 He had forgiven his brother, the disturber of his peace, 
 ever since his earliest childhood, long ago. 
 
 "Philip, my brother!" he said, taking the newcomer's 
 hand in both his own, and drawing him forward away from 
 the steps, and seating him upon a bench at some distance 
 from the stairway, down which it had seemed for a moment, 
 notwithstanding the agility he had manifested in his ascent, 
 he was ready to tumble. 
 
 The visitor was indeed his half-brother, who Mr. Aden 
 thought had died many years before in a foreign land. 
 
 He had very willingly been led to a seat, but he did not 
 speak immediately, or return the pressure of the hands 
 which were clinging so closely to his. 
 
 He seemed quite incapable of doing so, but sat gazing into 
 Mr. Aden's face with the most earnest scrutiny, though cow 
 ering beneath the glance which met his, kindly as it was ; 
 and after a moment's pause, the younger brother spoke 
 again, pleasantly, but with a slightly troubled tone.
 
 46 By the Sea. 
 
 "Philip, I am glad to see you, though I perceive your 
 purpose in coming here is other than a mere friendly visit. 
 What do you wish to ask of me, my brother ?" 
 
 "Not your forgiveness," was the reply, which no one at 
 "The Sands" would have believed could be that of Mr. 
 Maitland, though the stranger was he, the slow, cold, mea 
 sured tones were so hasty and eager now, and sometimes so 
 nearly incoherent, " not that, for I perceive it is already 
 mine. 
 
 " I have not come to tell you, either, how well I appreciate, 
 now, the sacrifice you made for me so long ago, when, at the 
 time of our separation, you could so easily have cleared your 
 self from suspicion not even to thank you for it, because 
 what I have come here to ask you to do for me now, is so 
 much greater than anything you have done before. 
 
 " I have come to ask you now not only to take upon your 
 self the burden of my crime it is crime, now, George, real 
 and terrible, though I dare not tell you what is its nature, or 
 you would not aid me, not simply to take upon yourself the 
 burden of my crime, but to let me remain here in your 
 place, and flee yourself, like the wretch which I am, before 
 the man, maddened by my deeds, who is pursuing me. 
 
 "A slight thing to ask, is it not?" he laughed, wildly. 
 " The man will not harm you. If he finds you, you have but 
 to show him your fair right arm, which " his voice sank 
 now to a trembling whisper, " which has never been lifted, 
 but for the performance of a duty, or in an act of kindness- 
 He has seen this !" 
 
 Mr. Maitland rolled back his sleeve and displayed a large 
 blood-red spot just above his wrist.
 
 The Brothers. 47 
 
 " You know this will not disappear, except by amputation 
 of the arm. But do not let him find you. Let him think 
 he is on my track, but do not let him find you. Here is 
 gold ; you must hasten. Why, you are not hesitating, 
 George !" 
 
 At first Mr. Aden seemed struck dumb with astonishment 
 and grief ; and when he could have found speech, for the 
 remembrance of Rachel Ross suddenly returned to him, if 
 he had made answer to his brother, he would have said that 
 so far from going into hiding himself, Philip, even, should 
 not leave the neighborhood until he went to Mr. Hall, con 
 fessed the crimes of his youth, and placed him, George 
 Aden, in a right light before their old employer. For 
 Rachel's sake, Philip should do this. 
 
 " You surely are not hesitating, George ?" Mr. Maitland 
 repeated, in an agonized tone, as his brother retreated from 
 him some steps, and held back the hands, which Philip, 
 almost sinking at his feet, sought now so eagerly to grasp. 
 "For her sake, George," he plead, "my wife's." 
 
 His wife ! So Philip was married, George Aden thought, 
 and he was the Mr. Maitland living at " The Sands," whom 
 young Greyson had often spoken of to him; and the woman 
 whom Jerry thought was so much like what an angel must 
 be, was the wife of the confessed guilty man. 
 
 " For her sake, George !" he repeated. " I was a wild, 
 bad, dying man ; but her love and tender care brought me 
 back from the grave and from perdition. I thought for 
 years after I met her that she would, at length, lead me to 
 heaven, but in a moment of frenzy, for I have often fancied 
 that I inherit from my maternal grandfather a tendency to
 
 48 By the Sea. 
 
 insanity, though I do not say this in excuse for the com 
 mittal of that deed a terrible crime was perpetrated. Only 
 one, beside my wife, who will see it all plainly enough now, 
 only one beside her, the wronged man, knows of the deed, 
 and he cannot prove it ; but he will kill me if he finds me. 
 
 " The way of escape from him, is, of course, as open to me 
 as it is to you ; but I cannot take my wife and her child with 
 me ; and I would not, if I could ; and I cannot go away from 
 her. I should slay myself, if I attempted to do so. 
 
 " She saved me, to-night, from his hand. He could not 
 touch me, though he stood over me with uplifted arm, and 
 knew I was defenceless, and thought that I was sleeping, 
 while her arms were around me, even though her eyes were 
 closed, and she lay insensible, fainting at the sight of his 
 face. 
 
 " He drew back to the door of my chamber and waited for 
 me till I should have waked and gone out in search of aid to 
 arouse my wife ; but I dropped from the window and came 
 here to you, having learned lately that you were here, instead 
 of being in the distant southern city where I had supposed 
 you to be. 
 
 " I thought you would save me, and you must do so, 
 George, for her sake. I will confine myself to the island as 
 closely as you wish me to. No one, not even she, shall know 
 the exchange which is made here. 
 
 " I wish to hide from every human being, as I would hide 
 from him ; only I must be near her ! 
 
 " A merchantman goes over the Bar this morning. You 
 will have time to reach the ship while this man I am speak 
 ing of will be seeking me at The Rocks."
 
 The Brothers. 49 
 
 Yes ; Captain Singleton, Rachel's cousin, was to sail that 
 morning for an Italian port. 
 
 Mr. Aden started and changed countenance. 
 
 The temptation, if it was such, was too strong to be re 
 sisted. It all passed before him in a moment ; how the affair 
 could be managed, what happiness it would bring to Rachel, 
 and what real benefit might result to Mr. Hall, should he 
 comply with his brother's request. 
 
 He would make her his wife early in the approaching 
 morning, and they would immediately go on board the ship 
 of Captain Singleton, whom Mr. Hall would believe Rachel 
 had married. She should write him a few lines after they 
 had gone over the Bar and send them back by the pilot, say 
 ing she was with her husband, on board the Essex. 
 
 Her guardian would be very angry at first, but his thoughts 
 would soon turn to his fatherless neices and to his sister, 
 who was a good, sensible woman, far better calculated to 
 make the feeble, eccentric old man happy, and to devise 
 proper means to restore him, in some measure, at least, to 
 the health which inactivity and deprivation of the comforts 
 of life had undermined, than was this gentle, yielding girl. 
 And Rachel, who had been born in a southern home, and 
 who, a skilful physician had said, might not live through 
 another winter at the North, perhaps, in her happiness in 
 being with him, might find renewed vigor in the land to which 
 he would take her. 
 
 And for himself? It was Heaven which had formed the 
 relationship between him and his brother. The tie which 
 bound them together would end with life ; and life, at the 
 best, is brief. It might be his duty to shield him ; and though
 
 5o By the Sea. 
 
 he shrank from the deception, perhaps, this time, the conse 
 quence to himself would be only liberty and happiness ; for 
 with the eye of Mr. Hall always upon him, he had seemed to 
 himself little less than a prisoner. 
 
 The result of his compliance with Philip's wish, might, 
 with equal probability, for he did not fully rely on his bro 
 ther's words, be fatal to him, might be assassination by the 
 hand of the man whom Mr. Maitland had wronged, or, at 
 least, the involving of himself in some great danger. But 
 for that he must trust in Providence and in his own ingenuity. 
 
 " I will go, Philip !" he said, after the momentary pause, 
 "but," he added solemnly, "if you ever seek me again, to 
 shield you from merited disgrace, or deserved punishment, 
 may Heaven help us both !" 
 
 Half an hour after, when Mr. Aden had made his brother 
 acquainted with the simple duties which devolved upon him 
 as keeper of the light-house, and how he could bring young 
 Greysou to him whenever he needed assistance, and had seen 
 Mr. Maitland use the razor about the thickly bearded face 
 till it was as smooth as his own, and the likeness to himself 
 came out on the broadly shaven visage, almost as wonder 
 fully as it had done on the fair countenance of boyhood ; the 
 two men exchanged their clothing, and parted from each 
 other. 
 
 One, as he emerged from the light-house, looked up to the 
 stars, to see how soon the earliest morning light would fall 
 on the spire of St. Mary's, and thinking of the glad smile 
 which would meet his gaze, and the gentle words ready to 
 fall on his ear as he rowed up to the stone steps, where he 
 had parted with Rachel, jumped into the light boat which
 
 The Brothers. 5i 
 
 had. not long before, brought Mr. Maitland over from The 
 Sands, and pushed off from the island, happy in the happiness 
 he was going to carry to one little desponding heart. 
 
 The other was looking down from an aperture high up in 
 that gloomy building, down, he thought, into the very depths 
 of those dark waters, which, as he gazed, seemed heaping 
 themselves up about him, hemming him in now from all 
 human companionship. 
 
 For a moment he was forgetful of his wife and child, terri 
 ble as was the thought of separation from them, and well 
 nigh maddening as was the conviction that now his crimes 
 and his falsehoods would all be known to the simple, but 
 pure-minded, trusting woman. 
 
 He was forgetful, too, of the danger he had just escaped, 
 but which he might every moment fear, as long as two lives 
 lasted, from the hand which would never again be checked 
 till its vengeance was complete. 
 
 He wondered if, should he fling himself from the height, 
 among those ever rolling, ever requiem-chanting waves, 
 away from whose neighborhood he had, for the last four 
 years, never been able for any length of time to tear himself, 
 though the billows, to him, were always so voiceful with 
 accusations and threatenings of impending doom if among 
 those dark waters he would meet the close embrace of an 
 arm he had once released from his grasp. 
 
 Would he be clutched by those long white fingers which 
 had then striven in vain to fasten themselves on his 
 grappling, in his death-struggle, with a skeleton form, and 
 dragged down to a depth to which her unappeased spirit 
 had not yet descended ; down down to the music of a
 
 5 2 By the Sea. 
 
 mother's agonized shrieksj and a dying infant's feeble 
 wail? 
 
 In the cast of mind, as well as in the physical conforma 
 tion of the two brothers, there was a very great similarity ; 
 but the darkness was passing away from the life of the one, 
 wanderer though he was to become, as he looked up to 
 Heaven, and guided his boat by its sure light with an arm 
 which, it had truly been said, had never been lifted but in 
 the discharge of a duty, or in the performance of an act of 
 kindness, strengthened now that a sweet burden was so soon 
 to be laid upon it. And, bound by affection, for all was not 
 wrong in Mr. Maitland, the love for his wife shining out like 
 a never-setting star, in his dark character bound by affection 
 and by fear, firmly as was Prometheus to his rock, around 
 the other in his living grave, safe as if he had been in a 
 tomb, from his wronged pursuer, though he knew it not, the 
 shadow of despair, and the gloom as of death, were falling. 
 
 Safe as in a tomb from his pursuer ! 
 
 Mr. Aden's boat had nearly passed out of sight when 
 another had silently glided into the little inlet among the 
 rocks at the base of the light-house, and a man who seemed 
 to have trodden the way before, leaped upon shore, and 
 entered the building, for the door was still unlocked ; Mr. 
 Aden always kept it so. 
 
 The stranger halted for an instant and listened, and then 
 he went up over the many steps with a cat-like tread but 
 with almost winged swiftness, pausing as he reached the 
 highest turning, and gazing with his eagle eyes, himself 
 unseen, for an instant on Mr. Maitland, whose profile, as he 
 looked through the aperture, out upon the ocean, was
 
 The Brothers. 63 
 
 brought, by a brightly-burning lamp, into full relief. And 
 then the intruder, dropping back, still with perfect noiseless- 
 ness, over the steps, gained his boat and rowed towards The 
 Sands : repeating again and again to himself, and audibly 
 as soon as he was at a distance from the island, as if not 
 quite convinced of the truth of his words : 
 
 " Not he not the man I am looking for ! Strangely like 
 him, however. The smoothness of the face proves nothing ; 
 but thrice, within the sennight. I have looked on his right 
 arm, and it was fair. I should have made myself sure of it 
 again to-night, but time is passing ; and besides," he added, 
 looking back to the Convoy light as he neared The Sands 
 " it might not have been safe for me to approach him to 
 night ; and I must never trust myself there again. That 
 face is too like his. There are moments when T might fling 
 that man down his long stairway for the resemblance he 
 bears to the murderer of my wife the destroyer of myself !" 
 He struck his brow fiercely as he spoke. 
 
 The gray dawn was just appearing in the east as the 
 stranger drew near the mainland, at the point where the fish 
 ermen usually brought in their boats. 
 
 He had not been deceived in his survey of the spot some 
 hours before, though it was only by the light of the setting 
 moon he had counted the boats, and most likely, his ear had 
 not deceived him. One was gone, a little light pleasure-boat, 
 undoubtedly now, for the wind was fair, up at the Port. 
 
 The stranger had been to the " anchorage " at The Bocks, 
 but the boats were all out, all but that of the light-house 
 keeper, and that was safe at the inlet ; and he again, but now 
 weariedly, plied his oars, inwardly cursing himself that he
 
 54 By the Sea. 
 
 had suffered that fair face to come between him and his in 
 tended victim, when he the man who had so injured him, 
 and whom he had for years past sought, was so completely in 
 his power. And though he would sometimes check his half 
 audible, half incoherent ravings, with the thought that it was 
 a woman and a wife, as good and as loving as his own beau 
 tiful lost one had been, who had stayed his uplifted hand, he 
 would whisper fearfully : 
 
 " But it will be well for her and for me, too, if I never see 
 her face again !" 
 
 And yet, the next spring, on the eve of Holy Thursday, 
 the same boat came down again to The Sands.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 BRENDICE. 
 
 HE name of the other family whose permanent 
 home was in one of the little fish-houses on The 
 Sands, was, it has already been said, Du Bois. 
 
 It consisted of but two persons. 
 
 They had come to the neighborhood on the fourth year 
 after the Maitlands had first arrived at The Sands ; the spring 
 following Mr. Maitland's mysterious disappearance. 
 
 They were a man of from twenty-eight to thirty years of 
 age, though a careless observer might have called him twenty 
 years older, and a child of three or four. 
 
 The man was not only a stranger in the vicinity, but, it 
 was conjectured, had very recently arrived in the country, 
 though nothing definite could be ascertained respecting him. 
 He seemed in feeble health, and, judging from the dress and 
 habits of himself and child, was in such destitute circum 
 stances, that Mrs. Brown the hostess of the Beach House, 
 whose husband was one of the "selectmen" of the town 
 
 had scarcely got Mrs. Maitland and her little boy off hor 
 
 (55)
 
 56 By the Sea. 
 
 mind, before she began to fear that it would soon be 
 necessary to take the new-comers to the almshouse. 
 
 She was as much mistaken, however, in this case, as she 
 had been in that of her boarders, for the stranger had re 
 jected some slight offer of assistance which had been made 
 him on his first arrival in the neighborhood, in such a 
 manner that it was not repeated ; and he very soon showed 
 that he was abundantly able to take care of himself. 
 
 The symptoms of physical weakness which he manifested, 
 were, it was observed, after a time, only apparent in his 
 moments, or rather hours of mental abstraction. 
 
 Then the tall and delicate, but full-chested and very erect 
 figure was bowed and sunken, and the shoulders stood out 
 prominently as the hands folded themselves weakly over the 
 breast ; a pallor as from long-endured suffering was seen on 
 the browned cheek ; the face was elongated, and the dark, 
 keen, restless eyes had almost the fixedness and glassiness of 
 death. 
 
 But no fisherman in the neighborhood handled an oar or 
 managed a boat with such strength and dexterity as did he, 
 and it was astonishing how soon he learned where the best 
 fishing grounds were, and what good luck he had, both in 
 the taking and in the disposal of his fish. Neither his 
 success, however, nor his manner, which was exceedingly 
 brusque and unsocial, prejudiced the people into whose 
 neighborhood he had come, against him, as they most likely 
 would have done, but for an event which occurred soon after 
 his arrival there. 
 
 This was the fortunate rescue of an old fisherman and his 
 grandson from drowning, at the imminent peril of his own
 
 Brendice, 5 7 
 
 life, the fracture of an arm, and the loss of his boat, the 
 purchase of which had just been made ; and though the sum 
 paid for it had taken every cent which the man had at his 
 command, he yet positively refused to accept even the free 
 loan of another until he was able to buy again. 
 
 But Du Bois was not liked in the little community, 
 especially by the female portion of it, on account of his 
 apparent want of affection for and his neglect of his child, 
 the little creature seeming to be almost entirely uncared for 
 by him ; and for the manner in which their, earnest and 
 persistent efforts to do something for her, were rejected by 
 her father. 
 
 He had taken up his residence at The Sands, immediately 
 on his arrival there, having hired, for the season, the little 
 fish-house, which he afterwards purchased. Here the child, 
 whose name was Brendice, would be left, for long hours 
 together, and frequently for the whole night, alone ; hiding 
 herself in the dwelling when she saw any stranger approach 
 ing it ; and, when no one was near, climbing with bare feet 
 to the top of the highest boulder of the ledge and standing 
 there quite motionless, with the little hands clasped tightly 
 on her breast, would look away out on the ocean. 
 
 A queer, elfish-looking, little thing she was, as she stood 
 there, her figure in full relief against the sky ; the black 
 woollen dress, which was all the wardrobe she possessed, 
 clinging closely about her, and leaving the sun-burnt neck 
 and shoulders, and the slim arms and ankles quite bare. 
 Sometimes a strip of bright scarlet cloth would be wound 
 about her head, but usually it was covered only by its mass
 
 58 By the Sea. 
 
 of dark, tangled hair, from out of which looked great brown 
 eyes, pitifully wise and solemn in their expression. 
 
 Her features were finely-cut and regular. There was a 
 promise of great beauty, which would surely come to her 
 with womanhood, in her countenance ; but the poor little 
 face was dingy and brown from constant exposure to sun 
 and wind, and it did not look, in its patient though tfuln ess, 
 as if the smiles or tears of childhood had ever passed over it. 
 One would scarcely have known whether to smile or weep, 
 most likely one would have felt inclined to do both, while 
 gazing at the quaint little face and figure. 
 
 It was Mrs. Maitland who first learned her name, and she, 
 more than any other ill the neighborhood, had wished she 
 was able to do something for the little girl, even after that 
 night when she had seen her and her father walking up and 
 down the beach ; for Du Bois and his child were the 
 strangers whom her eye had followed on that holy evening 
 in May, when she was listening to the joyous peal of St. 
 Mary's sweet-toned bell. 
 
 She was yet in no situation to ask the man to let her have 
 the child, for she and her little boy were still at Mrs. 
 Brown's. A part of the time, when she could get employ 
 ment at the fish-houses, they were boarders there, and a 
 part of the time, they were servants ; for Luke was a robust 
 little fellow, somewhat inclined to be mischievous, but good- 
 hearted, very active and industrious, and understanding re 
 markably well, for one of his age, how much his industry 
 could aid his mother, to whom he was greatly attached. 
 
 Mrs. Maitland was planning, however, all through the 
 summer months, if her husband did not return, to get a
 
 Brendice. 5g 
 
 house for herself and her boy, in the autumn. Her desire to 
 do so was strengthened by the hope that Du Bois, who, 
 most likely, would leave the neighborhood after the fishing 
 season was over, would give her the child, for whom he 
 seemed to cherish no affection. 
 
 She was secretly glad that no one had yet been allowed to 
 do anything for her, or had succeeded in making the little 
 creature's acquaintance. She had never seen her near 
 enough to distinguish her features, though often, in walking 
 to and from her work, she had paused to watch the child, as, 
 with swift, fearless tread, she clambered over the loose rocks, 
 or stood, poised on some high boulder, looking away into 
 the sea. 
 
 Du Bois she had not chanced to obtain a glimpse of since 
 the night following that on which he came to The Sands. 
 
 One evening, it was at the close of a very sultry day, 
 late in August, Mrs. Maitland walked over to the dwelling 
 of the strangers. She had heard the fishermen say that Du 
 Bois' boat had not come in. 
 
 Jnst after the sun went down the weather had suddenly 
 changed. A brisk wind was coming up from the ocean, driv 
 ing before it a cold, white fog, so dense as to be almost 
 suffocating, and wetting one through almost as quickly as 
 would a moderate shower. It had very soon obscured 
 the light of the stars and of the rising moon, and the bea 
 con-lights burned more and more faintly, until they, too, 
 seemed to go out. 
 
 The fishermen said that the sea was running high, and the 
 wind would be likely to increase, and one remarked that Du 
 Bois must have taken his boat up to the Port, and that it
 
 60 By the Sea. 
 
 was not probable he would attempt to return before morn 
 ing. 
 
 Mrs. Maitland thought of the lonely little girl, and 
 wrapping a thick shawl closely about her, she stepped out 
 unseen by any one, into the damp darkness. 
 
 At first she feared that she would be unable to find the 
 house she was in search of ; but she groped her way 
 determinedly along, getting more than one fall, even with 
 her best endeavors to keep on her feet, over the wet pebbles ; 
 and was so much exhausted, when she, at length, reached 
 the dwelling, that she waited to rest a moment before 
 entering it. 
 
 The door was partially open, and a faint light, made by 
 the burning of a little strip of cloth in a dish of fish oil, was 
 trying to send its rays over the apartment ; but so feebly, 
 that Mrs. Maitland, as she glanced into the room, failed to 
 distinguish a single object. She could only see that a 
 partition of rough boards had been put up within the build 
 ing, cutting off about a third part of it, and from the second 
 room, thus formed, she heard a little voice. 
 
 She drew back quickly, and gathering her shawl up about 
 her, began hurriedly to retrace her steps. Most likely Du 
 Bois had returned, she suppossd, or some other thoughtful 
 person had come there, before herself, to look after (he child. 
 She had not gone the distance of two rods from the hut> 
 however, before the same voice again reached her ear, and 
 there was no answering tone. 
 
 Perhaps it was only the little girl talking in her sleep, and 
 she crept back to the door again and listened. It was only
 
 Brendice. 6 1 
 
 the child who was speaking, but the sound of the voice told 
 that she was wide awake. 
 
 " Brendice Du Bois," she was saying, with as much 
 sternness and authority as the little creature could throw 
 into her tones, " Brendice Du Bois, you are one bad child ! 
 Shut your eyes, and go to sleep this minute, or you will be 
 punished severely !" 
 
 After a moment's silence there was a little laughable 
 attempt at a snore ; and then, in a gentle, soothing, sing 
 song tone, she uttered some French words which the 
 listener, of course, could not understand, but which might 
 have been a translation of " Rockaby, baby, all on the tree 
 top !" 
 
 Mrs. Maitland stepped softly into the outer room, but 
 there she paused, and her face grew white and rigid as 
 marble, as the child, after another brief silence, again went 
 on, now in a low and pleading, but very weary and hopeless 
 tone : 
 
 " Mamma, far away in the sea, when will you come for 
 your little Brendie ? She has looked for you many very 
 many days, dear mamma ; and sometimes she sees your 
 pretty eyes shining up out of the water, when the sun is 
 looking down on it ; and once, when the wind was coming 
 up over the sea, she heard you whispering softly to her; but, 
 oh ! you spoke so low she could not tell what you meant. 
 
 " It is cold and dark here, and little Brendie is all alone. 
 She wants to be with you, sweet mamma! Oh, why did you 
 not hold your little baby more tightly in your arms, when 
 you went down into the deep water ?" 
 
 Mrs. Maitland heard no more. She staggered to the
 
 62 By the Sea. 
 
 doorway and sank down upon the earth as soon as she had 
 crossed the threshold. The tide was still coming in, and 
 she knew, by the sound of the waters, that they had already 
 overleaped their usual bounds ; and a sudden wild wish 
 passed through her inind, that a mighty wave would roll up 
 over the ledge, and sweep her away forever from human sight. 
 
 "Whose child was that little lonely creature ? and how had 
 she been made motherless? 
 
 The agonized woman did not consider that there was no 
 reason why that terrible conviction which had seized her, 
 should so fasten itself on her miud for a conviction it was 
 a belief without the shadow of a doubt. She did not under 
 stand why the idea, that she had at times, during the last 
 few years, been laboring under some mental hallucination 
 that the scenes which had presented themselves to her mind 
 at the moment when the bodily eyes were closing to the 
 objects about them, and the mental vision was waking to 
 keener perceptions, might not be the simple, vivid recollec 
 tion of real events then passed away from her mind forever. 
 Such, however, was the fact. 
 
 The darkness deepened over the sea, and the thick fog, 
 though it could scarcely find its way through the many folds 
 of the closely-woven shawl in which she had wrapped herself, 
 soaked her straw hat through and through, bathed her color 
 less face, and poured heavy drops of water on her hair. 
 
 She crept along over the ledge, so far as to be beyond the 
 roach of that little voice, and then she crouched down, un 
 intentionally, for her own safety and comfort were the sub 
 jects farthest from her thoughts, beside a large boulder which 
 sheltered her completely from the chilling wind.
 
 Brendice. 63 
 
 Hours passed away. She did not know how they came 
 and went. She was thinking of the petition she had uttered 
 so many times that day, with an earnestness, she thought, 
 she had never felt before. 
 
 " Let Thy merciful ear, Lord, be open to the prayers 
 of Thy humble servants !" 
 
 And her prayer had been that her husband might return 
 to her and his child ; for the idea that he was not still living, 
 singularly enough, had never occurred to Mrs. Maitland ; 
 and that she soon might have charge of that little neglected 
 girl. 
 
 " And that they may obtain their petitions, make them to 
 ask such things as shall please Thee !" 
 
 Things pleasing to the God of justice ! to Him who had 
 said, " An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth !" and " The 
 sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children." 
 
 And then, through the dark waves of agony which 'were 
 rolling over her, came the plea, "Through Jesus Christ, our 
 Lord I" 
 
 She felt herself leaning against the rock, and she thought 
 of the sweet, comforting words : 
 
 " A place of refuge, and a covert from storm and wind !" 
 " The shadow of a great rock in a weary land !" 
 
 But they allayed not, for a single moment, the fury of the 
 storm which was sweeping over her. The burden she felt 
 upon her now, she dared not lay at the feet of the Lord ; for 
 Mrs. Maitland had so dearly loved her husband, so one with 
 him had she considered herself, that his wrong doings seem 
 ed to be her own. His desertion of her and her child, she 
 had felt to be as disgraceful to herself as it was to him ;
 
 64 By the Sea. 
 
 and as she sat there, in her agony, she thought that the poor 
 hands which were so twisting about, and torturing each 
 other, had been as guilty in lifting themselves up in 
 anguished supplication to her husband, while he stood on 
 the deck of the burning ship, as were his, when they let go 
 their hold on that beautiful woman who had entrusted her 
 self and her child to his care. 
 
 But nature was at length exhausted, and Mrs. Maitland's 
 head sank upon her breast, and sleep stole over her, though 
 the roar of the ocean, sounding in her ears, was, in her 
 dreams, the awful thunders of Sinai, and the Voice at which 
 the mountain shook. 
 
 When she was aroused, which was some hours after her 
 eyes had closed in sleep, it was by a sudden, firm grasp upon 
 her wrist, a quick lifting of the hat which partially concealed 
 her face, and the sound of some low, muttered words, whose 
 meaning she did not, for the first brief instant, fully com 
 prehend. 
 
 They were understood well enough, however, when Du 
 Bois, for it was he, the Frenchman, whom, for the first time 
 she had seen on the deck of the burning ship, whose face, so 
 frightfully distorted with an agony of grief and hate, she 
 had seen going down into the flame-lighted sea, he who had 
 bent over her couch on the night of her husband's disap- 
 
 
 
 pearance, lifted her to her feet, and led her swiftly away over 
 the loose rocks, and the wide stretch of sand between them 
 and the ocean, for the tide was now going out, not stop 
 ping even when he had reached the water's edge, but walk 
 ing on, straight down into the sea. 
 
 It was morning now. The fogs had fled away before the
 
 Brendice. 65 
 
 wind, and that was quieting itself before the approach of the 
 sun, whose crimson beams were already shooting up from the 
 horizon, for every breath that came up over the sea fanned 
 more and more lightly the cold, dewy face that was turned 
 towards it. 
 
 " An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth !" 
 
 No doubt it was just; and the wish for death had come to 
 her more than once, during the terrible hours of the past 
 night; but to die there, in that bright, sweet morning, to close 
 the eyes forever, just at the moment when all nature was 
 looking up and waiting for the rising sun, to be strug 
 gling and gasping for breath down in those smiling waters, 
 now rocking themselves to rest, to be crowned cold and still 
 with those wreaths of shining, white foam ! 
 
 To die thus, and for such a cause ! 
 
 She lifted her eyes to the countenance of Du Bois. 
 
 He was looking directly before him, -far out into the sea. 
 His face was as colorless as her own, and a cold perspiration 
 was standing in drops on his brow. The hat had fallen from 
 his head, and the long dark hair was hanging in thickly 
 matted locks over his temples. 
 
 An appeal for mercy had risen to her lips when she lifted her 
 eyes to his countenance; but it was not uttered, for it seemed 
 to her that a marble face could as soon relax the stern cold 
 ness of its expression as his. Yet he seemed not to be 
 thinking particularly of the terrible deed he was just ready 
 to commit; there was another and deeper thought than that 
 in his mind. 
 
 Mrs. Maitland glanced back over the beach. 
 
 No living thing was to be seen there. It was the dawn of the
 
 66 By the Sea. 
 
 Sabbath. The fishermen would not come down to their 
 boats to-day, and the women, who usually indulged them 
 selves in an extra half hour of sleep on Sunday morning, 
 would eat their breakfast before opening the fish-houses, and 
 spreading the half-dried cod upon the flakes. 
 
 She looked away up to the hills rising in the distance in 
 quiet, serene grandeur, and thought how fixed and secure 
 they were as secure in their repose as was the ocean, which 
 was deepening around her, in its unrest. 
 
 She glanced at the white and brown dwellings scattered 
 over the rising grounds, here in little clusters, and there 
 widely apart. In one of them, most likely just beginning to 
 open his blue eyes, and brush the hair away from his face, 
 wondering where his mother had gone, was her own little 
 boy. He would never, she thought, see her again ; and 
 neither little Luke, nor any one else but he who was holding 
 her wrist in that vice-like grasp, would ever know her fate. 
 
 And then she looked back to the hut upon the rocks, 
 where that little neglected, lonely child was so plaintively 
 calling to the mother who would never come to her. Back 
 over the white beach and the stretch of water which now lay 
 between her and the dry sand, and then again up to that 
 unchanging face which was still looking steadily far away 
 into the sea. 
 
 She had lately been led on slowly, but the water was now 
 high about her. The last wave, though the step of Du Bois 
 was still firm, towering, as he did, head and shoulders above 
 her, had well nigh lifted her from her feet, and still he 
 moved on ; and as she looked into his face, the idea occurred 
 to her which would have come sooner to a wiser person, that
 
 Brendice. ' 67 
 
 the man who had her so completely in his power, was, for 
 the time being, at least, a maniac. 
 
 But, with the certainty of her fate, which flashed over her 
 as if she had not before been so terribly sure of her doom, 
 came, in that moment of death-like agony, the withering 
 thought that the hand, which had suffered this man's fair 
 young wife to perish, and which had robbed him of his 
 wealth, was the hand of one in full possession of his reason. 
 
 A wave had just dashed its spray over her face ! 
 
 Another was coming ; a great, darkly-green, mountain 
 ridge, it seemed to her, rising higher and higher, till it quite 
 shut out the heaven from her view. 
 
 But not the Heaven where God abides ; for all at once she 
 began to feel strangely calm. The great distress and fear 
 were all gone ; and her stony-cold lips shaped themselves to 
 a song of deliverance, though they gave utterance to no 
 audible sound : 
 
 "Thy right hand and Thy arm, and the light of Thy 
 countenance !" 
 
 Deliverance from death or from despair, she knew not, at 
 first, from which it was ; but soon she opened her eyes 
 again to the blue sky above her, and then looked away 
 towards the west, where, in the distant ' horizon, suddenly 
 gleamed out a bright light the reflection of the sun's rays 
 just coming up over the waters from the tall windows of 
 St. Mary's ; and the thought first came to her then, which so 
 often occurred to her afterwards, as her eyes fell on the dis 
 tant light. 
 
 Calling all the day long to goodness, as through the hours 
 of the night, the beacon had warned against ill.
 
 68 By the Sea. 
 
 At the moment when that strange calmness came to her, 
 she had heard a low, distant cry, and then near her a sound 
 of bitterest cursing ; and she felt herself suddenly lifted 
 in strong arms, and they were carrying her back swiftly be 
 yond the reach of the waves. 
 
 Carrying her back to life ! Her genses seemed forsaking 
 her, but they were stayed, for a moment, by the repetition 
 of that sound ringing out over the water. 
 
 It was the clear glad cry of a happy child ; and Brendice 
 Du BoiSj with her long hair flying about her head, and her 
 little arms stretched out towards her, was struggling through 
 the waves, exclaiming : 
 
 " Mamma, sweet mamma ! coming to your little Brendice, 
 who has waited for you so long, mamma !" 
 
 Mrs. Maitland felt that the hands were loosening their 
 firm hold on her, but they did not quite relinquish their 
 grasp ; for when she next opened her eyes she was lying on 
 her bed in her boarding-house, with her fingers clasped in the 
 chubby hands of her little boy. 
 
 Mrs. Brown was busied in applying restoratives to the 
 exhausted woman, and in saying : 
 
 "Yes, it is about a year, now, since her husband deserted 
 her, poor thing ! and I had hoped she was getting nicely 
 over it. You don't suppose she really intended to drown 
 herself, do you, Mr. Du Bois ? How fortunate it was that 
 you were just coming in ; this is the third life you have 
 saved since you came here ! You think there is no doubt 
 about her speedy recovery, do you ?" 
 
 Mrs. Maitland opened her eyes and looked up into those 
 which were staring down at her, returning their earnest
 
 Brendice. 69 
 
 gaze ; and in a low, beseeching tone she murmured the 
 words : 
 
 " And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who 
 trespass against us !" 
 
 A gleam as of lightning flashed out from the man's eyes, 
 though there was no look of insanity in his countenance now ; 
 and she heard his teeth grinding together. 
 
 " The woman has not yet recovered her senses !" he said, 
 in a very slow, measured tone. 
 
 Mrs. Maitland ".new what he meant, and her eyes closed 
 again, as he passed out of the room. 
 
 She never, for one brief moment, after, looked into that 
 face.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 KEVANCHE. 
 
 [E never had looked into that face again, though 
 the years were passing, and though neither Du 
 Bois nor herself had, for two days at a time, been 
 absent from The Sands. 
 
 The thought had frequently come to her, while the years 
 were going by, of seeking for herself and her boy a home 
 distant from the neighborhood, even after she and Luke had 
 nicely fitted up for their abode the little fish-house which 
 she had purchased the second spring after her husband's 
 disappearance. But the fear that the Frenchman would 
 follow her, wherever slio might go, had always prevented her 
 from doing so. 
 
 That Du Bois had some ot, er reason for remaining at The 
 Sands than simply to gather from the sea the means for a 
 livelihood for himself and his daughter, she did not doubt ; 
 and she had, sometimes, while her heart almost ceased to 
 beat, for the terrible fear which came over her, heard the 
 fishermen asking each other what kept that stranger for so 
 
 he was always regarded at The Sands, when such a man as 
 (70)
 
 Revanche. 7 1 
 
 he was could find employment almost anywhere, and much 
 lighter and far more profitable than his present pursuit. 
 
 She had but little knowledge of human nature, and it re 
 quired but little to convince her that revenge would be very 
 unlikely to die out in the heart which exhibited its emotions 
 in such expressions as she had seen on that countenance. 
 His one great object in life, she was sure, was to find Mr. 
 Maitland ; and she felt that his eye was always on her, with 
 no intent, perhaps, after that Sabbath mornmg when he had 
 led her down into the sea, to injure her ; but to ascertain if 
 her husband ever sought to hold any communications with 
 her or her son. 
 
 Feeling that she could not escape from him, she had at 
 length concluded to remain where she was ; for her boy's 
 sake bearing her burden, the crushing weight of which he 
 yet knew nothing, though ten years had passed since Mr. 
 Maitland left them, as patiently as she could ; quiet, indus 
 trious, and sometimes cheerful, but with all hope, and all the 
 freshness of life gone forever. 
 
 Even for her son she asked nothing from Heaven but that 
 the knowledge of his father's crime might never be revealed 
 to him, that he might grow up to be a good man, and con 
 tented with his lot in life. 
 
 Luke had never manifested any inclination to go away 
 from his mother, or to seek any other employment than that 
 to which she was bringing him up. 
 
 Of his absent parent, memory of whom seemed to have 
 faded away very quickly from his mind, though he was six 
 years old when his father -had left The Sands, he had not 
 questioned his mother for several years past, for he had
 
 72 By the Sea. 
 
 learned, very early, that such inquiries annoyed her, and 
 Luke was a loving, tender son. He was sixteen now, bat he 
 had heard very little of his father ; and he was as ignorant 
 of what his mother was acquainted with respecting Du Bois 
 and his daughter, as were any of his young companions, 
 who occasionally tried to make themselves merry at the ex 
 pense of the little Brendice. 
 
 The girl was now in her fourteenth year, but she was so 
 small in stature" that those of her own age were accustomed 
 to regard her as some years younger. 
 
 The ten years which had elapsed since her coming to The 
 Sands had produced very little change in her appearance. 
 It was, in the extreme, ludicrous or pitiful still, as in her 
 queer, scanty dress, she ran, with fleet, firm feet, over the 
 rocks, or stood poised upon a high boulder, looking away 
 into the sea. 
 
 Mischievous, as he naturally was, Luke had never joined 
 his mates in their attempts to annoy the child. 
 
 * 
 
 His mother's strict command that he should never have 
 anything to do with the Frenchman and his daughter, that 
 he should never go to their dwelling, never suffer his boat, 
 while out upon the watsr, to approach that of Da Bois, and 
 never to speak to him unless he was first addressed, had been 
 laid upon him at a very early age ; and he had disobeyed her 
 in that no more than he had in any other respect. 
 But at a distance, the boy would sometimes watch the 
 movements, and listen to the voices of the thoughtless chil 
 dren, when a dozen or more of them came down to the beach 
 after their hot dusty walk from school, in their bathing 
 dresses, for a splash in the water ; or collected together when
 
 Revanche. 73 
 
 the young girls' work in the fish-houses was ended for the 
 day, as they attempted to have some fun with the little 
 French girl ; and his laugh often rang out loud and clear at 
 the complete discomfiture of the whole party. 
 
 The showers of sand and- sea-shells, and sometimes hand- 
 fuls of pebbles, when the children would get angry at their 
 want of success in attempting to " scare the little crow from 
 her perch," as Miss Emma Brown, usually the leader in the 
 sport, called it, fell around her, apparently as unheeded as 
 did the salt spray which the waves tossed to her feet. Their 
 jeers and hootings never moved her from the spot where she 
 stood, or directed her gaze to the noisy little crew ; and the 
 fleetest among them always failed to overtake her when she 
 was bounding over the rocks. 
 
 Nor had Luke ever joined them in their endeavors, which 
 were very infrequent, and alike disregarded by her, to be 
 on friendly terms with the girl, any more than he had in 
 their attempts to annoy the friendless child, though he was 
 usually the ringleader in all their little affairs. Many a time, 
 however, when their play had become too serious, had the 
 boys returned with tingling ears, and the girls, particularly 
 Miss Emma Brown, with red eyes and inflamed cheeks, to 
 their homes ; for young Maitland's arm was swift and strong, 
 and his pleasant voice could utter very bitter and cutting 
 words. 
 
 But although Luke's mother seemed to be so very averse 
 to holding any intercourse with the Frenchman and his 
 daughter, the wish was always with her that she could do 
 something for the girl. 
 
 At her first identification of Du Bois and his child with 
 
 4
 
 74 By the Sea. 
 
 those whom her husband had so fearfully wronged, the 
 desire passed from her mind. She then only wished that 
 she could put the universe between Herself and them. After 
 a time, however, she began to feel that there was a distinction 
 between herself and her husband ; that his guilt could not 
 attach itself to her ; and then the desire to do something for 
 Brendice came back again, and with such strength that 
 many and many a time, as she had looked upon the girl, 
 uncared for, apparently, by any human being, for as she had 
 grown older it seemed just as much the wish of Brendice as 
 it did that of her father, to hold no intercourse with the 
 people among whom. they had come to live, she thought 
 she must try to break the terrible barrier which separated 
 her from this friendless girl, and take her to her heart, and 
 care for her, as never a mother cared for her own child. 
 
 Perhaps even at the risk of the revelation by Du Bois 
 of his father's crime, to Luke, she would have done so when 
 she saw that Brendice's youth was likely to be as much 
 neglected as her childhood had been, but for an event which 
 happened when the girl was in her fourteenth year ; an 
 event which Mrs. Maitland would have thought might 
 partially close up the wide gulf between the two families, 
 but which, instead of narrowing the chasm between them, 
 seemed to render it entirely bottomless. 
 
 This was the rescue of the young girl from a watery grave, 
 by Luke Maitland. 
 
 It had been a sweet, cool day in early autumn, but a very 
 sad and lonely one to the girl ; for Brendice Du Bois had 
 not readily and willingly accepted her bitter lot. When a 
 very little child, she had striven, instinctively, to win her
 
 Revanche. 7 5 
 
 father's affection by sweet smiles, by loving words, and 
 attempted caresses. Later, she had endeavored to over 
 come his repugnance to herself by a swift obedience to all 
 his requirements ; and, finally, she had sought to gain his 
 respect. 
 
 All her attempts, however, had been alike unsuccessful ; 
 and that day, in early autumn, she had knelt before him, 
 and with clasped hands and streaming eyes had asked him 
 if their existence must always be what it then was, if there 
 might not be for them a better life than that they were now 
 enduring? 
 
 She had been standing upon the rocks, looking away into 
 the sea, her eyes filled with tears at the conviction, which 
 reason, years before, had forced upon her that the mother 
 for whose return to her she had so long watched and waited, 
 could never come, though the habit of watahing there would 
 not be broken, and she daily tried to cheat herself into the 
 belief that she was watching and waiting still. 
 
 As she stood on the rocks looking out upon the water, 
 seeing the shadows of the cliff and the ledge stretching out 
 farther and farther over the in-coming waves, she heard glad 
 voices and merry laughter coming down the beach, and soon 
 two young children, sweet, blue-eyed, cherry-cheeked and 
 golden-haired little girls, very simply but prettily attired, 
 came bounding over the sands, breathless in their eagerness 
 to find the white shells along the beach, and roguishly seek 
 ing to despoil each other of the gathered treasures. 
 
 Following them at a little distance was a man approaching 
 middle life, who apparently enjoyed their sport as much as 
 if he were still himself a child ; now clapping his hands to
 
 76 By the Sea. 
 
 hasten the flying feet, now joining in the triumphant laugh, 
 and now flinging to the despoiled and lagging one such .a 
 strange and bright-hued shell, probably tossed up by the 
 waves on a far distant shore, that the little eyes grew round 
 with wonder and delight. 
 
 Suddenly the children's voices were hushed, and they 
 paused in their play, and each turned her face towards the 
 north, whence, faintly stealing through the quiet air, came 
 the sound of a distant bell ; no doubt to them a very 
 familiar sound, but strangely sweet and holy it seemed, 
 heard here. 
 
 Perhaps it reminded the children of the color of the ribbon 
 with which their little frocks were trimmed, and the wide 
 band about their father's hat ; and they walked towards 
 him, each putting a hand in his, and lifting a rosy, but 
 sobered little mouth for a loving kiss ; and then the three 
 walked slowly along the beach below the ledge where 
 Brendice had now dropped down. 
 
 A stray breeze, filled with lingering summer sweets, came 
 over from the green wooded hills, and away in the east a 
 bright rainbow was spanning the horizon. 
 
 While listening to the distant bell, feeling the soft air 
 upon her cheek, and gazing alternately on those advancing 
 figures, and that bow of promise, seemingly so like an angel 
 of peace, that sought to gather the whole world into its 
 loving embrace, emotions such as she had never experienced 
 before filled the soul of the poor girl, as she crouched there 
 upon the ledge ; and the strange thoughts deepened . as t'he 
 words of the children and their father fell on her ear. 
 
 He was saying : " It is St. Michael and All Angels' day,
 
 Revanche. 77 
 
 my darlings ; and there is service at church. A very sweet 
 day for us ! Do you know the collect, Ellen ?" 
 
 " Yes, dear, papa !" one little voice replied ; and the child 
 drew her fingers from her father's clasp, and folding her 
 hands and bowing her head, said, very reverently : 
 
 " Oh, everlasting God ! who hast ordained and constituted 
 the services of Angels and men in a wonderful order, merci 
 fully grant that as Thy holy Angels always do Thee service 
 in Heaven, so, by Thy appointment, they may succor and 
 defend us on earth, through Jesus Christ our Lord !" 
 
 And then the other child asked quickly : 
 
 ""Does ' succor and defend ' mean just the same as take 
 care of, father ?" 
 
 " Yes, my dear !" 
 
 " Well, mamma is an angel now, is she not ? And can 
 she not take care of us, just as she used to, only more and 
 better care now, because she sees and knows more you 
 said, father than when she was alive ? And if Ellen and I 
 say the collect every day, and try very hard to be good, 
 wont she always be near to succor and defend us ?" 
 
 " I think it is not wrong for us to believe so," said her 
 father, solemnly ; and then they passed on. 
 
 When the strangers, who were boarders at the hotel, had 
 gone to a little distance, Brendice rose up from the ledge 
 and hastened over the rocks, down to her home, which her 
 father had just entered ; and then she knelt before him, and 
 asked him, as he had given her life, to bless that life with 
 his kindness and his love. 
 
 And he had only laughed! and such a bitter, mocking 
 laugh it was, that for a moment the girl seemed half
 
 78 By the Sea. 
 
 maddened. She rushed back to the ledge, and though the 
 tide was now coming in, ran to the extreme point of a low 
 rock which jutted far out upon the beach, and flung herself 
 down there, weeping as she had never, in her life, wept 
 before. 
 
 Exhausted by her sense of loneliness and her grief, and 
 unobservant of the rising tide, she at length fell into a most 
 profound sleep, and when she awoke again, the water was 
 so high about her that in a few minutes more that unblest 
 life would have been ended forever. 
 
 But two young lads, nearing the shore with their fishing- 
 boat, had seen her peril ; and Luke Maitland, leaving the 
 boat to his companion's care, sprang into the water, and 
 catching the fainting girl just as the wave swept her from 
 her footing, bore her safely to land, and carried her in his 
 arms, for he was a strong, active boy, and she a little, light 
 thing, to her father's dwelling. 
 
 Du Bois was standing in his doorway as Luke came up 
 with the exhausted girl, and the boy observed that he drew 
 back a step at his approach, as if to make room for him 
 to enter the hut. Bat what happened afterwards, he never 
 described to his mother. 
 
 He would have found it difficult to do so, fully, for the 
 words which passed between the man and his daughter, 
 whose energies suddenly returned to her when she caught 
 sight of her father's face, had, with the exception of a 
 single unfinished sentence uttered by Du Bois, been in 
 French ; and besides, he was not disposed, he could not 
 himself really understand why, to speak of what he did 
 comprehend.
 
 Revanche. 79 
 
 The generous-hearted boy, attaching no value, as far as 
 he was concerned, to what he had done, had never felt so 
 happy in his life as at the moment when he perceived 
 the girl's half-closed eyes opening wide, a faint color 
 coming into the thin, white cheek, and strength returning 
 to that nerveless form. And when, to his consternation, 
 he saw Du Bois spring towards his daughter as her feet 
 touched the floor, and uttering that one sentence in Eng 
 lish, strike at her with the heavy stick he had caught up, 
 .Luke rushed between them, and received the sharp blow 
 intended for her, on his uncovered arms. 
 
 "Wretch!" the father had said to his child, "you came 
 between me and your mother's life ; and this is the second 
 time you have thrust yourself " 
 
 And then he added some words in a language unknown to 
 the boy, but with great vehemence, and so rapidly that it 
 seemed strange to him any one could understand them. 
 The girl, however, who had appeared surprised at his at 
 tempted violence, but not at his anger, knew what he meant, 
 and when he had ceased speaking, she several times re 
 peated, very slowly and distinctly, one word he had most em 
 phatically uttered. 
 
 Luke never forgot that word, " Revanche !" and when 
 Brendice turned and looked on the countenance of her de 
 liverer, the expression of her features revealed, plainly 
 enough, its bitter meaning. 
 
 He did not smile then, nor did he do so afterwards it was 
 too pitiful a sight for ridicule, when he remembered how 
 the burning hate and the strong desire for revenge came 
 out on that little pinched face, still wet with the salt water
 
 8o By the Sea. 
 
 dripping from her hair ; and how the little, puny arm, 
 lately so lifeless, was held out menacingly towards him. 
 
 Luke did not tell his mother this. He knew there was 
 something wrong between the two families, but had never 
 asked what it was. She was certain, however, that more 
 than the saving of a life had happened, when her son re 
 turned to her, and young Jones, who had been his com 
 panion in the fishing-boat, and had come up to the door just 
 as Luke entered it, was describing to Mrs. Maitland what 
 he had intended entirely to conceal ; but she forbore 
 asking him any questions in relation to the affair. 
 
 She did not even inquire how those ridges, which it 
 was strange were not fractures, came on his arms he had 
 made no reply when his companion asked about them for 
 question on her part might lead to inquiries on his. She 
 thought those blows must have been accidentally inflicted, or 
 he would not be standing there, with two pairs of eyes upon 
 him, so quietly bathing his arms in water, for Luke always 
 swiftly repaid, and with heavy interest, any kindness or 
 injury done him, and he was neither glad nor repentant, now. 
 
 Something had happened, she was certain ; for after 
 young Jones had gone out, the lad made some remark, 
 more to himself than to his mother, however, and not 
 rightly understood by her, which convinced her, though mis 
 takenly, that if all other impediments to the execution of 
 her cherished plan in regard to Brendice Du Bois could be 
 removed, the opposition of her son could never be overcome. 
 And so the hope of ever being able to do anything for the 
 girl, died in her heart, at the hour when Luke had saved 
 her life.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 ON THE CLIFF. 
 
 PON Mrs. Maitland's dead hope no earth, how 
 ever, had yet fallen, and her grief over it was 
 kept fresh by the secretly dropping tears, till the 
 wish was again brought back to life. 
 
 It was resuscitated by the bitter, heavy dews which have 
 fallen on so many parched, stony and thorny places, where 
 the hand of the great Sower has seemed to the dim, human 
 vision, to have scattered His good seed again and again in 
 vain ; and the wilderness and the solitary places have, at 
 length, been glad for them, and the desert has rejoiced and 
 blossomed like the rose. Those bitter dews which in the 
 darkness have germinated the seeds, forced asunder the 
 flinty rocks that the roots might strike out wide and deep, 
 and though weighing so heavily upon the feeble plume that 
 it could hardly release the struggling leaflet from its embrace, 
 yet imparting, themselves, the strength they seemed to be 
 taking away ; the bitter dews of tribulation which have 
 ripened to golden plenteousness, the richest fruits gathered 
 into the garner of our God !
 
 82 By the Sea. 
 
 By what seemed good for food, and was pleasant to the 
 eyes, and to be desired to make one wise, " came death into 
 the world, and all our woes ;" but through a sorrow which 
 man has beheld, and saw that there was no sorrow like unto 
 it, our great redemption came. 
 
 One summer afternoon five years after the occurrence of 
 the event recounted in the preceding chapter, Mrs. Haiti and 
 was walking slowly up the cliff near whose summit there was 
 now a well of pure fresh water. The well had been dug by 
 the present proprietor of the Ocean House the building she 
 had once supposed was to be her home. 
 
 With the addition which had been made to it, it was a fine 
 hotel now, and was so well patronized, that though it was 
 still early, the rooms were all engaged for the season, and 
 some of them already occupied ; and pleasure parties were 
 coming in from the adjacent towns very frequently to spend 
 the day. 
 
 A party had come down to The Sands that morning. 
 Young gentlemen and ladies, the most of them were, though 
 one gentleman was quite advanced in life. 
 
 Their destination had been The Rocks ; but the day did not 
 prove to be very fine, and the pleasure boats they had 
 expected from the Port, from which place some members of 
 the party had come, did not make their appearance ; and all 
 of the ladies and most of the men were very willing to remain 
 where they were. A few of the young men, however, hired a 
 fishing-boat, and went over to the islands. 
 
 The boat belonged to Du Bois. It was a largo, nice one, 
 and he had lately purchased it. He was just pushing off 
 from the shore with it himself, for the first time, when the
 
 On the Cliff. 83 
 
 young men in search of a boat came down to the beach. 
 The other fishermen had ah 1 gone out, earlier in the morning, 
 and no other boat was to be had. 
 
 It seemed at first quite impossible to hire this, for the 
 Frenchman had made up his mind that he would go out with 
 it, though he had been quite ill for some days past. Even 
 now, he was so unwell that his daughter, looking after him, 
 as he went silently out of the house, and walked down the 
 beach, and began to loosen the boat from the fastenings, 
 wished that he would remain on shore that day, or that there 
 was some one to go with him. She herself understood very 
 well how to manage a boat, but she did not offer to 
 accompany her father. 
 
 She knew by repeated experiences how such an offer 
 would be regarded by him, for not only was the strange man 
 always savagely averse to receiving assistance in any of his 
 labors from his daughter, but even her presence, usually, 
 seemed well nigh intolerable to him. But he was ah 1 that 
 Brendice had in the world, and though, since her earliest 
 recollection, she had received from him only the coldest and 
 most neglectful treatment, the glimpse of a better life than 
 her present hard and comfortless one, having flashed across 
 her mind only to fade like a meteor in the evening sky, there 
 was never an unfilial feeling in her heart towards him ; 
 though perhaps the emotions of pleasure and pain, ex 
 perienced on his account, were not so exquisite as that out 
 wardly unimpassioned nature was capable of suffering and 
 enjoying. 
 
 As she looked after him from the cabin doorway, she 
 perceived that, at the close of a long parley Avith. the
 
 84 By the Sea. 
 
 strangers who had come down the beach", her father quitted 
 his boat and allowed the young men to step into it, and 
 push it off from the shore ; and she checked the half sigh 
 which would have escaped her at the prospect of having him 
 at home all day. He had been unusually severe towards her 
 for a week or two past, and her household cares would keep 
 her within doors through many hot, wearying hours ; but 
 she resolutely, or rather hopelessly, checked the rising sigh, 
 and resumed her employment. 
 
 Du Bois, however, did not return to the dwelling. 
 
 An hour passed away, and then another, but he did not 
 come in to take up his unfinished work, still lying upon the 
 floor where he had left it the mending of some fishing tackle. 
 
 Brendice was listening, momentarily, for the sound of his 
 footfall ; but at length, while wondering at his prolonged 
 absence, a thought suddenly flashed through her mind, and 
 she dropped her work and ran swiftly to the spot where he 
 always kept his boat. 
 
 Her fears were realized. 
 
 The old boat was gone, and the fishing-tackle too, which 
 had been thrown out of the new boat when the young 
 strangers had persuaded Du Bois to give them the use of it 
 for the day. She climbed up the ledge, and looked away to 
 the east, where several little white specks were shining in 
 the checkering sunlight. 
 
 Neither of them was her father's old boat, for he had taken 
 the sail out of it, as it was not suitable for further use. The 
 old boat had been in a bad condition for some time, quite 
 beyond repair ; and he had lost his fish, and well nigh his 
 life, the last time he had gone out in it.
 
 On the Cliff. 85 
 
 His efforts to save himself and the boat had caused the 
 sickness from which he had been suffering the past few 
 days, and from which he was not yet entirely restored ; and 
 the right arm which was fractured some years before, in the 
 successful attempt to save two human lives, had not re 
 covered from the severe strain it had just now received. 
 
 If that arm had been well, Brendice would have had no 
 fear for his safety, for her father was an uncommonly expert 
 swimmer ; but now she looked anxiously over the water, 
 very glad to see so many sails dotting its surface, and 
 trying to believe that he would not venture far from the 
 shore. 
 
 It was some hours later in fact the day was near its 
 close when, as has been already remarked, Mrs. Maitland, 
 carrying a small pail on her arm, was slowly walking up the 
 cliff in the direction of the well near its summit. 
 
 She was not very strong now. Her strength had seemed 
 to be failing in proportion as the necessity for exertion 
 diminished. 
 
 As she walked along, very conscious of her feebleness, she 
 thought that Luke would need her but a little longer now ; 
 and chided herself that she was not more thankful to 
 Heaven for the blessing of his love and care, and for the 
 assurance, which was strong within her, that he would never 
 leave her as long as she lived. 
 
 He was an active and expert fisherman now. He had 
 begun to handle an oar at an early age ; and he had grown 
 up, seemingly perfectly satisfied with his occupation. 
 
 Before a long time had passed, his mother thought, for 
 Luke had just completed his twenty-first year, he would
 
 86 By the Sea. 
 
 marry Miss Emma Brown, the daughter of Mrs. Maitland's 
 former landlady. 
 
 He and Emma had been good friends from early child 
 hood, notwithstanding the many severe reproofs she had 
 received from him. The young girl would come into 
 possession of some little property when she was married, 
 and Luke would have nothing aside from his mother's home 
 but his boat, his fine form, his pleasant, frank, sun-burnt face, 
 and strong, sinewy arms. The Browns would have no ob 
 jection to the match, however ; at least, one of them, most 
 decidedly, would not. 
 
 Everybody liked Luke Maitland. 
 
 And when he and Emma were settled down together in 
 life, his mother thought she would feel that there was noth 
 ing more for her to ask of Heaven, than that she might pass 
 away quietly and peacefully from earth. 
 
 Luke had gone out early that morning, and it was time 
 now that the boats were in ; and she had come up the cliff 
 for a pail of fresh water that a cup of tea might be ready 
 for him as soon as his fish were on shore. 
 
 She set her pail down beside the well, and looked down 
 over the beach. The boats had come in, and the fishermen 
 were unloading them. 
 
 The young women and girls at the houses who had been 
 hurrying to get their half-dried fish under the shelter of the 
 roofs, had run down to assist the men, for there were dark 
 clouds, heavily overlapping each other, here and there 
 streaked with white drifts, coming up slowly from the south, 
 though 'the wind was blowing from another quarter of the 
 heavens, in little fitful gusts.
 
 On the Cliff. 87 
 
 It was a pleasant sight which met her eyes as she looked 
 down on the shore, up which, higher and higher, came the 
 foamy waters, and sweet, mirthful sounds fell on her ear. 
 The sounds came from the boats which were now nearly 
 erupted of the fish ; from the groups of handsomely dressed 
 people scattered about over the beach, the young girls, 
 many of them, in snowy white frocks and pretty broad- 
 brimmed hats with long, bright- colored ribbons, busily 
 gathering bunches of dried alga, to which the white sand 
 was clinging, to be shaped, by-and-by, into pretty orna 
 ments, and searching among the rocks for shells and vari 
 ously tinted pebbles ; from the inmates of the carriages roll 
 ing over the hard sand just above the water's edge ; and 
 mingling with the voices and the laughter and the sounds of 
 the ocean, came from one of the upper windows of the hotel, 
 as an accompaniment, a sweet, soft strain, from a rich-toned 
 instrument, touched by a skilful hand. 
 
 The coaches which had brought down the people to The 
 Sands that morning had driven around to the front of the 
 hotel. The horses were impatiently pawing the ground, and 
 champing their bits ; and the people, desirous of hastening 
 their departure a little in consequence of the clouds in the 
 south, were anxiously waiting the return of their companions 
 who had gone over to The Rocks. 
 
 They had promised to be back at an earlier hour than this ; 
 but they were coming now. The white sail neared the shore, 
 yet the young men did not return the merry greetings which 
 reached them. 
 
 Mrs. Maitland recognized Du Bois' new boat. 
 
 One of the fish-wornen had told her, a few hours before,
 
 88 By the Sea. 
 
 that the Frenchman had lent his boat to some young men 
 from the hotel, and had, very foolishly, gone out fishing, 
 himself, in his old one. 
 
 The woman did not believe he could keep the boat afloat. 
 It had not been repaired since he came so near losing his 
 life in it. 
 
 She drew a small glass from her pocket, one which she 
 frequently took with her up the cliff when Luke was out on 
 the water, and looked down to the boats. 
 
 Du Bois had not come in, and Luke's boat was not there, 
 either ; and she wondered why, when the young men, who 
 had been over to The Bocks, stepped on shore, the fishermen 
 had left their work and collected about them. Brendice 
 Du Bois was walking hastily towards them too, and the 
 fishermen were moving away as she approached. 
 
 Poor Brendice ! It was easy enough, even at the distance, 
 to see that it was she, and not one of the other fish-girls. 
 It was not strange she was there. She had gone down, in 
 the absence of her father, to see that the boat was pro 
 perly secured, and to receive the pay for its use. 
 
 Mrs. Maitland hoped nothing had happened to Du Bois, 
 and she turned her glass to the water to look for him. 
 
 Nothing was to be seen there, only away on the horizon, 
 a large ship, outward-bound, with her canvass all spread, and 
 a fishing schooner anchored near The Rocks ; but then her 
 glass was a small one, and the sea was not very smooth. 
 He might be near, although she did not perceive his boat. 
 Most likely he would soon be in. 
 
 As for Luke, she remembered now that he had been talk 
 ing, for some days past, of going up to The Port, for what
 
 On the Cliff. 89 
 
 purpose lie had not told her. Most likely, she thought, it 
 was to purchase something for her. 
 
 Undoubtedly he had gone that day, and without telling 
 her, in order that the surprise in store for her might be the 
 greater ; for Luke, manly enough in his intercourse with 
 other people, and very far from being rude and awkward, 
 was, to his mother, nothing but a great boy still. 
 
 Had he merely been out fishing, she reasoned, he would 
 have returned before this time, for Luke's boat always 
 touched the beach before that of any other fisherman ; and 
 sfae looked away towards the north, now, to watch for his 
 coming. 
 
 The young men had gone up to the hotel and joined their 
 party, and now the coaches were driving rapidly away. One 
 of the party had remained behind the old gentleman before 
 referred to. 
 
 He had not come down to The Sands that morning with 
 the intention of stopping there ; but the sad and surprising 
 intelligence brought up by the young men, from the water* 
 caused him to change his plans. 
 
 The strangers had all left the beach, for the supper hour 
 at the Ocean House had arrived. 
 
 The fish had been brought up to the sheds, to be cared 
 for by the women, and the men, all but two, had gone to 
 their houses. The two who remained behind were William 
 Jones and one of the Browns. 
 
 Young Brown had run up to his father's house, and 
 brought down a good-sized spy-glass, and now the young 
 men stood on the ledge, and looked out over the sea. That
 
 90 By the Sea. 
 
 was not strange, however, as the boy was very proud of his 
 glass, and was always handling it. 
 
 If Brendice Du Bois had been there, too, on the ledge, 
 looking oceanward, it might have been supposed some 
 anxiety was felt for her father's safety ; but the girl, after 
 seeing that the new boat was in a place of safety, had walked 
 directly to her home, and no one but the two young fisher 
 men were in sight ; and now they put up their glass, and 
 turned away, with seeming reluctance, from the rocks. 
 
 Luke's boat must be in sight very soon, his mother 
 thought, for the sun was now almost down. 
 
 He would be sure to leave N early enough to reach 
 
 home before it was quite nightfall, for the evening would be 
 a moonless one, and the sky had been all day partially 
 obscured by clouds. 
 
 There was another reason why the young fisherman should 
 have hastened his return, which his mother, though she had 
 always lived by the sea, did not perceive. 
 
 The coming night would be a very wild and fearful one, 
 for a terrible tempest had wrapped itself up in that dark 
 sheet that stretched along the southern horizon. 
 
 It was, slowly enough now, opening its heavy folds, but 
 the wind would soon shake out its plaitings, and hang it 
 like a dark pall over the sky. The wind was from the north 
 now, gusty, but not veering. 
 
 Luke's light boat would glide swiftly over the water. 
 
 "When he came near the cliff, he would be sure to turn his 
 pleasant face upward to see if his mother was watching for 
 him, and she was glad she had happened to put on, that 
 afternoon, the dress he liked best.
 
 On the Cliff. 91 
 
 A very plain and inexpensive one it was ; but the pretty 
 delicate purple muslin, with the little frilling of the same 
 material about the neck and wrists, was very becoming to 
 the fragile form, and the all too fair face. And well suited 
 to the heavy braids of golden brown hair, for she had laid 
 aside her simple bonnet now that the sun was down, and the 
 strangers had all gone to the beach, was the dainty little 
 white lace cap, trimmed with pale pink ribbons, which Luke 
 had brought home to her on the day he was twenty-one. 
 
 She was an old woman now, he bad told her, and he 
 placed her before their little mirror, and stood beside her, 
 that she might see what an ancient face it was, compared with 
 his ; and then he had laughed and kissed her, and said that 
 no one could be made to believe she was not his younger 
 sister. 
 
 He never dreamed what made his mother, sometimes, so 
 strangely fair, nor why that deep rose tint came to the usually 
 pale face. She did not tell him of the dark shadow which 
 was always following her, sometimes with slower, and 
 sometimes with more rapid strides, but ever drawing nearer 
 and nearer. 
 
 She was silent only for his sake, however. The great 
 change would not be an unwelcome one to her. She was so 
 weary ; only thirty-eight yet, but oh, so very weary ! 
 
 Dear Luke ! she wished he would come. It was a little 
 strange that his boat was not in sight yet, but of course he 
 would be there soon. She would watch a few minutes longer, 
 and then go home and prepare supper. 
 
 How cheerful her room should look when he came in ; as 
 if it did not always look so ! the clean floor scattered over
 
 92 By the Sea. 
 
 with white sand, the fire-place filled with fresh balsamic 
 spruce boughs and sweet ferns, which Luke had gone among 
 the hills to bring home to his mother ; the windows curtained 
 with blossoming rose trees, and dark-leaved, hardy vines, 
 growing in the boxes of earth placed beneath them ; and the 
 sea-shells, arranged upon the mantle shelf, filled with soft 
 mosses. 
 
 The table was already spread ; nothing was to be done 
 but place upon it the viands she had cooked exactly to his 
 liking, and to make a Cup of tea for him. 
 
 She picked up her bonnet and rose to go. 
 
 How very still it was ! 
 
 The wind had ceased. The tide was washing the ledge 
 now, but the water whispered in strangely soft, melancholy 
 cadences ; how like that whispering seemed to a smothered 
 wail ! And what was that sound vibrating through the still 
 air, that fell so sweetly upon the ear, and yet told of tears 
 dropping upon the face of the dead, and of farewells mur 
 mured above the closing grave ? One, two, three ! 
 
 "Was St. Mary's bell counting the years of a life just 
 ended ? 
 
 Mrs. Maitland found herself numbering the throbs which 
 seemed to her so like the beatings of an anguished human 
 heart. 
 
 Twenty-one I 
 
 Her own heart stood still when that distant tolling ceased, 
 and a low cry of agony rose to her lips ; but it was not 
 uttered, for her strength failed her, and she sank down upon 
 the earth. 
 
 She did not faint, however, for at that instant a swift
 
 On the Cliff. 93 
 
 breeze swept over her ; a vivid flash of lightning gleamed 
 into her eyes ; and what aroused her more than these, was 
 the sound of a deep-drawn breath close beside her. She 
 had heard it some time before, but had given it no though L, 
 it was so like a whispering of the wind, and she had been 
 thinking so earnestly about Luke, and looking into the north 
 for his coming. That momentary weakness passed away ; 
 but, from a strange, undefined fear which came with return 
 ing strength, she hesitated at once to lift her head. 
 
 Who could have come up the sandy and pebbly cliff so 
 lightly that she had not heard the footfall ? and why had he 
 loitered there so long without addressing her ? for shy and 
 reserved as Mrs. Maitland had always been, ever since the 
 great grief had fallen upon her, avoiding all intercourse, even 
 with her nearest neighbors, except at those times yeajs ago 
 they were now when she had sought employment from 
 them, she was very kindly and pleasantly regarded by all 
 who knew her. 
 
 The desertion of her husband was made to account for the 
 great change which had taken place in the formerly light- 
 hearted, happy woman ; and there was not a person at The 
 Sands, with the exception of Du Bois and his daughter, be 
 tween whom and herself there was a mutual avoidance, who 
 ever failed to meet her with a friendly smile, and a word of 
 cordial greeting. 
 
 Perhaps it was some stranger from the Ocean House. But 
 how could he have come there, without attracting her atten 
 tion ? And how singular it was that any one should have 
 remained beside her in silence for so long a time as she knew 
 the person must have been there !
 
 94 By the Sea. 
 
 She thought of her husband ; but it could not be he, for 
 surely Heaven must have heard that prayer which had, so 
 many times, been on her lips, which had always been in her 
 heart since the certainty of his crime had been impressed 
 upon. her. He would not return ! 
 
 Had Du Bois crept up there behind her, softly, with mur 
 der in his heart, waiting for the coming darkness, and the 
 rising tide, to fling her from the height down into the ocean ? 
 
 She smiled at herself for her fear, and wondered, too, 
 how she could have been so disturbed by the sound of that 
 distant bell ; and turned to see who it was so near her that 
 the deep-drawn breathings fell so plainly on her ear. 
 
 Brendice Du Bois ! 
 
 The bare feet had come up lightly over the pebbles and 
 the dry, crisp grass ; and so absorbed did the girl seem to be 
 with her own thoughts, as she stood there beside the well- 
 curb, but not leaning against it, that though within three 
 yards of the spot where Mrs. Maitland sat, she might have 
 been supposed to be unaware of the woman's presence. 
 
 Also watching! but not looking towards the north. 
 
 Her eyes alternately ran along the waters rising higher and 
 higher up the ledge, and fastened themselves on the thick 
 cloud which, urged on by the now increasing wind, was 
 moving heavily up from "the south; and sometimes glanced 
 oceanward to the line along the horizon where the Convoy 
 light was burning brightly against the dark sky. 
 
 But for that labored breathing, the motion of the eyes, and 
 the slight turning of the head, the girl might have been 
 taken for a statue. 
 
 Mrs. Maitland's hands were clasped closely against her
 
 On the Cliff. 95 
 
 heart, for it began to beat wildly, as she gazed on that face 
 and figure. She had never been so near the girl before, 
 never near enough to distinguish plainly her features, though 
 numberless times she had watched her as she had stood, in 
 the same attitude, in the same clothes in which she was now 
 standing. 
 
 The short, scanty dress clinging closely to the body ; 
 the right foot advanced, and the left resting on the naked 
 toes ; the bare arms pressed tightly to her sides, and the 
 hands clutching each other ; the head and shoulders thrown 
 forward, and the eyes gazing so fixedly and untiringly out 
 upon the ocean. 
 
 Mrs. Maitland, as she gazed at her features, perceived that 
 there was a wonderful likeness between them and those of 
 the beautiful woman she had seen on the deck of the burn 
 ing ship, on that terrible night, nineteen years ago. 
 
 Here was the same full, broad forehead, and arching 
 eyebrows, the straight, handsome nose, and rounded chin, and 
 the intellectual cast of the whole face. But this counte 
 nance wore an immobility which that could never assume. 
 
 Even the dark eyes, in whose depths one might have 
 thought the fiercest passions were but lightly slumbering, 
 had in them only a look of wearied hopelessness, and the 
 fine teeth, from habit alone, held the nether lip imprisoned 
 between them. 
 
 It was sad to look on that young face, which really was 
 very beautiful now, and observe how little the girl cared for 
 her appearance. 
 
 The dress was ragged, as well as soiled, and the face and 
 hands as dingy as they were sun-burnt, and the thick, wavy
 
 96 By the Sea. 
 
 locks, though the style of dressing the hair, at the time, was 
 to brush it smoothly over the temples and ears, and gather 
 it into twists or braids low in the neck, had been, unaided, 
 it would seem, by a comb, drawn back tightly from her brow, 
 and piled upon the top of her head, a single little knot on 
 either side of the forehead, being rolled up closely to the 
 roots of the hair, and fastened with a brass pin. 
 
 Poor Brendice ! She was no longer now ridiculed as be 
 fore. The indifference which she had always manifested, 
 but which the keenly sensitive girl had never felt, for the 
 treatment she often experienced, had wearied those who 
 sought to annoy her ; and they who gave her most thought 
 now (two only excepted) regarded her with but a careless 
 pity, thinking that nature had done so little for her, it was 
 not strange her father wished to keep her, as he appeared to 
 do, from all companionship. 
 
 Even Mrs. Maitland, who, strangely enough, did not enter 
 tain the same opinion of Brendice that the other neighbors 
 did, and feeling, as she had glanced into her countenance, 
 that the girl, instead of being possessed of feeble intellect, 
 had capacities of no common order even she, as she sat 
 there upon the cliff, knowing that Brendice was looking for 
 the father who might never return, only felt very sorry for 
 her, and wished that she had moved away from the spot be 
 fore the coming of the girl. 
 
 Luke would return, very soon, now, certainly ; and his 
 supper must be ready ; but somehow she did not feel as if 
 she could walk away towards her pleasant home, followed 
 by the eyes of her who so much resembled the beautiful
 
 On the Cliff. 97 
 
 woman on the ill-fated ship ; and she crouched still lower to 
 the earth. 
 
 The night was now rapidly setting in, hastened by the 
 coming storm. The waves tossed their spray far up over the 
 rocks, and the roll of the distant thunder blended with the 
 deepening voice of the ocean. 
 
 She was looking away, again, towards the north, but now 
 nothing could be seen distinctly, except when the vivid 
 lightning flashed across the sky. But she would know when 
 he was coming, for Luke, who had a very deep, sonorous 
 voice, often sang some merry boat song when he was hand 
 ling his oars. 
 
 He must have taken down his sail before now, for the wind 
 was blowing very furiously, and 
 
 There was a sound of voices coming up from the water's 
 edge, at the instant, and the grating of a boat against the 
 rocks, and those who were hauling it in were saying that it 
 was the old boat belonging to the Frenchman, who had gone 
 out with it, just before noonday. 
 
 Mrs. Maitland turned her eyes towards the spot where 
 Brendice had been standing, and waited for the lightning. 
 It came very soon, and, with a crash which seemed to shake 
 the earth, more brightly than before, and sporting longer 
 among the dark, rolling clouds, which changed, as if by a 
 magic touch, into tossing billows of brightest flame. 
 
 The girl had altered her position, and was kneeling, now, 
 close to the sharp edge of the precipitous cliff, with her arms 
 crossed upon her breast. Her head was bent forward, as if 
 to listen, and her eyes there was no lack of expression 
 in them now were lifted towards Heaven, but less in 
 
 5
 
 98 By the Sea. 
 
 supplication, Mrs. Maitland thought, than in defiant de 
 spair. 
 
 But prayer did arise from that spot, from moving, though 
 noiseless lips ; such entreating prayer, as would, one might 
 have thought, have set the gates of heaven ajar. 
 
 "We beseech Thee mercifully to hear us ; and grant that 
 we may, by Thy mighty aid, be defended and comforted in 
 all dangers and adversities!" 
 
 The agonized woman thought not of herself nor her son, 
 though Luke's voice was not among those coming up from 
 the water's edge, and though the men were coupling his 
 name with that of Du Bois ; but of that poor girl now, 
 doubtless, orphaned. 
 
 The louder peal of thunder ceased, and the voices of the 
 fishermen were more distinctly heard ; and at length words 
 fell on her ear which recalled her thoughts to herself and 
 her son, and the moving lips seemed changed to ice, and she 
 wondered if there was a heaven above, and a God of mercy 
 there. This was what she heard in disjointed sentences : 
 
 The young men who went out in Dii Bois' boat had carried 
 too much wine with them ; and some of them, those who 
 knew best how to manage a boat, had partaken of it so 
 freely that their companions were afraid to trust it to their 
 care, and therefore they had hired Luke Maitland, with 
 whom one of them had a slight acquaintance, and who had 
 been fishing near the islands, to take it back. 
 
 He had seemed very unwilling to do so, because it belong 
 ed to Du Bois. He and the Frenchman, who also had been 
 over to The Rocks that day, had had some difficulty, though 
 it was not known what the trouble was.
 
 On the Cliff. 99 
 
 As Du Bois, however, had been gone some hours, and the 
 young men were so very anxious to return to their friends at 
 the hotel, he had finally consented to go with them, taking 
 his own boat in tow. 
 
 Half the distance to The Sands, or less, had been made, 
 when they came upon Du Bois, in his old crazy boat, which 
 he was, with the greatest difficulty, just managing to keep 
 afloat. The young men shouted to him to come on board with 
 themselves, and Luke ran alongside as if to take him in, but 
 when the Frenchman, who seemed very willing to do so, and 
 was rising to his feet, perceived that young Maitland was on 
 board, he drew back suddenly, and fell on the side of the 
 boat, striking his arm so heavily, that when he sought to 
 raise himself, it hung powerless by his side, and the next 
 instant he was struggling in the water. 
 
 Luke had run too near, they thought, at the moment, 
 purposely so ; and they were convinced that such was the 
 fact soon after the affair was over. 
 
 A fishing-boat, with three young men from The Rocks, had 
 been at no great distance. The scene was witnessed by them, 
 and when they had come up with the party from The Sands 
 they all agreed that Maitland had meant mischief to the old 
 man. 
 
 One of them declared that he had heard him, two hours 
 before, threaten to take Du Bois' life. But it seemed the 
 islander said very fortunately for him, that he too had 
 lost his own life in the attempt, for when he saw the French 
 man's danger, perhaps repenting of his intended crime, or 
 thinking there were too many witnesses of the deed, he 
 leaped into the water and seized the helpless, drowning man
 
 TOO By the Sea. 
 
 firmly by the collar of his jacket ; but to the horror of the 
 spectators, Du Bois suddenly twisted himself from the young 
 man's fingers, and with his left hand clutched at Luke's 
 throat ; and then the water had closed over both. 
 
 The young men had made an endeavor to save them, but 
 a sudden flaw of wind and an awkward attempt to lower 
 their sail, had well nigh upset their own boat, and two of 
 them were thrown out into the water, one of them narrowly 
 escaping death ; and when their boat was righted again, and 
 they had got their half-drowned companion on board, neither 
 Du Bois nor Maitland were to be seen ; and both their boats 
 though Luke's had been secured by himself were drift 
 ing away. 
 
 The speakers moved slowly away from the ledge now, cal 
 culating, as they went, the chances of escape from drowning 
 for Du Bois and young Maitland, and concluding that there 
 was not one in ten thousand that they were either still 
 alive, or that their bodies would be washed ashore. 
 
 The Brown boys, whose voices rose, at times, above those 
 of the other fishermen, were very sorry for Luke ; but they 
 wished it had been his boat, instead of that old thing of 
 Du Bois, which had drifted on shore ; for undoubtedly they 
 would have bought it of Mrs. Maitland for half its price. 
 She would not have known its value. 
 
 They would like to get hold of Du Bois' new boat ; and 
 one of the older men laughed and told them they had better 
 go up and see Brendice about buying it. 
 
 And then some one began to speak about the Frenchman 
 and his daughter ; the former, the men believed, had been 
 insane half his time, and the latter, though one would
 
 On the Cliff. 101 
 
 hardly judge so by her countenance, must be of inferior 
 intellect, though not quite the idiot she had once been 
 called ; and to express his wonder why Luke Maitland, who 
 everybody knew was a good fellow, should want to interfere 
 with Du Bois, as he had, undoubtedly, done, or those who 
 had been over to The Eocks would not have thought so. 
 The man and his daughter were not very desirable neigh 
 bors, to be sure ; but then they had never troubled anybody. 
 On the contrary, when occasion required, he had been as 
 ready to do a good turn for any one as if he had been 
 brought up among them. 
 
 Another added the speaker was the fisherman whose life 
 the Frenchman had saved when he first came to The Sands 
 that Maitland, with all his good qualities, was a hot-headed 
 fellow, and that, if he had quarrelled with Du Bois without 
 reason, he had got no more than he deserved. But the girl 
 would not be able to take care of herself, some one said, and 
 he wondered what Du Bois had done with the money he 
 must have saved during the fifteen years he had been at The 
 Sands. 
 
 Most likely he had invested it in the city ; no ! it was 
 interrupted, he always kept it about him, even when he went 
 out with his boat. Then, of course, the girl would become 
 the town's charge, poor thing! 
 
 They rather thought Mrs. Maitland would have enough to 
 carry her through. She would not be likely to hold up long, 
 after this blow had fallen on her. No one, it was hoped, 
 would tell her of the sad affair to-night. 
 
 And then they began to talk of the approaching storm, 
 which, though it did not promise to be long, would most
 
 1O2 By the Sea. 
 
 likely be the heaviest that had swept over the coast for years ; 
 and wondered if the ship which had sailed out of port that 
 day, would put back into the harbor, or attempt to keep on 
 her course. 
 
 Mrs. Maitland listened very attentively to all of this. 
 Even when the fishermen had gone to such a distance that 
 she could only hear fragmentary sentences, and then simply 
 disjointed words, she was still listening, and conjecturing 
 what they were yet talking about ; and when the voices failed 
 entirely to reach her ear, in thought she followed each of 
 them to his home. They were familiar voices, and she had 
 known who they all were. 
 
 The young Browns had gone home to their parents and 
 their sister ; Jones, to his maiden aunt ; this man to his 
 motherless children, and that to his young wife and her babe ; 
 all to pleasant, happy homes ! 
 
 She had been looking before her, when a flash of lightning 
 came, and she saw that Brendice Du Bois had disappeared, 
 and she wondered, in a listless way, if the girl had gone to 
 her home, too ; or if she had fallen down the precipice, 
 dangerously near the edge of which she had been kneeling 
 when Mrs. Maitland looked in that direction shortly 
 before. 
 
 She began to feel very tired then, and thought she would 
 rest her head, for a few moments, on the earth, and sleep. 
 After an instant or an hour, she did not know which it was, 
 some one came to her and raised her head, and took hold of 
 her hand, and trying to lift her to her feet, said kindly, but 
 very firmly : 
 
 " Come, you must go home !"
 
 On the Cliff. 103 
 
 Mrs. Maitland asked, dreamily, but doing the best she 
 could to raise herself from the earth, " Is it you, Emma ? 
 You are very kind. Yes, I will go home !" 
 
 And then the two walked away silently, the woman with 
 her aching eyes tightly closed, suffering herself to be guided 
 entirely by her companion, who, when they had reached the 
 dwelling, almost lifted her over the threshold, which she 
 seemed entirely incapable herself of crossing, and fumbling 
 about the room till she had found a couch, placed Mrs. 
 Maitland upon it, and then went out, closing the door be 
 hind her.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT VISITOR 
 
 IT was not Miss Emma Brown who had led Mrs. 
 Maitland home, and left her lying upon her bed 
 alone, though she retired to no great distance 
 from her, and occasionally returned to her side, and placed 
 a cold, wet hand, softly on the burning brow. 
 
 That young lady was in her chamber, soundly sleeping, ex 
 cept when an unusually loud peal of thunder disturbed her. 
 Then she would arouse herself, and have another brief, but 
 hearty fit of crying at the thought that poor Luke Maitland 
 was dead, Luke whose wife she had expected she should be 
 come. 
 
 He had never said anything about it, yet, to be sure ; but 
 then there was no knowing how soon he might, if he had 
 lived. Emma was certain everybody considered her the 
 handsomest girl in the neighborhood, and she and Luke had 
 always been the best of friends. 
 
 Next Sunday she was going to church, and meant to wear 
 that pretty blue muslin, and he would not be there to see it ! 
 
 This thought brought a fresh burst of tears. Then she 
 (104)
 
 The Midnight Visitor. io5 
 
 began to wonder how young Jones would like her new dress. 
 Not that she cared a straw about his seeing it, for he had 
 told her once that his maiden aunt would be an honored in 
 mate of his house as long as she remained unmarried, and 
 Emma was sure she would never live in the same family with 
 old Sally Jones. 
 
 Mrs. Maitland was very different from Sally, and Emma 
 liked her, she thought, quite well ; but she felt glad that her 
 mother had not sent her over to spend the night with Mrs. 
 Maitland, as she, at one time, was ready to do, satisfying 
 herself with what the boys, who had gone past the fish- 
 houses, on their return home from the cliff, had said, that no 
 light was to be seen at the dwelling. 
 
 Most likely Luke's mother had heard nothing yet about 
 her son, but was accounting for his absence by the belief that 
 he had gone up to the Port, as he had been talking of doing for 
 some days past, and would remain there till the storm was 
 over, and so had contentedly retired for the night. And 
 then Emma put her hands over her ears, to deaden the 
 thunder peals, and was asleep again. 
 
 But the stricken woman thought Emma was near her, and 
 through the long hours of that night, which was as wild and 
 fearful as it had threatened to be, the young girl, who, par 
 tially protected from the storm by the wide projecting shelf 
 which Luke had joined to the window-sill, for the little pots 
 of rose-trees he had the past spring bought for his mother, 
 had crowded down upon the open window beside which Mrs. 
 Maitland was lying, and was listening to the words which came 
 disconnectedly, and often incoherently, from her lips ; some 
 times giving them no thought, so absorbed was she in her 
 
 5*
 
 io6 By the Sea. 
 
 own reflections, and sometimes receiving from them impres 
 sions which were never afterwards effaced. 
 
 The mother did not refer to her son, all through those 
 wretched hours, either because the fear, engendered by the 
 words of the fishermen, when they spoke of his probable 
 death, the fear that Luke himself had been the cause of the 
 disaster which had happened to him and Du Bois, closed 
 her lips to his name, as the knowledge of his father's crime 
 had seemed, though only seemed, to efface his image from her 
 heart, and silenced her lips forever to the mention of him ; 
 or else the blow which had fallen on her with such sudden 
 ness, had wounded her so deeply that she was unaware where 
 it had taken effect ; conscious only, that, so far as earthly 
 things were concerned, there was nothing about her but dark 
 ness and desolation. . 
 
 It had been but a brief moment, however, that she had ask 
 ed herself was there a Heaven still above her, and a God of 
 mercy there ? Faith had triumphed, in that moment of ago 
 ny, even when reason was well nigh overcome ; and, now 
 and then, from out that mental chaos came a better idea than 
 her brain had ever before conceived. 
 
 "The waters are coming up over the rocks, are they, 
 Emma ? Well, they cannot overwhelm us ; for He, the 
 Lord, hath ' set the bounds of the sea by an everlasting de 
 cree.' 
 
 " How the winds are struggling together ! I think they 
 are lifting the waves up out of the ocean, and dropping them 
 down upon us ; but if our feet are resting upon the Eock of 
 Ages, we shall never be moved ! 
 
 " The winds and the tides may bear everything else away
 
 MidnigJit Visitor. 107 
 
 from us, but never everlasting Love ; and when there is 
 nothing beside for us to gaze at, and the heavens as the 
 earth disappear from our view, then our sight grows clearer, 
 and through the utter void comes out, one by one, the 
 features of our Father ; and without a distorting medium, 
 with nothing to intervene but redeeming love, we look upon 
 the face of God, and looking there, we see all beauty and all 
 
 jy- 
 
 " The battle with unbelief will have to be fought, and the 
 victory struggled for, again and again ; but the eyes which 
 once have had a glimpse of that Face, can never be blinded 
 more by the sight of human woe !" 
 
 One by one comes out the features of the Father ! 
 
 Brendice Du Bois sat crouching beneath the window. 
 
 The aii' within the dwelling, cool and fresh as it was, and 
 faintly odorous with the perfume of spruce boughs, and 
 ferns, and blossoming roses, had seemed to her close and 
 suffocating. The walls of that room were not wide enough 
 apart, she thought, to contain her and the woman whose 
 cherished ones had brought such misery to herself. 
 
 She was crouching there to watch over that woman, beside 
 whom no one, out of the many in the neighborhood who 
 called themselves Mrs. Maitland's friends, had come to sit 
 beside her in her first hours of grief and desolation, excusing 
 themselves with the supposition that she had not learned 
 the terrible tale which was told of her son. 
 
 Brendice looked up to the sky, shrouded in deepest gloom, 
 save when that horrid gleam shot across it. 
 
 She saw nothing there that shaped itself into a form to be 
 knelt before and worshipped not one feature of the Father
 
 loS By the Sea. 
 
 not even that one attribute of Jehovah, first revealed to 
 guilty man that to which poor human vision, prone ever to 
 be most fascinated by what most pains the eye to gaze upon, 
 looks Brendice could not even see justice there Justice ! 
 
 What had she done to merit the bitter return she always 
 had, and always seemed likely to receive ? 
 
 She had been cursed by her father, because, when a babe 
 of only three months, she had come between him and her 
 drowning mother, whom he, angered well nigh to insanity, 
 and with his strength almost exhausted, was struggling to 
 save ; the long clothing in which the babe was wrapped 
 dragging so heavily through the water that he thought it 
 was his wife whom he had seized and was bearing towards 
 the approaching boat, fainting before it reached him and his 
 burden ; and learning, only after long weeks had elapsed, 
 that it was the infant whose life was preserved. 
 
 She had been cursed again, because the little eyes, of four 
 years, looking out upon the ocean, beneath whose waters, 
 the child had been told, her mother was sleeping, and from 
 whose bed she had not learned that mother could not rouse 
 herself and come to the call of her little daughter, had seen 
 her father far down among the waves, holding a young wo 
 man in his grasp, and with a glad cry prevented the commis 
 sion of a deed, which, though conceived in a fit of insanity, 
 would never have caused him a moment of regret. 
 
 And cursed again, and this time with a bitterness which had 
 made all her father's previous harsh words seem to her like 
 blessings, with attempted blows, and far worse than all, with 
 the revelation of facts, before carefully concealed from her, 
 but a knowledge of which had, for a brief period, made of
 
 The Midnight Visitor. 109 
 
 her a child of fourteen the demon he had himself become. 
 This time cursed for the sole reason that she had suffered 
 her life to be saved by the young lad so hated for his father's 
 sake. 
 
 She had always been friendless and alone. 
 
 There had never been a being whom she could look to but 
 her unkind, neglectful father, neglectful in all things but 
 one, careless of her health and her comfort, and utterly re 
 gardless of her personal appearance, seeming even to grudge 
 her the miserable, scanty attire which he occasionally brought 
 home for her, and treating her in such a manner that the 
 people at The Sands had lost all the interest they had felt in 
 her when her father first came into the neighborhood, re 
 garding her as almost an idiot, and considering her a fit ob 
 ject for public charity. 
 
 One would have been surprised at the expression which 
 came over the girl's face, even while those bitter thoughts 
 were surging through her brain, when the remembrance of 
 the fisherman's words returned to her. 
 
 Never had her father, for once in his life, directed her 
 thoughts to the heaven he had, in his youth, believed in and 
 trusted ; but the existence of which with his lips, and in his 
 heart, he denied, when his bitter bereavement came. 
 
 And now he was gone ! 
 
 Mrs. Maitland had been talking quite incoherently for 
 some time, but her words were again clear and distinct. 
 
 Brendice, however, did not catch their import. 
 
 She heard only the roar of the ocean, and thought that 
 both her parents were there now, tossed about by the waves, 
 and asked herself :
 
 1 10 By the Sea. 
 
 "Would the spirits which had been so closely united on the 
 earth seek out and love each other again, through that long 
 eternity, in the existence" of which she would like to believe ? 
 Would there be an individuality of existence in that eternity, 
 and would the employments of the second life be like the 
 labors of this, of choice and rejection, only that there 
 nothing would be unattainable, that unlimited duration 
 would be allowed for action, and all needed help afforded ? 
 
 Would not the good, earnest, but misguided and hindered 
 effort here, instead of being frustrated forever, because the 
 exertion, though strenuous, has been useless, gather new 
 strength and deeper wisdom from failure and defeat, and, 
 undaunted, re-commence there a life of noble activity no 
 niches there, ready-built for the statues to occupy, but every 
 one carving out a place for himself? 
 
 While these thoughts were passing through her mind, the 
 girl, as if inaction had suddenly become intolerable to her, 
 went, once or twice, when the rain fell less heavily, down 
 upon the rocks, from which the swollen waves were now re 
 luctantly retreating ; and, after a time, guided by the fre 
 quent flashes of lightning, she extended her walk to the sum 
 mit of the cliff, where she stood and looked away toward the 
 Convoy light. 
 
 While her eyes rested upon it, she suddenly remembered a 
 strange story she had years ago heard an old fish-woman, 
 with hushed breath, relate respecting that singular man the 
 lighthouse keeper. 
 
 Could the story be true ? The woman's companions had 
 only ridiculed it. She had said that the Commodore, on such 
 dark, stormy nights as no fisherman would venture out in,
 
 The Midnight Visitor. 1 1 1 
 
 though it was not known he had gone over to the Port for 
 several years, would take a boat and row towards the shore. 
 There was no conceivable motive for his doing so, the woman 
 admitted. The man had resided at the Port several 
 months before he became the keeper of the Convoy light, 
 was known to many of the inhabitants, and there could be 
 no doubt in regard to his sanity. At least, he had dis 
 charged the duties of his post faithfully, ever since he had 
 been there. 
 
 The woman strongly averred, however, that on one stormy 
 night which she was passing with a female friend at The 
 Rocks, she had herself seen him put out his boat to sea, and, 
 at the imminent danger of being swallowed up at any mo 
 ment by the waves, guide it toward The Sands. 
 
 The story had not circulated in the neighborhood, for, as 
 
 has been before remarked, the inhabitants of H were not 
 
 a gossiping people. It recurred to Brendice to-night, for 
 the first time, since she had overheard it ; and she found 
 herself wondering if it were true. 
 
 Only for a moment, however ; for her thoughts came back 
 speedily to herself, and her dreary past. Strive as she might, 
 her thoughts would not anticipate the future. Dark as that 
 might be, she believed no more misery could be in store for 
 her than had been crowded into the years gone by ; and the 
 question arose again in her mind, as she returned to resume 
 her watch over Mrs. Maitland : 
 
 " What have I done to deserve all this ?" 
 
 Words came, at length, through the open window, softly 
 and whisperingly, as if in reply to her : 
 
 " What thou knowest not now, thou shalt know hereafter."
 
 ii2 By the Sea. 
 
 The lips closed with the words upon them, and the wearied 
 woman fell asleep. 
 
 The rest would restore her to consciousness, Brendice 
 thought. The storm was less violent now, the fierce wind 
 occasionally hushing itself into a gentle breeze. If nothing 
 disturbed her, she would probably sleep till morning. 
 
 The girl rose to return to her own home, parting the vines 
 which the wind had not yet entirely torn from the windows, 
 and leaning so far forward that her face was quite within the 
 room, to assure herself, before going, that Mrs. Maitland's 
 repose was quiet and profound. 
 
 As she listened to catch the sound of the breathing, which 
 was very feeble for healthful slumber, she fancied she heard 
 a faint footfall within the apartment. Only fancied it, of 
 course ; for who could come there, at that hour ? 
 
 Perhaps Luke had escaped death and had returned ; but 
 most likely the sound was only the sweeping of the vines 
 against the window opposite that through which she was 
 looking. 
 
 She was about to move away, when a flash of lightning 
 filled the apartment with noonday brightness, for the door 
 which opened from the south, and which Brendice was sure 
 she had firmly closed to keep out the furious wind, was now 
 swung widely open ; and her eyes, lifted in the direction 
 of the couch on which Mrs. Maitland was lying, though half 
 blinded by the sudden brilliancy, took in the figure of a man. 
 He was leaning over the sleeping woman, though his face was 
 turned towards the window where she stood. 
 
 The form was not Luke Maitland's, neither was it that of 
 any one she had ever seen before.
 
 The Midnight Visitor. 1 1 3 
 
 She dashed the rose trees from the window-sill and flung 
 herself into the room, feeling something rush past her, 
 towards the open door, as she sprang forward to the bedside. 
 She did not look after the retreating figure ; she would have 
 learned nothing of it had she done so, for the night was still 
 impenetrably dark, save when those lightning flashes shot 
 across the sky. 
 
 She did not care to know who it was ; though, most likely, 
 she thought, it was some one from the hotel. The fishermen 
 had said, when down on the ledge, that one of the pleasure 
 party at the Ocean House, the preceding day an old gentle 
 man had remained behind when his companions returned 
 to their homes. Perhaps he was feeling some anxiety in 
 relation to the mother whose son had lost his life while in 
 the employment of his friends. Perhaps the intruder had 
 come to the grief-stricken woman with some pleasant news. 
 
 But whoever he might be, or whatever was his business 
 there, Brendice knew that Mrs. Maitland must have quiet 
 sleep, now, till morning. 
 
 Fortunately, the slight noises near her had failed to dis 
 turb her repose, and not until the faint streaks of returning 
 light came out in the now clear, eastern sky, did Brendice 
 quit her post, which, for the last three hours, was close be 
 side the sleeping woman. 
 
 Then she rose with a low, weary sigh, and walked out of 
 the room, down over the ledge, along the white beach, very 
 slowly, and looking away, out over the sea, to a little dark 
 line along the horizon, beyond which the sun would soon 
 rise. 
 
 That low line was The Eocks, and the Convoy light was
 
 1 14 By the Sea. 
 
 still burning, though faintly now, in the morning's lessen 
 ing twilight. Somewhere between that beacon-light and the 
 spot where she stood, Brendice thought her father had sunk 
 down in death beneath the waves. 
 
 She had heard the old fisherman, whose life he had saved, 
 many times say, that at the moment he had supposed would 
 be the last of his earthly existence, all the events of his long 
 life had passed in rapid succession before him. She wonder 
 ed if her father thought of her in that last moment of agony, 
 and with any emotion of sorrow for her comfortless youth, 
 and pity for her hopeless womanhood. 
 
 Perhaps, at the very last, he ceased to regard as crime, 
 what he had so long blamed her for ; or had forgiven her, 
 as she now, with the tears which were beginning to fall, for 
 the first time since she had heard the fisherman hauling up 
 his empty boat over the ledge, was forgiving him. 
 
 The tears did Brendice good ; as much good as her watch 
 through the long nighfc, over Mrs. Maitland, had done, and 
 as her slow walk along the silent beach, was doing her. And 
 the dark thought, so like a phantom, which had cast its 
 gloomy shadow over her, more than once during the past 
 night, fled away, forever, as if terrified by the light of that 
 soft, sweet morning. Perhaps it was exorcised by the re 
 membrance of those words Mrs. Maitland had uttered, and 
 which seemed to be voiced by everything about her : " What 
 thou knowest not now, thou shalt know hereafter !" 
 
 Besides, if there is a life after this is ended and that even 
 her father had believed, for he could not relinquish the hope 
 that she, whom he had loved so much, was not lost to him 
 forever if there is a life to come, Brendice asked herself.
 
 The Midnight Visitor. 1 1 5 
 
 what preparation for the enlarged duties of a nobler exist 
 ence is he making, who shrinks from the performance of his 
 tasks in this? What work shall be entrusted to that hand 
 which has let go its hold on labors, which, though hard, will 
 soon be ended ; to open, itself, the gates of Eternity, and 
 take up an employment whicli shall never be completed ?
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 AT THE ROOKS. 
 
 ] BENDICE had reached her home, and for a mo 
 ment she stood before the closed door, resting 
 her hand on the latch and asking herself if the 
 burden of her past life, heavier in some respects than before, 
 and now without a seeming help at hand, dreary in its hope 
 lessness, must be lifted again. 
 
 Hopelessness as far as human life was concerned for the 
 hereafter which might reveal to her what she knew not now, 
 she did not believe could be an earthly future. 
 
 Should the burden of her past life be lifted again, or 
 should she walk away forever from the sea, and try to forget 
 all that was buried there, and with it the wish for, and 
 purpose of revenge ? ' 
 
 The young men who had hired her father's boat yesterday, 
 had paid very liberally for its use. The money, she thought, 
 would buy for her a decent dress and a pair of shoes, and 
 then she would go away, and seek some employment else 
 where. 
 
 The new life might be very difficult for her to enter upon at 
 (116)
 
 At the Rocks. 1 1 7 
 
 first. The tasks she might be compelled to perform, would 
 be perhaps as wearying to body and mind as the old burden 
 had been, she was so unused to the ways of the world ; but 
 the door of its great work-shop stood open as wide for her as 
 for another. She would, at length, effect an entrance there. 
 
 Strength, physical or mental, should find her a place some 
 where, among the world's most skilful, and busiest artizans. 
 
 She would leave everything about the house just as her 
 father had leit it. Perhaps he might return. She did not 
 think there was the least probability that he would do so, 
 bat if he should come back, nothing would be changed; 
 only she would be gone, and doubtless he would be glad of 
 that. 
 
 Yes ; she must go away. 
 
 Once more a long last look on the sea, and then she would 
 walk away from it, up, over the hills, and come back to it no 
 more forever! unless he should return. She could easily 
 enough ascertain if he did, and wished to have her again with 
 him. 
 
 She turned, and went down, with a step which was begin 
 ning to be weary now, close to the water's edge, and looked 
 away into the sea wistfully, grievedly, as a child might look 
 on the picture of a dead mother's face. 
 
 The sun came up as she gazed, and on the broad bosom 
 before her there was but one spot which was not sparkling 
 with the reflected light. 
 
 To that one little spot her face turned, and a change came 
 over her features, as, shading her eyes with her hands, she 
 fixed her gaze on that point of The Eocks, only a speck in the 
 distance, which ran out farthest oceanward ; and that one
 
 n8 By the Sea. 
 
 dark spot suddenly blotted out all the light which was begin 
 ning to dawn upon her soul. 
 
 With her best glass she knew she could see nothing there 
 but huge granite boulders, piled high, one above another, 
 with clean white sand sifted in between ; the snug little 
 dwelling erected for the keeper's use, but which it was said 
 was never occupied now ; and the lighthouse rising up, 
 seemingly so cold and defiant, against the warm, yielding sky. 
 But her thoughts were very busy gathering up events, scat 
 tered widely apart, some of them events of the long past, and 
 at first glance showing no relation to each other ; and ar 
 ranging them, at length, into a picture, the sight of which so 
 fascinated her eyes that nothing could come between it and 
 her vision. 
 
 The purpose she had just formed passed away, entirely, 
 from her mind, and her feet felt no weariness now, as they 
 moved, impatiently, up and down the beach, waiting till a 
 certain boat should appear upon the water. The boat she 
 was looking for was Greyson's. Simple as he really was, of 
 all the fishermen on the coast, Jerry knew best when it was 
 safe to take out a boat, and especially when it was safe to 
 start for The Rocks ; and well he might, for he had been over 
 there very many times within the last score of years. 
 
 "Measure for measure ; pressed down and running over!" 
 
 Brendice did not remember where she had read those 
 words, but they came to her some hours later, when she was 
 steering her boat over the yet rough waters to The Eocks. 
 
 She had never been to the islands before ; her father had 
 strictly forbidden her doing so ; and it was without expecta 
 tion of learning anything respecting his fate, that she was
 
 At the Rocks. 119 
 
 going there now ; or intention, particularly, of making 
 inquiries concerning the quarrel which, it was said, had 
 arisen between him and young Maitland, while they were 
 there together the preceding day. 
 
 It was to ascertain, if possible, why her father had gone to 
 The Bocks, which, she had many times wondered why, he 
 had never visited ; never to her knowledge, and in fact where 
 he never had before been, since the night of Mr. Maitland's 
 disappearance. 
 
 Even the waters in their vicinity, which at particular 
 seasons of the year yielded the greatest abundance of the 
 most marketable fish of any grounds in the neighborhood, 
 were always avoided by him ; a locality twice the distance 
 from The Sands, and not very easy to reach, except at certain 
 heights of the tide, being always preferred by him. 
 
 She had learned, years ago, that her father's thoughts were 
 oiten directed towards the keeper of the Convoy light, and 
 she had sometimes seen the quick flash of the eyes, and the 
 sudden nervous twitching of the fingers, when, as she was 
 aiding him in some out-of-doors employment, (no one ever 
 came into their dwelling, ) a fisherman chanced to make some 
 allusion to Mr. Aden, or the Commodore, as he was most 
 frequently called. 
 
 And she had often thought it very strange, for she learned, 
 five years before, why her father remained at The Sands, 
 year after year ; that he so pertinaciously clung to the belief 
 that he should some time encounter Mr. Maitland there. 
 
 Had he gone over to the islands the day before to see the 
 lighthouse keeper? She inferred so from some remarks 
 made by the young men who had hired his boat, when their
 
 I2O By the Sea. 
 
 companions came down from the hotel to meet the loiterers 
 on their arrival. They were talking, those who had spent 
 the day at The Sands, and those who had been over to The 
 Rocks, when she drew near them, and one of the latter, not 
 observing her, had said, referring to Du Bois : 
 
 " It was not for the purpose of fishing that he went out, 
 though be had some of his apparatus with him, I saw ; for we 
 promised him twice the amount of money for the use of his 
 boat that the best haul could possibly bring him." 
 
 " Well, it cannot be helped now, another added, " but if we 
 had not spoken of our wish to see the lighthouse keeper, we 
 should have failed to get the boat, or, at least, he would not 
 have followed us." 
 
 No one asked why, and the question did not occur to 
 Brendice then, for there was something in the faces of the 
 men, as they recognized her, which caused her, for the time, 
 to pay little attention to the remark. 
 
 She remembered it now, and asked the question of herself, 
 as she stood, looking away into the sea ; and with that ques 
 tion came others, strange, startling ones they were. 
 
 The most deeply absorbing one, to her, was this : 
 
 Who was that man she had seen standing by Mrs. Mait- 
 land's bed on the previous night ? and would she recognize 
 him, if she should see him again ? 
 
 Greyson's boat did not pass into the Convoy inlet. 
 
 The swollen waters would have dashed it against the rocks, 
 had the fisherman attempted to guide its course in that direc 
 tion. There was a little bay, much safer, when the sea was 
 rough, extending into another of the islands, and into this 
 the man ran his boat.
 
 At the Rocks. 121 
 
 Brendice followed, not far behind him, for he had lost 
 time in examining the waters near the inlet. 
 
 Apparently he was very desirous of going directly up to 
 the lighthouse, but found he could not do so. 
 
 When he had made his boat safe he came to the assist 
 ance of Brendice, who, quite unacquainted with the locality, 
 and not understanding the gestures or the jargon of the lit 
 tle half-nude urchins who were down at the water's edge, 
 gathering the broken pieces of a boat which had been dashed 
 against the rocks during the night, came very near making a 
 wreck of her own boat. 
 
 Greyson recognized the girl as he pointed out a safe land 
 ing. He had heard of the accident of the previous day. In 
 fact his business at the islands that morning was to ascertain 
 if anything had yet been learned of Du Bois or young Mait- 
 land. What use he intended to make of the information he 
 hoped to acquire, was best known to himself, for the fisher 
 man very seldom manifested any interest in the affairs of 
 others, even when life or death was involve^ unless there 
 was some prospect of pecuniary profit to himself. 
 
 But he seemed now not only very willing to render as 
 sistance to another, but extremely anxious to do so, while he 
 strove to make his remarks as interesting to Brendice, as his 
 ready assistance was useful. 
 
 Greyson would like to see any other girl on the coast 
 'tempt to do what Mam'selle had done that morning, 
 'specially young Miss Brown, who was so stuck up and 
 thought she was too smart to speak to any of the fishermen 
 'cept Luke Maitland poor fellow! But Luke had known 
 what's what, as well as anybody did. 
 
 6
 
 122 By the Sea. 
 
 It was a pity, Grey son thought, that Lute and Brendice's 
 father had always been such bad friends. 
 
 He was speaking in a slow tone, lengthened now to a 
 drawl, and looking out from under the lids of those pale 
 blue eyes of his, which always seemed to observe nothing. 
 
 But Brendice, who was returning his gaze, perceived that 
 he was eagerly and cunningly watching the expression of 
 her countenance, to ascertain if his words produced any 
 effect on her. 
 
 His watch was in vain, however. Her features were per 
 fectly under her control. They did not change, neither was 
 there the least tremor in her voice, when, without noticing 
 the latter part of his remark, she said : 
 
 " Why, you do not consider it a great affair to bring a boat 
 over here this morning, do you, when some one crossed the 
 waters between The Sands and the islands twice last night, 
 in the darkness and the storm ? It went to pieces, though, I 
 see, against the rocks, on its return!" 
 
 She pointe^TO) the broken planks which the children were 
 industriously and fearlessly, though one would have thought 
 at the imminent peril of their lives, collecting from out the 
 crevices of the rocks, and carrying up through the surf, 
 beyond the reach of the waves. 
 
 Greyson did not immediately reply, he was so entirely 
 unprepared for the question ; but stood with his eyes dis 
 tended now, and his mouth wide open, staring into her face. 
 
 " Wall, I wouldn't ha' tried it, no how !" he managed to 
 say, at length, and apparently from feeling a necessity for 
 making some reply, " no, not for five dollars, cash in hand ! 
 Who d'ye think it was, Mam'selle ?"
 
 At the Rocks. 123 
 
 But Brendice was not anxious to prolong the conversation. 
 She had learned all she had hoped to, from Greysou ; and 
 thanking him for directing her how to steer her boat, she 
 turned, and walked away towards the children. They had 
 been joined in their labors by some older persons, one a 
 grown-up girl, apparently a year or two younger than 
 Brendice, and as coarsely and scantily attired as was she ; 
 and the other, a woman of fifty, the mother of the children. 
 
 The women had glanced at her, as she first stepped on 
 shore, with some distrust ; but as she drew nearer, they were 
 apparently better satisfied with her appearance ; and when 
 she mentioned her name, and they understood that she was 
 the daughter of the fisherman whom they had seen the day 
 before at the islands, and who was drowned while returning 
 to The Sands for the news of the accident had reached The 
 Eocks they left their work, and came forward to meet her. 
 
 The girl's eyes filled with tears, which she awkwardly tried 
 to rub away with the back of her hand. Her own father's 
 boat, not many months before, was found, one fair, bright 
 morning, which had followed a stormy night, lying high up 
 upon the beach without an occupant. 
 
 The elder woman was no less inclined to manifest her 
 sympathy, though in a different way, for the young stranger. 
 She greeted her with a great flow of words, very few of which, 
 however, could Brendice understand, as she knew nothing of 
 English but the pure, chaste language which her father had 
 taught her ; and the vernacular at The Rocks, particularly 
 that spoken by the female portion of the little community, 
 was little other than a mere jumble of nautical terms and 
 local phrases.
 
 124 By the Sea. 
 
 But the pleasant animated voice put her quite at her ease, 
 and she endeavored to ascertain the facts she was desirous 
 of learning. 
 
 For a long time, however she remained several hours at 
 The Rocks this was with little prospect of success. -The 
 women knew nothing about the quarrel between Du Bois 
 and young Maitland. Two men, whose homes were on the 
 island, though they were now on board the fishing schooner 
 that was anchored the day before off The Rocks, and which 
 had sailed before the storm came on, had witnessed the 
 dispute. They had referred to it, and one of them said that 
 the life of the old fisherman meaning Da Bois would not, 
 to use his own language, be worth a rotten herring, if he 
 ever put himself in the way of that young fellow again. 
 
 In the hurry to get off, however, as they wished to run up 
 to the Port before the storm was upon them, they did not 
 explain, so far as the woman had heard, the cause of the 
 difficulty. 
 
 This Brendice did not care about. 
 
 She could not believe that Luke Maitland had really been 
 blameworthy in the affair. She thought she had very good 
 and sufficient reasons for disbelieving it. 
 
 She had decided, in her own mind, the preceding evening, 
 when she heard the fishermen talking at the foot of the cliff, 
 as they were hauling in her father's empty boat, that the 
 drowning of the two men had been simply accidental. She 
 wished to think so, and would have been very unwilling to 
 find proof to the contrary. 
 
 Her father, she believed, would rather lose his life than 
 owe it to Luke Maitland, and he had torn himself away from
 
 At the Rocks. 125 
 
 the young man's grasp, lest it should save him. Neither 
 could she think he really intended to injure Luke. It was 
 only in a fit of partial insanity, she always felt sure, that he 
 had attempted to destroy Mrs. Maitland's life. 
 
 If he had wished to harm her son, he would have found 
 opportunity for doing so before this time. 
 
 In his death-struggle, perhaps, he had flung out his arm, 
 and his fingers had fastened themselves on something, he 
 knew not what, and the two men went down together. But 
 however it might have been, between them, the affair was 
 now, undoubtedly, ended forever. If one had sought to 
 injure the other, she thought, he had met with a speedy 
 punishment. 
 
 What Brendice wished to learn was, why her father had 
 gone over to The Bocks. But when she spoke of the light 
 house keeper, the woman became suddenly silent ; and 
 looking nervously down to the ledge where her children were 
 playing in the surf, and waiting till the receding waver; 
 should allow them to reach the broken plank that was 
 tightly wedged in between two high boulders, beckoned 
 them very peremptorily from, as has been before remarked, 
 their seemingly very perilous situation, though the almost 
 amphibious little creatures were, half the time when their 
 eyes were open, apparently exposed to well nigh the same 
 danger. 
 
 They did not seem particularly in haste to obey the signal, 
 and she hastened towards them to compel obedience. The 
 children scampered away, and the woman followed them ; 
 but the girl, whom her companion called Ives, and who had 
 not spoken before, drew a step nearer Brendice and inquired,
 
 126 By the Sea. 
 
 pointing up to the lighthouse, if it was he she wished to 
 ask about. 
 
 Yes! Did the young men who had come over to The 
 Rocks the day before, or her father, go over to the Convoy 
 to see him ? 
 
 After considerable difficulty in finding out what the girl 
 wished to say, though she spoke more intelligibly than the 
 woman, Brendice ascertained that Ives had gone over to the 
 spot where the young men were to make their chowder she 
 and her brother, in the hope of selling them some choice fish 
 for the purpose. 
 
 The spot they had selected was on an island, lying between 
 that on which Brendice had landed, and the Convoy ; and 
 one of the men had borrowed the girl's boat, and gone over 
 to the lighthouse to invite the Commodore to join their 
 party. 
 
 The man had brought some one back with him in the boat. 
 It was not Mr. Aden, however, but a stranger from the main 
 land, who was over in the neighborhood of the lighthouse, 
 in quest of sea-fowl. 
 
 Mr. Aden, it was said, had declined the invitation, on the 
 plea of illness. And he did look ill, the gentleman who had 
 sought him, said, and he had wonderfully changed, during 
 the last fifteen years, previous to which time he had had 
 some acquaintance with him. 
 
 Their old friend, over at the hotel, he added, who was so 
 anxious to hear particularly from Mr. Aden, would be sorry 
 to learn what he would be obliged to tell him. 
 
 The stranger, who very gladly accepted the invitation 
 extended to him, was a tall, fine-looking man ; his personal
 
 At the Rocks. 127 
 
 appearance, when viewed at a distance, being not very unlike 
 that of the lighthouse keeper, whom the girl had frequently 
 seen. 
 
 The party sat down to their refreshments as soon as he 
 had joined them ; and the girl and her brother were just 
 stepping into their boat, when they perceived Brendice's 
 father coming over the sand-hill below which the young men 
 had spread their repast. 
 
 The girl had never seen Du Bois before, but her brother, to 
 whom he was well known by sight, remarked on the strange 
 ness of his appearance, as, after a brief survey of the party, 
 none of whom seemed to take any notice of him, he turned 
 slowly back by the way he had come, and disappeared beyond 
 the hill. 
 
 This, the girl thought, was previous to his meeting with 
 Luke Maitland ; and she had not seen Vn'm after, or heard 
 anything about him, until news had come that young Mait 
 land had upset his boat, and that he was drowned. 
 
 She drew nearer Brendice, and added, in a whisper, that 
 she had learned this from the son of the woman who had 
 just been talking with her. 
 
 He was out on the water when the affair took place, and 
 had told her, when he returned, that it was no accident 
 which h&d happened. Luke Maitland had purposely caused 
 Du Bois' death ; and if he escaped drowning himself, he, 
 young Hobart, would bring him to the gallows.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 AT LAST. 
 
 | HE sun was shining brightly through Mrs. Mait- 
 land's window, for the dark-leaved, blossoming 
 vines were trailing over the white sand, and the 
 pots of sweet tea-roses lay overturned upon the earth ; the 
 former torn away by the rough wind, and the latter put 
 swiftly aside by Brendice, to make way for her quick ingress 
 to the apartment, when the stranger stood at the bedside of 
 the sleeping woman. 
 
 The light fell across the pale, peaceful face, and she opened 
 her eyes. Very mercifully, the remembrance of her great 
 grief came to her in a subdued form, in her waking dream. 
 
 She fancied herself standing on what she thought to be the 
 confines of the earth, and looking away, over the narrow 
 cleft for it seemed to her that this, and the better world, 
 had once been united ; and perhaps, sometime, by the power 
 of the wondrous cross, all the sin and sorrow here might pass 
 away forever, and Heaven and earth again become as one 
 looking away over the narrow cleft, she had seen her son, on 
 
 the other side, reaching out his strong arms towards her. 
 (128)
 
 At Last. 129 
 
 Then the scene changed. It was she herself who had 
 crossed the dark and narrow way, and was standing now, 
 surrounded with ineffable light, and supremely blest, stretch 
 ing one hand out to Luke, over whom many tides of time 
 had seemed to roll since she had last looked upon his face, 
 though he was her boy still ; and with the other pointing 
 up up, and far away, to a brightness before which the arch 
 angel veiled his face, and a beauty which the redeemed only 
 can look upon, and they only through that intervening veil 
 the exceeding grace of our Lord Jesus Christ. 
 
 She awoke then, and found it was only the natural sun 
 which was enveloping her in its brightness ; and the weight 
 of her grief fell upon her, but not with crushing force. 
 
 All through that long summer day, when the neighbors, 
 and several beyond the immediate neighborhood, were, in 
 mistaken kindness, coming and going, with words of in 
 tended comfort and advice, and offers of assistance ; and 
 through many days and weeks which succeeded, the influence 
 of that dream, which she chose to regard as a vision, and 
 too holy to be mentioned but to one, and then only in her 
 dying moments, followed her, assuredly leading her nearer 
 and nearer to that cleft, but by a smooth, heaven-lighted 
 pathway. 
 
 Very bitter, however, was one remembrance, and it came 
 to her often, poisoning the cup which, but for that, she 
 thought might cheerfully have been drank. 
 
 The remembrance of what the fishermen had said, how 
 Luke had commenced the quarrel with Du Bois at The 
 Eocks, and how he afterwards intentionally had upset his 
 boat ; and subsequent inquiry, which she had not dqubted 
 
 Q*
 
 130 By the Sea. 
 
 would show these suspicions to have been groundless, to all 
 appearance proved them to be too well founded. 
 
 Not however to the mother, who understood her son 
 better than did any one else. She was sure he had not com 
 menced the quarrel with the Frenchman, and that he must 
 have been excited almost to madness by some word or act of 
 Du Bois, if he had intended to injure him on the water. 
 
 She knew what no one else did, unless it was the French 
 man's daughter, how hard to be borne, by a proud young 
 man, might be some words which Du Bois, if he were dis 
 posed to do so, could utter, and with truth, to Luke. She 
 was very glad to remember that he had speedily conquered 
 his passion, and was trying to save Du Bois when death 
 came to himself. She did not, however, attempt to exone 
 rate him from blame to others. 
 
 She only received patiently the condolences offered her by 
 her neighbors, the poor heart swelling a little when those 
 who knew and liked him best, remarked that, with all his 
 faults, Luke was a good, clever fellow, and the lips slightly 
 trembling, but keeping quite silent. Very hard was all this 
 to bear! 
 
 What troubled Mrs. Maitland most in regard to the stories 
 circulating am(5ng the people, was the fear that Brendice Du 
 Bois would believe Luke really and intentionally guilty of 
 her father's death. 
 
 She had heard, while on the cliff that night, all that Mrs. 
 Maitland had listened to ; and the next day, it was said, she 
 had taken her boat, though the sea was still very rough, and 
 gone over to The Bocks, where she would most .likely be 
 told whether it was true or false, for Luke frequently
 
 At Last. 131 
 
 fished off the islands, and consequently was not very well 
 liked there, Du Bois, on the contrary, never going there, and 
 therefore having the good-will of the fishermen, some of 
 whom had met with him at the Port, that the young man 
 had commenced the dispute, and doubtless was wholly to 
 blame for its result. 
 
 During the course of the day, Mrs. Maitland learned that 
 it was not Miss Emma Brown who had kindly spent the 
 night near her ; for that young lady made a brief call on her 
 dearest friend, with profuse apologies for not coming to her 
 the previous evening. 
 
 Emma was very sorry for poor Luke, and it was too bad 
 for his mother to remain there all alone in the house. She 
 thought, likely as not, Mrs. Maitland could get Sally Jones 
 to stay with her ; and Sally was as clever an old soul as ever 
 lived. 
 
 Who could it have been then that had led her, with such a 
 firm, gentle hand, to her home, and remained with her all 
 through the gloomy night, and but for whom she must have 
 perished on the cliff? 
 
 Could it be Brendice Du Bois? she asked herself, the 
 friendless, neglected, and despised girl, made destitute and 
 orphaned by the crimes of those who had been so near and 
 dear to herself that their wrong-doings, she thought, must 
 seem to others, as they had once done to her, to be her 
 own acts? Brendice who, knowing what she most likely 
 knew, had, heedless of her wrongs and her own grief, laid 
 her cool hand so tenderly, the past night, on Mrs. Maitland 's 
 throbbing temples, as her head dropped upon the pillow, that 
 the words had suddenly come to her the. first heavenly
 
 132 By the Sea. 
 
 help which had been given her in that hour of overpowering 
 agony : 
 
 " Who knoweth not, in all these, the hand of the Lord 
 hath wrought this ?" 
 
 The idea that her companion of the past night must have 
 been the French girl, occurred to her as she was sitting alone, 
 towards the close of the day, after the neighbors had offered 
 fcheir condolences, and returned to their homes. She was feel 
 ing weary oh, so very weary, as she listened to the sound of 
 the in-coming tide, mechanically counting in her old, childish 
 way, the white-crested waves as they successively rolled in, 
 and fancying that each tenth billow struck with heavier force 
 upon the shore, and sent its waters out wider over the sand 
 than had its predecessors ; while in her deeper thought she 
 wondered how many times the tide would ebb and flow, 
 before she listened to the welcome voice of another sea, 
 thanking heaven for the precious promise : 
 
 " When thou passest through the waters, I will be with 
 thee ; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow 
 thee." 
 
 Then another thought had come : How many and many 
 times during the first summer of Du Bois' residence at The 
 Sands, before she had learned who he was, had she wished 
 that the stranger's child might be entrusted to her care : 
 how that wish had become a prayer from the morning when 
 she had expected death from the Frenchman's hands, not 
 withstanding the avoidance of each other on the part of both 
 families ; hopelessly, but daily, uttered, even when she be 
 lieved that Du Bois would be no more opposed to the re 
 ceiving, by his daughter, of any kindness from herself, than
 
 At Last. 133 
 
 Luke would be to any manifestation, on the part of his mo 
 ther, of interest in the girl. 
 
 She had been unable, herself, even to plan a way in which 
 she might seek to benefit Brendice. 
 
 ^ With heaven all things were possible, she had tried to 
 strengthen herself by thinking. Perhaps it would find a 
 way for her. But she had little dreamed through what a 
 billowy sea of agony, though the waters had parted beneath 
 her feet, through what a waste, howling wilderness, though 
 bread had come to her from heaven, and water was dripping 
 from the rock, that path would, at length, be marked out. 
 
 Marked out, plainly enough it was, now, to her ! 
 
 After a prayer for wisdom to guide, and strength to sustain 
 her for she thought that both vigor of body and determi 
 nation of purpose might desert her, when she stood in the 
 presence of that girl so terribly wronged she rose from her 
 seat, drew her little tea-table out into the centre of the room, 
 and with many tears, made it again ready for two persons. 
 
 More than once while doing so, the tears were suddenly 
 checked, and the shadow of a smile crossed her face, and she 
 paused for a moment in her work and listened for a sound 
 she was never to hear again. 
 
 It was too strange for belief ! 
 
 Luke, whom, not once in her life, she had thought of 
 losing, could not now be gone from her forever ! 
 
 The sound of his footsteps upon the rocks, a merry laugh 
 or a snatch of the boat-song of which he was so fond, would 
 soon fall upon her ear, and wake her from that terrible 
 nightmare. 
 
 Nothing came but the voice of the. ocean, and the fall of
 
 134 By the Sea. 
 
 the vine leaves against the window panes. In the course of 
 the day she had 'tenderly gathered them up, and fastened 
 them again where Luke had nailed them. 
 
 The repast was ready and the tea-kettle singing in the 
 little stone fireplace which her son had made for her, a few 
 steps from the dwelling. Mrs. Maitland, moving as if she 
 had been in a dream, walked away from her door, down over 
 the ledge and along the beach towards the abode she had 
 entered on that dark, stormy night, almost fifteen years 
 before, to hear the voice of that little lonely child calling, in 
 such piteous tones, on her long-lost mother, and to wake to 
 the conviction of her husband's fearful crime. 
 
 How would she find Brendice Du Bois to-night? And 
 what terrible revelation might be made to her ! 
 
 As she passed slowly along the sand, she kept her eyes on 
 the line of rocks above her, hoping that the girl she sought 
 would be out on the ledge, as she very often was after the 
 fish-houses were closed, and the strangers had all left the 
 beach, whatever the state of the weather might be ; for Mrs. 
 Maitland felt very reluctant to enter the dwelling which had 
 been the home of Du Bois. 
 
 Brendice was, however, nowhere to be seen, until her 
 visitor stood at the threshold of the fisherman's cabin. 
 
 The door, which was on the west side of the building, stood 
 widely ajar, and the warm, red light of the setting sun shone 
 into the room, as the visitor stood there and glanced trem 
 blingly into the apartment. 
 
 It was a very comfortless looking place, falling just short, 
 in its appearance, of filthiness and disorder. 
 
 On one side of the room were arranged piles of fish in dif-
 
 At Last. 135 
 
 ferenfc stages of drying ; and fishing-tackle, some of which 
 seemed to be just undergoing repairs, not yet quite com 
 pleted., was, with the tools and materials required in mending, 
 lying scattered about on the floor. The other side was oc 
 cupied by a rude couch, on which had been carelessly thrown 
 some articles of Du Bois' clothing, apparently just as he had 
 left them when he went out the day before ; a small table at 
 which Brendice was now sitting ; a couple of stools, and a 
 large sea-chest, the lid of . which was partially raised, and 
 filled, so far as could be seen, with books and maps, and two 
 or three telescopes of different sizes. 
 
 The inner room, the door of which was also open, revealed 
 nothing to the eye whieh turned towards it, but a sleeping 
 cot made up upon the floor, a painter's easel, with the can 
 vas towards the wall, and a newspaper, yellow with age, 
 pinned over the window. 
 
 There were no curtains of any kind over the two small 
 windows of the larger apartment, % and the walls of both 
 rooms were unfinished. The rough boards had once been 
 whitewashed ; but the coloring had well nigh disappeared 
 under the dripping of the wet fish often hung against it. 
 
 Brendice was sitting at the table, and her evening repast 
 was before her. It consisted of a bit of boiled fish, cooked 
 probably the previous evening for her father's supper, some 
 fragments of dry corn bread, and water in a tin cup. 
 
 Nothing had passed the girl's lips for the last twenty-four 
 hours, and she thought not of the coarseness of the food ; for 
 the supper was no more uninviting than had been many a 
 meal she had eaten with good relish, but yet she was not try 
 ing to eat.
 
 136 By the Sea. 
 
 Her arms lay crossed upon the table, and her head was 
 bent so low over them that Mrs. Maitland, as she looked 
 eagerly towards her, thought the girl might be sleeping, and 
 she stepped softly over the threshold. 
 
 But the first touch of her foot upon the sanded floor 
 aroused her, and Brendice Du Bois started up. 
 
 A few minutes before, a boat which had come in later than 
 the rest, touched the landing, and the voices of two fisher 
 men came up from the beach. 
 
 Mrs. Maitland thought, as she regarded that changing 
 countenance turned towards her, that perhaps when the 
 footfall was heard upon the floor, the girl might have fancied, 
 for the briefest instant, it was that of her father ; and she 
 shrank away, as if withered, before the expression which the 
 disappointment brought to that bronzed face. 
 
 3ut it was not wholly disappointment which produced 
 that change in the girl's appearance ; for after an instant's 
 wild stare at her visitor's countenance, she drew back until 
 she had placed the table between herself and Mrs. Maitland, 
 and then stood, motionless, in her usual attitude ; her fingers 
 clutched tightly together, and her head thrown forward ; but 
 her lip was held now, sufferingly between her teeth, and her 
 eyes, her visitor could not look upon them, for if eyes ever 
 flashed fire, those dark orbs emitted sparks of light. 
 
 The past night, in the darkness and the storm, her new 
 bereavement not yet quite certain, and a poor, feeble woman 
 who had been somebody's mother, needing to be watched 
 over, the spirt of her gentler parent had moved the hands, 
 and softened the heart of Brendice Du Bois. 
 
 In the fresh, bracing air of the early morning, when the
 
 At Last. 137 
 
 heavens and the ocean were tranquillizing themselves with 
 the passing of the clouds, and the low, deep moan, Brendice 
 had grown strong by weeping, and felt ready to labor and to 
 wait, to stand apart from all help and from all companionship, 
 as she had always done, for the idea that any one would 
 come to her in her desolate and destitute orphanage, with 
 kind and comforting words, and with a hand willingly 
 stretched forth to aid her, had not occurred to her. It would 
 not have been a welcome thought. 
 
 She would not have desired expressions of sympathy from 
 the people about her who knew nothing of her real wrongs 
 and sufferings, any more than she wished for the pauper's 
 dole. 
 
 She would labor with a might which must bring reward, 
 on whatever work should be placed before her, and wait till 
 a stronger hand than her own would shape the events of 
 her future. 
 
 But now, in the full light of the setting sun, falling so bright 
 and warm upon the ocean, which during many hours of that 
 day she had been looking down into, as if it had been the 
 open mouth of a sepulchre, ready to reveal what it had 
 already swallowed up, and gaping wide for another victim, 
 all her father's hate and thirst for vengeance looked from her 
 eyes, and fired her soul. 
 
 Fearful of herself, she had drawn back till the table stood 
 between her and the feeble being her fingers were trembling 
 to hold in a deadly gripe. 
 
 Mrs. Maitland's hand rested on the door frame, for a 
 momentary weakness passed over her.
 
 138 By the Sea. 
 
 " The girl knows all ; and I am again completely in the 
 power of a maniac !" she thought. 
 
 But she would not shrink from her purpose, though the 
 manner of its execution must be different from what she had 
 intended it should be. 
 
 She pressed her hands tightly over her heart, for there was 
 a very strange feeling upon her, though she did not know 
 how that singular sensation was revealed on her counte 
 nance, what terrible words it was writing there, as she 
 stepped to the side of the girl ; but she was, herself, startled 
 by the tone in which she said, when a fearful moment had 
 
 " I perceive you know who I am !" 
 
 But Brendice saw and understood that something almost 
 like the shadow of Death was near ; and perhaps she was as 
 much surprised by the sound of her own voice, as Mrs. Mait- 
 land had been, when, after an instant's silence, and while the 
 better spirit, striving so hard for the mastery, and strength 
 ened as if by the breath of the dread Presence she thought 
 was so near, and which seemed to be cooling and purifying 
 the atmosphere about her, at length triumphed, she re 
 plied : 
 
 "Yes, I know who you are! the mother of the lad who 
 once saved my life." 
 
 She paused for an instant, and then repeated : 
 
 "Who once saved my life!" adding, as if speaking to her 
 self alone, " it was a valueless thing, though ; not half worth 
 the saving !" 
 
 A faint color came to Mrs. Maitland's face. Her hands 
 dropped to her side, and she sank down, dizzied with joy
 
 At Last. 139 
 
 and thankfulness, upon a seat ; but she caught the girl's 
 idea. 
 
 " Brendice," she said, after a moment, and speaking in a 
 very calm, even tone, " do not call your life valueless. It 
 Mill be worth more to me than all I have lost, the husband 
 whom I had believed was so good and true, the wealth I had 
 considered so rightly our own, the hold on, earthly existence 
 I had thought was so secure, and and my boy ! more than 
 all but my hope in Heaven. And I will bless the Power 
 which has taken my earthly all away, if that Power will but 
 give me you ! 
 
 " I should have perished last night upon the cliff, if you 
 had not cared for me like a tender child. Let me call you 
 my child while I live ; it will be but for a little while that 
 any earthly good can be mine ; and when I die," a serenity 
 and beauty which seemed not of the world came to the 
 strangely fair face " when I die I will give you into the 
 keeping of One whose love is stronger than death ; One who 
 will never leave nor forsake you !" 
 
 Her voice had not trembled once while she spoke. New 
 strength came to it, with each word she uttered. 
 
 Brendice did not reply, but she was busily thinking. Her 
 wrongs had not come through this woman. The countenance 
 before her, she could plainly see. was the index of a gentle, 
 loving heart ; and Mrs. Maitland had but for a brief space 
 of time enjoyed the wealth of which her husband had so 
 wickedly become possessed. 
 
 And, besides, here was an opportunity for discharging that 
 obligation which had weighed so heavily on her father and 
 herself that for which he had so cursed her ; and for which
 
 140 By the Sea. 
 
 she had felt herself so guilty : the saving of her life by 
 Luke Maitland. 
 
 His mother now needed to be watched over. Very soon 
 she would require the tenderest care. 
 
 If Brendice should devote herself to the task, would not 
 that debt be paid ? 
 
 And then, when Mr. Maitland was at length found Du 
 Bois had never doubted but the man would, sometime, be in 
 his power, and now that her father Avas gone, she thought 
 that the work he had so longed to execute, was left for her 
 to do when he should be found, her hands would be free 
 from the galling chains she had feared would never be 
 broken. 
 
 Then she would mete out to the author of all her wrongs 
 a "Measure, pressed down and running over!" 
 
 A power beyond her own, she thought and a faint smile 
 came to her lips was already beginning to shape events 
 for her. 
 
 Mrs. Maitland widely mistook the meaning of that smile ; 
 and anxious to leave the dwelling, she rose feebly from her 
 seat, and put her arm within the girl's. 
 
 " I am sure you will go with me !" she said. " Neither you 
 nor I have a friend in the world, but each other." 
 
 She thought of the Browns, whom she had considered 
 most friendly to her, and especially of Emma, whom she had 
 regarded as her future daughter-in-law. Even Mrs. Mait 
 land had understood why that young lady was so interested 
 in finding a companion for her. 
 
 " Come, my child !" and she strove, gently, to lead the 
 girl away.
 
 At Last. 141 
 
 Brendice did not resist, but walked out of the dwelling 
 with hor, and along the beach ; when they had reached the 
 ledge drawing her companion's arm closer within her own 
 and moving more slowly, for the woman's strength was now 
 well nigh exhausted ; feeling an emotion of sorrow for her, 
 but, on the whole, glad that Mrs. Maitland seemed to need 
 assistance so much, that the work she had before her the 
 discharge of her obligation might be immeadiately com 
 menced. 
 
 As she walked along, tenderly supporting her companion, 
 and all through the coming night, as she sat by the open 
 window, alteinately looking out upon, and dreaming of the 
 sea, for she could not so soon persuade herself to occupy the 
 bed which Mrs. Maitland had given up to her use resting 
 her own poor little head on the pillow which Luke's health 
 ful, rosy cheek so many times had pressed, she answered 
 the vengeful, clamorous thoughts each time they rose within 
 her, by the words : "Measure, pressed down, and running 
 over !" 
 
 Alas, poor Brendice Du Bois ! 
 
 In all her father's teachings, and they had been many, for 
 in point of intellectual training he had not neglected his 
 daughter the girl on account of her perfect disregard of 
 personal appearance, and the eccentricity of her habits, 
 regarded by the fishermen and their families as scarcely 
 possessed of a common share of intellect, being a woman of 
 the finest mental organization, and highly educated, in all 
 his teachings, much of which had been, however, 
 
 "The knowledge which harms the soul to know," 
 he had impressed upon her only this from the Bible :
 
 142 By the Sea. 
 
 " An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth !" and " Whoso 
 sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed !" 
 
 That had been the first lesson the child was taught, and 
 on the day in which Luke Maitland saved her life, when she 
 would have turned her eyes gratefully on the youth, and 
 spoken her deep thanks, the reason why that lesson had 
 been so many times repeated, was given in words which 
 seemed to freeze it into the blood in her veins. 
 
 The lesson never after needed repetition.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE FAITHFUL DEPARTED. 
 
 at The Sands, except, perhaps, Miss 
 Emma' Brown, thought it a very excellent plan for 
 Mrs. Maitland to take that poor girl home and 
 IOOK aiter her. No doubt Luke had been to blame for her 
 father's death, and it was his mother's duty to do something 
 for her, and keep her " off the town " BO long as she could 
 afford to. 
 
 But it soon became apparent to those who felt any inte 
 rest in the matter, that Brendice Du Bois was in no degree 
 indebted to the woman with whom she found a home, for her 
 maintenance. 
 
 On the morning after going to the dwelling, and every 
 succeeding day, until the season was over, when the weather 
 was favorable for fishing, and Mrs. Maitland was well enough 
 to be left alone, for her health began more rapidly to decline 
 after Luke's disappearance, the girl had taken her father's 
 boat, which she managed with great dexterity, and had gone 
 out on the sea, returning, usually, with as much fish as the 
 men brought in.
 
 144 By M i 
 
 At first Mrs. Maitland tried, gently, to dissuade her from 
 doing this ; and sought to interest her in some feminine em 
 ployment, puzzling her head with plans for Brendice's future. 
 
 She could support her in a comfortable manner as long as 
 sae herself, probably, would live ; but there would be little 
 left for the girl after she was gone. 
 
 She very soon learned, however, that Brendice was not a 
 person to receive a favor from any one, least of all from her 
 self ; that not even for her companionship had the girl con 
 sented to come to her home. 
 
 Yet she showed this so kindly, that Mrs. Maitland 's feel 
 ings were never wounded; though so firmly that all attempts 
 at persuasion were soon abandoned. 
 
 Every refusal to receive a favor from Mrs. Maitland would 
 be followed on the part of Brendice by a quick compliance 
 with some request in which her friend's pleasure only was 
 concerned. In this way, many of her old habits, particularly 
 that of personal untidiness, were gradually dropped. 
 
 At first she gave more attention to her attire, simply for 
 the gratification of her to whom she would have thought the 
 debt she was trying to liquidate, illy paid, unless in addition 
 to the labor which she performed for her, she sought so far 
 as possible to please her; and the interest which she mani 
 fested in herself, she perceived, gave her friend more pleasure 
 than anything else afforded. 
 
 But after a remark which Mrs. Maitland made to her one 
 evening, as they were sitting together in the dim twilight, 
 Brendice began to think, herself, of her personal appearance. 
 
 The mother had not put on mourning for her son. 
 
 On the contrary, every afternoon of that summer had seen
 
 The Faithful Departed. 145 
 
 her with the pale rose-colored ribbons which Luke had 
 bought for her, in her fair hair, and dressed in the pretty 
 lilac muslin he liked so well. 
 
 Brendice always found her thus attired, when she came in 
 from her fishing, sitting by the vine- wreathed window, looking 
 out, and watching for her return. 
 
 Sometimes, when she felt more than usually well and 
 strong, she walked down to meet the girl at the time the 
 boats would be likely to come in, as she had, so many times, 
 gone out to meet her boy ; and with the same gentle, loving 
 words on her lips with which he had been greeted. If the 
 tears would come into her eyes, and her voice was low and 
 broken, she would say, in her simple, earnest manner : 
 
 " They are tears of thankfulness as much as they are tears 
 of grief, dear Brendice ! joy that I have you, sorrow that I 
 must wait longer before I see him again." 
 
 And then she would sit down upon the ledge, murmuring 
 half audibly to herself, as her thoughts went on, while she 
 waited for Brendice to take care of her fish, or dispose of it 
 to her customers. 
 
 The proprietor of the Ocean House, who was a very kind, 
 good man, and several others residing near the neighborhood, 
 seeing how industriously the poor orphaned girl was toiling, 
 that she might not be dependent on othei's, and that, instead 
 of receiving benefits from Mrs. Maitland, she was conferring 
 on her great kindness, rendering her gratuitously the assist 
 ance which her frequent returns of feebleness required, 
 made it a point to relieve the young fishwoman of the pro 
 duct of her day's labor, and to pay her a good price for it, so 
 soon as the boat reached the beach. 
 
 7
 
 146 By the Sea. 
 
 As she sat upon the ledge, waiting for Brendice's arm to 
 lean upon, when she returned to her dwelling, Mrs. Maitland 
 compelled her poor heart to be satisfied with the thought 
 that she had not asked Heaven to conduct her by a smooth 
 and easy pathway. If it would but lead her to the heart of 
 that girl, she would not weep over the roughness of the way, 
 though her foot should bleed at every step she took. 
 
 Brendice had intended, when she could get a sum of money 
 sufficient for the purpose, to purchase for herself a simple 
 suit of mourning. 
 
 Her father, for aught she had ever been told, was all the 
 relative she had in the world ; and notwithstanding his 
 harshness to her, she had loved him. 
 
 She saw how much she had loved him, more and more 
 plainly as the weeks passed. She had always known it, 
 though often it had seemed very strange to her, how she 
 clung to him. 
 
 She had thought of it with wonder, as she clambered over 
 the ledge, through whose crevices, filled with the fine white 
 sand worn away from the rocks, wetted so often with the 
 bitter, salt spray, and so heated with the noonday sun as 
 almost to burn the fingers which touched it, some little 
 tough hardy plant sturdily forced its way, throwing out its 
 arms with their red veins, as if a deeper life were given to 
 it blood from a throbbing heart when nature withheld the 
 nourishment it should have bestowed. The little, hardy, 
 determined thing seemed to Brendice very much like herself ; 
 and she had loved it far more than the pretty, sweet-scented, 
 fragile blossoms she had found in her infrequent rambles 
 among the neighboring hills.
 
 The Faithful Departed. 147 
 
 She had never sheltered a fainting plant from the burning 
 sun, or brought a drop of water to quench its thirst ; but 
 she had watched, day after day, over it, to see if it would 
 gather strength to itself, or droop and die, and laughed or 
 cried, as it grew strong again or withered. And, thinking 
 of her own hard, unloved, uncared-for life, she wondered 
 where the strong affection within her found its nutriment. 
 
 In summing up the miseries of her life, as, in those hours 
 when she was alone in her boat upon the sea, she was very 
 apt to do, she began daily to drop out, here and there, or try 
 to cancel, something she had considered, and rightly too, a 
 grievous wrong ; though this was only so far as her father 
 was considered. 
 
 She did not like to think that he should pass away from 
 the world, and leave no trace behind him ; that the tide of 
 time should close as quickly over his memory, as the parted 
 wave had met again, over his sinking form. It would be 
 pleasant to reflect, hereafter, that she had paid him what 
 little tribute of respect she had been able to do. 
 
 She would buy her a simple mourning suit, and, when she 
 had saved another little sum of money, she would ask Mr. 
 Brown if there would be any impropriety in placing in the 
 graveyard a stone bearing her father's name, and telling 
 when he died, and if she would be permitted to use a little 
 spot for that purpose, under one of those low, wide-spread 
 ing evergreens halfway up the hillside, and overlooking the 
 sea his deep grave! 
 
 She had not quite decided whether she would ask Mr. 
 Brown this, or whether she would, with her own hands, 
 carve her father's name on that high rock that jutted out
 
 148 By the Sea. 
 
 into the sea, where she had stood, so many times, looking 
 and waiting for the long-lost mother, and watching for the 
 boat which had, at last, returned without its owner. 
 
 But Brendice did not buy her suit of mourning. 
 
 The pretty dresses which Mrs. Maitland had tried, so hard, 
 to persuade her to accept, were of bright colors, and nicely 
 trimmed. They were some she had worn, herself, in her 
 sunny youth, but which had been laid aside when the great 
 grief came. 
 
 While refusing the garments, Brendice would not wound 
 her feelings by the purchase of one very much unlike what 
 her friend thought suitable for her ; and, consequently, one 
 day, when she had saved a sum of money sufficient for the 
 purpose, she went up to the store and bought material for a 
 plain green dress, with simple jet ornaments for trimming. 
 The garment was fashioned by the skilful fingers of Miss 
 Sally Jones, who was the dressmaker at The Sands. 
 
 It looked very nicely as Mrs. Maitland arranged it about 
 Brendice, one evening after she returned from her fishing. 
 Mrs. Maitland had been very feeble that day, and Brendice 
 reproached herself when she returned at night-fall, and saw 
 how thin and white was the face which was watching so 
 earnestly for her coming, that she had left her for so many 
 hours alone. 
 
 Unknown to herself, the work she had taken up as an 
 obligation was beginning to be regarded by Brendice as a 
 privilege ; and when, after arranging the new dress, Mrs. 
 Maitland drew her into a chair, and began to take down and 
 comb out her long thick hair, laying it smoothly over the 
 temples, and gathering it into heavy braids low in her neck,
 
 The Faithful Departed. 149 
 
 the girl made no resistance. It was the first time since her 
 remembrance that a hand had been placed tenderly upon her 
 head, and the habitual hard, cold expression of her features 
 softened a little beneath the gentle touch. 
 
 As the toilet was completed, she rose and turned her face 
 towards Mrs. Maitland. 
 
 The pretty dress set off to good advantage her very fine 
 form, and the change in the arrangement of the hair, and the 
 gentler expression on the features especially the look of 
 gratitude which she had never suffered her countenance to 
 wear before though the emotion had often found its way 
 into her heart, since coming to her new home for the kind 
 ness, which the girl regarded as undeserved, so far had she 
 been at first from being governed by any friendly feeling 
 towards Luke's mother the new attire, the style of dressing 
 the hair, and the change on the features, produced a won 
 derful transformation in Brendice's whole appearance. 
 
 As Mrs. Maitland lifted her eyes, for Brendice, properly 
 dressed, seemed to have shot up some inches in height, and 
 looked into that face not fully, in the gathering twilight, re 
 vealed to her view a deep flush, succeeded with lightning 
 swiftness by a death-like pallor, and a violent contortion of 
 muscle, passed over her countenance. 
 
 The parted lips could not give utterance to the cry which 
 rose to them, and she sank down to the floor, not fainting, 
 but seemingly paralyzed with terror ; completely paralyzed, 
 only the eyes saw with strange clearness and strength, and 
 there was an agony of fear in their gaze. 
 
 The girl stood quite still for a moment, returning the look 
 of those dilated eyes ; and then she put back the hair from
 
 i5o By the Sea. 
 
 her temples, and the old expression of sternness and defiance 
 settled back on her features. She took Mrs. Maitland up 
 from the floor, and led her to her bed, and then turned away 
 and went out of the house, down towards the beach. 
 
 How full of sweet, pleasant sound the ocean was ! 
 
 It seemed like the gentle call of a mother, wooing her 
 child to her breast ; and she felt that the tender pressure of 
 an arm, whose clasp could not be broken, would be very 
 pleasant to her. 
 
 But not yet, not yet ! 
 
 More clear and distinct than ever came out that one pur 
 pose before her mind : * 
 
 Revenge on him whose crimes had blasted her young 
 life! 
 
 And this woman, to whom her appearance seemed sud 
 denly to have become so abhorrent ! 
 
 Should she go back to her, and watch over her for the few 
 weeks or months that she might still live ? or should she im 
 mediately enter upon the accomplishment of that purpose 
 with the execution of which she was charged ? 
 
 She sat down on the ledge, and her gaze was fastened on 
 the spot along the eastern horizon where the Convoy light 
 suddenly streamed up brightly against the darkening sky ; 
 so immovably that one might have thought that beacon-light 
 was the eye of a living Medusa, and that Brendice had so re 
 garded it ever since the morning which followed that night 
 when the old boat had returned empty to the beach that 
 morning when she had gone over to The Eocks, and talked 
 with the girl Ives ! 
 
 She had heard since nothing more than she had learned
 
 The Faithful Departed. i5i 
 
 that day. The old gentleman, still at the Ocean House, who 
 had been so anxious that his friend should see Mr. Aden on 
 the day they went over to the islands, had not been able to 
 visit him himself. He had had great trouble lately. It was 
 said that a woman, whom he had very dearly loved, and her 
 young child, were lost in the ship which had foundered on 
 the Bar during the fierce gale of that night after Luke Mait- 
 land and Brendice's father were drowned. She had not been 
 over there since ; nor, until to-night, had she fixed her eyes 
 on the Convoy light. 
 
 But the suspicion which had fastened itself on her mind 
 was still there. She could not make it seem a groundless 
 one ; and she looked at the light now with set teeth and 
 clenched hands, and wished it was a dark, stormy night, and 
 that there was a sound of dipping oars coming up from the 
 sea. 
 
 More than an hour passed away. 
 
 The twilight had faded into night, and the round white 
 moon and the bright stars were looking down from a serene 
 sky ; and some one came and sat down beside her, and a 
 voice, low and gentle, and full of tears, asked, tremblingly, 
 while an arm was put about her waist : 
 
 " Brendice, did you ever see a likeness of your mother ? 
 Did your father ever describe her to you ?" 
 
 "No, never!" she replied, softly, though earnestly, "but I 
 would give half my life, to look on a face resembling hers !" 
 
 "Then look on your own coitntenance, dear Brondice!" 
 said Mrs. Maitland. "Your mother was very beautiful ; by 
 far the most beautiful woman I ever saw ; and I know she 
 must have been very good and gentle, too ; and to-night you
 
 1 52 v By the Sea. 
 
 looked so strangely like her, as I saw her on that terrible 
 night when when " 
 
 "Do not distress yourself, dear madam!" said the girl, 
 pressing close to the form which was shrinking away from 
 her. " Only tell me that I resemble my mother, and I shall 
 half forget " 
 
 Brendice paused. She could not say "how she died," but 
 she added " I will bless you, forever !" 
 
 " You looked so strangely like her to-night," was the re 
 ply, " that, for a moment, in my weakness, I thought those 
 sweet bright eyes were resting again on me." 
 
 They were silent for a long time, but the tears were falling 
 fast over the faces of both, and though they never referred 
 again to Brendice's mother, each knew that she was very 
 often in the other's thoughts. 
 
 After that, Brendice began to care very much for her per 
 sonal appearance ; hastening to complete her labors for the 
 day, that she might put on the pretty green dress, coming 
 unbidden to sit at Mrs. Maitland's feet, and throwing 
 the long hair over her shoulders that it might be smoothed 
 upon her brow, and woven into close braids ; and then watch 
 ing anxiously for the quick glance of sorrowful pleasure 
 that would tell her when her countenance wore the look 
 vrhich so much resembled her mother's. 
 
 But unobservant as Mrs. Maitland was, she saw that the 
 great change which was passing over Brendice was only an 
 external one ; at best that her heart was only momentarily 
 softened. Her influence was not subduing, not elevating, 
 that proud, revengeful nature. With her best endeavor, she 
 could not find her way to the girl's heart. She was exciting
 
 The Faithful Departed. 163 
 
 her pity and gaining her respect ; but she could not win her 
 love. 
 
 In her struggles that quiet, patient, but earnest, unre 
 mitting attempt could be called nothing but one long strug 
 gle to lift her thoughts to Heaven, there was only this re 
 ward for Mrs. Maitland : 
 
 The meek folding of the arms upon the breast, and the 
 unuttered words : " God's time is the best time ! and 
 though it tarry," wait for it ; it will surely come, for "in my 
 distress I cried unto the Lord," and " He will fulfil the de 
 sire of them that fear Him !" 
 
 She had not found the way to Brendice's heart, pleasant 
 and kind as the girl always was to her. She saw this more 
 and more plainly as the nearer approach of death made her 
 vision clearer ; for the feeble lamp of life burned low as the 
 sunlight of a soft Indian summer day disappeared from the 
 horizon ; fainter and fainter as the twilight deepened, and so 
 gently going out, that the only watcher at the bedside knew 
 not when the earthly life ended, nor when the heavenly be 
 gan. 
 
 Only for a week or two had she seemed more feeble ; but 
 Brendice knew that the time was near, the time when 
 that worn, weary spirit should enter into its eternal rest a 
 the time when the obligation which had so weighed upon 
 her, would be discharged ; and the most loving daughter 
 could not have smoothed more tenderly than did she the 
 earthly pathway for those trembling feet. 
 
 Mrs. Maitland did not, herself, fully realize that the great 
 change was so soon to come. 
 
 She had been feeling very free from the slight pain which 
 
 7*
 
 1 54 By the Sea. 
 
 had troubled her for some time past, and the remembrance 
 of her griefs was fading away with it. Even her most ab 
 sorbing thought anxiety for Brendice was quite forgotten 
 in the pleasure of having the girl constantly near her. She 
 never now for a moment left Mrs. Maitland, who was not 
 satisfied to have any one but her at her bedside, and who 
 listened to her voice, which to the ear of the dying had be 
 come low and strangely sweet, as if it was a strain of far-off 
 music ; and gazed upon her countenance with an earnest, un 
 certain look. 
 
 Sometimes she seemed to be in doubt whether it was a 
 living face, or a beautiful painting she beheld, though often 
 there swept over those features, when the eyes suddenly 
 encountered the fixed untiring gaze of Mrs. Maitland, a tide 
 of such conflicting emotions as she believed a painter might, 
 in vain, seek to transfer to his canvas. 
 
 It was only within a few hours of her death, as she roused 
 herself from what she thought was a quiet, peaceful sleep, 
 and opened her eyes to find Brendice kneeling at her bed 
 side, with a face pale and distorted with agony, that the idea 
 came to her that the end might be near, and that this 
 the girl knew. But the startled look which came over her 
 countenance passed quickly away, and, very far from under 
 standing the cause of Brendice's emotion, she said, quietly : 
 
 " Am I dying, dear ? And are you sorry for me ?" 
 
 "No !" Brendice said, "not sorry for you, for death must be 
 gain to such as you are !" 
 
 " Then you are sorry for yourself, my child," Mrs. Mait 
 land went on, very tenderly and lovingly, as she stretched 
 put the feeble hand, and rested it on the girl's head, " That
 
 The Faithful Departed. i55 
 
 pleases me more than anything else could do, for it assures 
 me that you have, at length, begun to love me a little, and 
 will think of me after I am gone, and will remember the 
 promise I wish you to make me, before I go." 
 
 "No, madam," replied Brendice, firmly, "I will not deceive 
 you, even to make you happy in this solemn hour. I am 
 not sorry for myself, although you have been so kind to me. 
 Our ways in life would have been widely apart, only that I 
 knew this hour must soon come ; and in all time, our lives 
 could never have been bound together. And you must not 
 seek to extract that promise from me, you have so often 
 wished I would make. It assuredly will never be spoken. I 
 will not utter the prayer, ' And forgive us our trespasses as 
 we forgive those who trespass against us.' " 
 
 And though her eyes were fixed on the face of the dying, 
 and she knew it was so, she rose to her feet, and her head 
 was held firmly erect : " ' An eye for an eye, and a tooth for 
 a tooth.' ' Good measure, pressed down, and running over.' " 
 
 Mrs. Maitland closed her eyes. 
 
 " God's time is the best time !" she said, faintly and re 
 signedly. " When that time arrives, do not be sorry that it 
 has not come sooner, Brendice, for who can tell that I may 
 not know when your thoughts will turn to me ? My mother 
 died at my birth, and I never had a sister or a daughter, or 
 any very dear female friend, and our lives, your earthly and 
 my heavenly one, I am very sure something, sometime, will 
 bind together ! But what is it, my child ?" 
 
 She again lifted her eyes to see Brendice bending low over 
 her, with that look of agony, intenser than before, over 
 spreading her face.
 
 1 56 By the Sea. 
 
 " What is it, iny child? What do you wish to say to me ?" 
 
 The girl's lips parted more than once before the words 
 came, but when she did speak, it was with as much earnest 
 ness as distinctness, though the first sentence she uttered 
 seemed to be addressed to herself, rather than her companion. 
 
 " My work will not be well finished, the obligation will not 
 all be discharged, unless this is done." 
 
 And then to Mrs. Maitland : 
 
 "You have said, many times, that my face is the object on 
 which you would look your last, and that my voice is the 
 sound you would listen to. Think again ! Your son, for 
 aught I know, is dead. I have no doubt but he and my 
 father perished together. But there is another ! would you 
 see him ? The tide is just turning, and I think there is yet 
 Home hours before you. Shall I go for him ? If I do, good-by, 
 forever !" And Brendice took Mrs. Maitland's hands gently 
 in her own, and bending lower over her, touched her lips, 
 for the first time, to the pale brow. 
 
 " I will go ! Adieu, forever !" 
 
 But the fingers of the dying woman, for she seemed to 
 know all that Brendice meant, fastened tightly on the hands 
 that held them, when the kiss was pressed on the brow, and 
 a contented, happy smile came to her face, as she murmured : 
 
 " Do not leave me, my child ! You are my best beloved, 
 either of the living or of the dead. Let me look on your 
 face, let me listen to your voice, to the last !" 
 
 And then she whispered for some moments longer till 
 the quiet sleep came again, though Brendice caught only 
 these words : " My Maker is my husband ; the Lord of 
 hosts is His name."
 
 The Faithful Departed. 167 
 
 The hours were passing away, and the tide was rising 
 higher and higher on the beach, each dash of the waves 
 sounding in Brendice's ears like a knell, tolling ever more 
 deeply and mournfully. The girl had been greatly moved 
 by the last words spoken to her. 
 
 Mrs. Brown stepped into the dwelling, but seeing that the 
 sick woman, whom no one, but Brendice, imagined was so 
 near her death, appeared very comfortable, and that every 
 thing about her was clean and well-ordered, went quietly 
 away without disturbing her ; telling Brendice, who, she 
 observed, was not as calm and self-possessed as she had before 
 found her, that Mrs. Maitland was very much better, and 
 that Emma should come in and spend the night with her.- 
 
 The time passed on. The daylight was fading, and, at 
 length 
 
 A darkness came before Brendice's eyes. She lifted her 
 head to the window which opened towards the sea, and a 
 confused murmur of all discordant and strange noises rung 
 in her ears. 
 
 But the darkness could not obscure the white crest of the 
 wave, as it came, with awful majesty, slowly rolling on ; and 
 those confused noises could not shut out the sound of that 
 dash against the rocks. 
 
 The tide was in ! And with its ebb a life would pass 
 away! 
 
 Brendice sank down on her knees upon the floor, writhing 
 in silent but bitter agony. She was thinking, however, of 
 herself. 
 
 Her work was done. Mrs. Maitland needed no more care ; 
 and then all at once it flashed upon the mind of the girl, that
 
 1 58 By the Sea. 
 
 she had not discharged the obligation she was under to him 
 who had saved her life. 
 
 After the first few days of conflicting feelings, she saw 
 now, it had been no self-sacrifice to serve Mrs. Maitland. 
 On the contrary it had been a privilege and a pleasure to do 
 so, because she was so gentle and so good ; and because she 
 had been a mother. She had only been actuated by pity 
 and respect, in her conduct towards her. And she would 
 have loved her very much, before this, but for the memory of 
 that terrible crime, committed so long ago. 
 
 The fetters of that deep obligation were on her hands still. 
 
 "My child, are you here? It is becoming very dark!" 
 
 The eyes were dimming with death, now ! 
 
 " I cannot see you, Brendice ! Put your hands in mine, 
 and sing to me!" said Mrs. Maitland. 
 
 "I heard you sing once ; it must have been very many 
 years ago. "We were walking along the beach, late at night, 
 Luke and I. Oh, no ! not so very long ago ; only the night 
 before he was drowned. How strange it should have 
 happened to be that night ! The remembrance of your song 
 has come to me many times since, in my sleep, and I always 
 dream it is an angel who is chanting it. The words must be, 
 I think, a Litany for the dead. 
 
 " Perhaps the prayers of the living will not aid us, after 
 we are gone, Brendice ! yet it would be pleasant to think, 
 when we are dying, that our image will not pass away from 
 the heart, nor our name from the lips of those we have loved, 
 but will come up to their remembrance in the most solemn 
 hour, and will be breathed into the ear of God. The prayers 
 for the dead, I am sure, must bring down a blessing on the
 
 The Fcnthftd Departed. i5g 
 
 living, though I have been taught to believe they will not 
 profit the departed !" 
 
 Brendice laid her trembling hands on Mrs. Maitland's 
 open palms, and stifling her emotion as well as she was able, 
 sang in imperfect rhymes, and broken measure, fragments of 
 the simple lines she had translated months before, from an 
 old French Litany, one of the last lessons assigned her by 
 her father : 
 
 " Mary, whose griefs with thy life were all ended, 
 Angels, most blest, for ye never offended, 
 Patriarchs, released from your dark, dreary prison, 
 Prophets, consoled by the glorious Vision, 
 
 Pray, Pray! 
 Pray for the souls of the Faithful Departed !" 
 
 " Sing on ! It is very dark, I cannot see you ; but I hear 
 your voice," said Mrs. Maitland, " and it is most sweet to 
 me ! Did not some one say, Amen ? 
 
 " There is a footstep on the beach it is my son's ! He is 
 living. It is I who shall be on the other side, waiting for 
 him ; and listening for your voice, Brendice ! 
 
 " My memory seems to be leaving me ! What is that song 
 which the Eedeemed shall sing, my child ?" 
 
 The waves were not washing the rocks now ; and with the 
 sound of the retreating tide, came up, from far away over the 
 water, the call of a solitary sea-bird. And then from the 
 north, on the still night air, floated down another sound. 
 
 It came from the tall tower of St. Mary's. And Brendice, 
 without thought, and as if moved by a will independent of 
 her own, blended her voice, so strangely sweet and solemn 
 that it was not strange the dying woman thought it truly 
 the voice of the- Redeemed, with that silvery tone :
 
 160 By the Sea, 
 
 "Hallelujah! 
 " Blessing, and honor, 
 "And glory, and power, 
 " To Him, on the Throne 
 " Forever and ever !" 
 
 And then, again, she took up the chant, for the over 
 powering sensation would not be shaken off, and the gripe 
 upon her hands was firmer ; the white lips would never part 
 again! 
 
 " Ye whose steps were undented, 
 Following the Meek and Mild ; 
 Ye who passed through bloody seas, 
 Ye who scorned earth's vanities ; 
 Ye who watched in garments white, 
 With the Life-lamp burning bright ; 
 Ye, who freed from earthly sin, 
 ' To the joy ' have entered in ; 
 Pray, Pray! 
 Pray for the souls of the Faithful Departed 1"
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 BACK TO THE OLD HOME. 
 
 HAT strange sensation would not immediately 
 pass away. 
 
 What kept her there, for more than an hour, 
 kneeling silently beside that bed, with her hands still lying 
 in the clasp which was now stiffening about them, with no 
 paralyzing emotion of fear or dread upon her, and not without 
 vigor of thought and her usual strength of body, but with a 
 feeling of solemn calmness and repose, as welcome to the 
 mental as to the physical system, and so welcome to both 
 that it seemed the lapse of time could not diminish the 
 pleasure, she could not tell. 
 
 Brendice wondered if that calmness and repose was not 
 such as may rest upon the dead, while they are waiting till 
 ages shall pass away, and the end of all earthly things shall 
 come. 
 
 It was a soft, still night. There were many clouds in the 
 sky ; some very thin and vapory, and some, though they 
 
 presaged no immediate storm, were so heavy, that, in sweep- 
 
 (161)
 
 1 62 By the Sea. 
 
 ing over the crescent moon, they quite shut out the silvery 
 light, for many minutes together. 
 
 One of these thick clouds was just slowly passing, and 
 through a rift, for a brief space of time, the moonlight 
 gleamed. 
 
 Brendice had thought she caught the sound of footsteps. 
 It was a heavy tread, though the person tried to walk lightly. 
 She lifted her head at the instant that the rift passed over 
 the face of the moon, and taking her hands gently from the 
 cold clasp about them, drew back into the shadow, as the 
 light, now almost unobscured, fell on the white face which 
 lay upon the pillow. 
 
 Hours before, Brendico had drawn Mrs. Maitland's bed 
 out near the windows which opened to the south and east. 
 She would not have the dying woman's last look at nature to 
 be on the dry, withered grass, the naked fields, and the dis 
 tant hills, so sadly gay with autumn's sickly bloom, and all 
 speaking so forcibly of dissolution and decay ; but on the 
 ever vigorous, ever active, eternal sea ! 
 
 Very fair lay that white face in the soft moonlight. A 
 calm, pleasant smile was on the features, and the eyes were 
 closed as in sleep. 
 
 Again she heard that tread! and there, standing but a 
 few feet from the window, furtively peering through the vines 
 whose clustering green leaves were yet but slightly touched 
 by the frost, was the face of a man. He was holdirg some 
 thing in his arms, carefully and tenderly ; and, as he drew a 
 step nearer, she perceived that his burden was a slumbering 
 child. 
 
 The countenance of the dead, which looked so like the
 
 Back to the old Home. 163 
 
 face of peaceful sleep, was fully revealed to those eager, 
 questioning eyes ; but Brendice, crouching on the floor at 
 the foot of the bed, and whore the shadow fell about her 
 form, could not be plainly observed ; the outlines of her 
 figure, and a portion of her dress, only, being discernible. 
 
 The form and countenance of the man were clearly enough 
 seen by her, however, though for a moment she could 
 scarcely believe that she was not dreaming ; for that man 
 was Luke Maitland ! 
 
 Apparently assured that the occupant of the bed was 
 soundly sleeping, and knowing that his mother's slumbers 
 were never very easily disturbed, he drew nearer to the win 
 dow and spoke softly. 
 
 The rift had passed over the moon now, and between it 
 and the horizon was a great sea of billowy clouds, each 
 broader and denser than its predecessor. 
 
 " Emma, Emma Brown, is that you ?" he asked ; " don't 
 be frightened ! It is I, Luke ! Come around to the door ; 
 I wish to talk with you. But mother must not know I am 
 here, and no one but you, Emma ! I went down to your 
 father's house to see if I could find you without being ob 
 served by any one else, for I had learned the boys were all 
 out with their boats to-night ; and I heard some saying, as 
 I stood near the open window, that you were here. Your 
 mother was telling some stranger that Mrs. Maitland had 
 been sick, though she was much better now, and that you 
 had gone over to pass the night with her. But come around 
 to the door!" 
 
 Brendice had risen to her feet. 
 
 She looked up to the sky, and unknowing why, saw, with
 
 164 By the Sea. 
 
 satisfaction, that for half an hour, most likely, the moon 
 would not look out again from its thick veil of clouds ; and 
 then she went to the open door before which Luke was 
 standing. 
 
 "I am glad you are not frightened, Emma!" he said, trying 
 to find her hand, and, failing to do so, placing his fingers 
 upon her shoulder. " I was afraid you would be, for I sup 
 pose that you and every one else about here thought I was 
 dead. I do not wish to undeceive any one now, least of all, 
 my mother. 
 
 " I am going away again. Two hours hence I hope to be 
 on ship-board, and she would have over again all the old 
 grief of a separation from me, with far deeper bitterness 
 than before. 
 
 " I have only come here to bring this child to her ; and 
 you must tell her, Emma, that one to whom she is very dear, 
 wishes her to care for it. 
 
 " She will not trouble you with questions, and no one else 
 will be aware that you know anything about him. 
 
 "Tell my mother that the little fellow's parentage is 
 respectable. She will find his baptismal name, and that of 
 his mother, on a slip of paper I have fastened to his dress, 
 not knowing that I should have opportunity to put him in 
 your arms. Tell her that he who trusts him to her, holds 
 the child's kind treatment and careful training as the first 
 thing in life. 
 
 " You will not betray me, Emma ! It is said I have been 
 guilty of a great crime," continued the young man, now with 
 much emotion. "I know my mother does not believe it, 
 though it would kill her, if I had a public trial. I hope you
 
 Back to the old Home. i65 
 
 do not ; but my life might be in danger, if it were known 
 that I was in the neighborhood. Promise me no one shall 
 know it, through yourself!" 
 
 Those calm and solemn feelings, so strange and so sweet, 
 which had been pervading her soul for the last two hours, 
 and which she had wished might forever remain, had all fled, 
 as quickly as the lightest feather is blown away by the 
 breeze, at the sound of that voice ; and Brendice's heart was 
 so bounding with joy, that she feared her emotion would 
 betray her. 
 
 His life was then, perhaps, in her hand ! 
 
 The question did not come up in that moment : What 
 crime had he been guilty of ? She thought only this : Now 
 that debt can be paid ! 
 
 She conquered her emotion, and whispered so softly that 
 the young man scarcely caught her words so softly that he 
 did not suspect it could be any one but Emma Brown who 
 uttered them : 
 
 "I promise!" and she stretched out her hands and took 
 the sleeping child. 
 
 The little creature partially awoke and threw up his arms, 
 burying one chubby fist and fat wrist in Brendice's loosened 
 hair, and twining the other about her neck, breathing a little 
 short bird note of intense satisfaction ; and then he was 
 again in a sound sleep. 
 
 Brendice had taken advantage of Luke's sudden retreat 
 from the door, when he thought the child was waking, and 
 stepped back quickly into the room, sitting down beside the 
 dead woman ; and the young man, seeing, indistinctly, the 
 outlines of her figure against the window, and fearful of
 
 1 66 By the Sea. 
 
 disturbing his mother, remained silent at the doorway, 
 wondering why Emma had left him so suddenly ; but rather 
 glad that she had done so. 
 
 Had she remained longer, gratitude for the promise she 
 had so readily, and without questioning him, made, might 
 have led him to speak words which he had never intended to 
 utter, for Mrs. Maitland had been altogether mistaken in 
 supposing that her son had any other than brotherly affection 
 for the sprightly little girl who had been his playmate from 
 their childhood. 
 
 Luke waited but for the briefest instant near the door, to 
 see if the girl intended to return to him, and then he walked 
 lightly and rapidly away ; not directly to the spot where he 
 had left his boat, however, but down along the beach, past 
 the fish-houses, until he reached the most distant that 
 which stood a little apart from the others. 
 
 There he paused ; looking up, through the darkness, to 
 the dwelling, thinking of the voice he heard the last night he 
 had stood there, with his mother leaning on his arm ; and 
 wondering why, though the questions were on his lips all 
 the time he was talking as he supposed to Emma Brown, he 
 had asked her nothing about Brendice Du Bois. 
 
 All was silent about the dwelling ; and the little faint, 
 flickering light, he had always before, at all hours of the 
 night and how many times his eyes had sought it ! seen 
 there, had disappeared now ; and Luke turned and walked 
 away, without looking behind him. 
 
 When the moonbeams again shone out upon the sea, his 
 boat, guided by the beacon light, was half-way up to the
 
 Back to the old Home. 167 
 
 Port, from which a ship was to sail, the next morning, for an 
 Italian city.' 
 
 Only one thought, as has been said, had passed through 
 Brendice's mind, while listening to Luke. 
 
 After the sound of his footsteps had ceased to reach her 
 ear, however, she remembered with satisfaction that the 
 desire might be fulfilled which Mrs. Maitland had expressed, 
 almost with her latest breath, when the idea occurred to her 
 that her son was still living. Luke would not learn, most 
 likely, for some time, that his mother was dead. When he 
 had spoken of returning to the ship, he made some remark 
 which she did not fully understand, but which she thought 
 had reference to an anticipated long absence from the 
 neighborhood. 
 
 But the next thought which came to her was a far less 
 agreeable one. What was she to do with that child whose 
 little head was now pillowed upon her shoulder, and whose 
 soft curls, so pale that the moonlight which now came 
 brightly shining through the window, was changing them to 
 shining silver, were mingling with her own dark hair, while 
 the warm, sweet breath fell upon her cheek ; and who only 
 clung to her more closely as she gently attempted to remove 
 the encircling arm from her neck, in order to place him upon 
 her bed ? 
 
 Why had she taken him at all in her arms, and what was 
 she now to do with him ? 
 
 She looked for the slip of paper which Luke had said was 
 fastened to his dress. It was not to be found ; but a slight 
 rent in the soft fabric showed where it might have been 
 torn away.
 
 168 By the Sea. 
 
 It was easy enough to decide, however, what she should do 
 with him. Emma Brown would soon be in. 
 
 The night was not far advanced. It was very little past 
 nine o'clock yet. She had just stepped in a moment, on her 
 way to Mrs. Maitland 's, Brendice rightly conjectured, to see 
 if Miss Jones was quite well, and if she was not rather lonely 
 to-night, as William was out on the water with his boat ; 
 and her minute had stretched out beyond an hour. 
 
 When she came in, Brendice would tell her that some one, 
 not far from the time Mrs. Maitland died, had left the child 
 at the door. 
 
 She had heard footsteps, but saw no one going away from 
 the dwelling. She could not conjecture whose child it was, 
 but then she knew very few people in the neighborhood. 
 Did Emma recognize it? And when she returned home to 
 inform her mother that Mrs. Maitland was dead, would she 
 ask her father what should be done with the child ? 
 
 That was what she would say to Emma, and no one could 
 compel her to tell more. 
 
 It could not be expected that she would be very observant 
 of anything besides Mrs. Maitland, when the woman was 
 dying, and Brendice was there alone with her ; and if there 
 should be a little confusion in her story, no one would think 
 strange of it, at such a time as that solemn hour. 
 
 The child, of course, would not be recognized by Miss 
 Brown, nor by any one else ; .and Emma's father could send 
 the babe to the almshouse, or to the Asylum at N . 
 
 This little creature, whose arm was around her neck, 
 whose kind treatment and careful training Luke Maitland, 
 who, when he was a boy of sixteen, had saved her own life,
 
 Back to the old Home. 169 
 
 had said was the first thing, on -earth, to him this child 
 would have been so tenderly cared for by that gentle being 
 lying there so white and still ! For aught Brendice knew, 
 the pure spirit was now hovering over her with a patience 
 which freedom from its earthly tenement could hardly bring 
 nearer to perfection ; and a faith which often filled the girl 
 with fear, so undermining did it seem to be to that purpose 
 she tried to establish, immovably, in her heart, waiting 
 with patience and faith for the good to triumph. 
 
 Then she began to think of her own unloved, uncared for 
 childhood. But this did not soften her heart with respect 
 to the little one. 
 
 She felt very bitterly towards the world. 
 
 The people at The Sands were beginning to be kind to her, 
 and were as friendly as she would allow them to be ; but 
 how long had it been since they had regarded her as half an 
 idiot, and had talked of sending her to the almshouse? 
 No one but Mrs. Maitland had showed her kindness, or tried 
 to assist her (Brendice did not know bow many had gone 
 with pitying hearts and willing hands to her door on the 
 day she went over to The Rocks) when she found herself all 
 alone in the world, until it had become very apparent that 
 she was entirely competent to take care of herself. 
 
 The old gentleman still at the Ocean House had, a few 
 days after the event happened, sent a kind note to Mrs. 
 Maitland and herself, inquiring if he could do anything for 
 those who, it was supposed, had been made childless and 
 fatherless by the sad affair in which his young friends had 
 been indirectly interested. And somebody had told her 
 that when her father had first arrived in the neighborhood, 
 
 8
 
 170 By the Sea. 
 
 fifteen years before, there, was more than one woman who 
 would willingly have received her into her family. 
 
 Whoever had wished to do so, might manifest her unexer- 
 cised benevolence now, by taking care of this child ; or Mr. 
 Brown might send him to the almshouse. 
 
 With a firmer hand she released her hair from his cling 
 ing fingers, and removed his arm from her neck, preparatory 
 to laying him upon a bed, resolutely turning her face from 
 him, though low half-smothered sobs were bursting from 
 his lips. 
 
 There was a work before her far different from the rearing 
 of a little innocent babe. She owed nothing to any one, 
 now that debt to Luke Maitland was discharged. If her 
 silence ensured his safety 
 
 Safety from what ? 
 
 Brendice was standing by the doorway, looking out to see 
 if Miss Brown was coming, as the question arose in her 
 mind : If he had been innocent, as she had not doubted he 
 was, of the crime of which it was supposed he was guilty, why 
 had he not, when referring to it, denied the commission of 
 the deed ? 
 
 She laid the child down, where she stood, so gentle, how 
 ever, as not entirely to wake it from its slumbers, and 
 then she staggered back into the room and sank down, 
 without strength, beside the bed of the dead woman, not 
 fainting, but well nigh paralyzed. 
 
 It was thus she was found by Emma Brown and Miss 
 Sally Jones, whom the suddenly timid and thoughtful girl 
 had persuaded to accompany her to Mrs. Maitland's dwell 
 ing, as she did not like to be out so late alone, offering to
 
 Back to the old Home. 171 
 
 return, after they should have stopped a few minutes with 
 the sick woman, and pass the night with Miss Sally, she 
 would be so lonely, in William's absence. 
 
 As Miss Jones, who, on looking through the open window, 
 saw only the two women, whose positions told her plainly 
 enough what had happened, stepped directly to the bedside, 
 and lifted Brendice from the floor, supposing the cause of 
 her extreme physical weakness and mental agitation to be 
 only induced by the presence of death in the apartment, and 
 the loneliness of her situation, and thinking of nothing but 
 soothing her, with kind and gentle words, it was Emma 
 who discovered the child, and whose account of the affair 
 went through the neighborhood. The girl had a very vivid 
 imagination, and the story lost nothing by circulation. 
 
 Brendice Du Bois was not troubled with questions con 
 cerning the child*, for no one supposed that she knew any 
 thing about him. 
 
 Not even when the funeral, which took place the next 
 day, was over, and Mr. Brown returned to the dwelling to 
 tell her that Mrs. Maitland had bequeathed to her all the 
 little property she possessed, and to take the child away, as 
 she expected he would, to send it to the almshouse were 
 any questions asked of her ; but the girl said the little one 
 might remain with her, for the present, at least, for if Mrs. 
 Maitland was alive she undoubtedly would try to take care 
 jf the child, as ha had bean found at her door ; and if she, 
 B_-eadic3, accepted what was given to her, it would be solely 
 for the purpose of assisting her in his support. 
 
 The neighbors only said the poor friendless girl wanted 
 some object in the world to love and care for; though they were
 
 172 By the Sea. 
 
 very sure she would soon find that the trouble and expense 
 of the child far more than counterbalanced the pleasure 
 which the presence of the little fellow, pretty and interesting 
 as he was, could possibly afford her. 
 
 Whatever Brendice thought of that, however, he remained 
 with her, though his support was not, in any measure, de 
 rived from the little bequest made her by Mrs. Maitland. 
 
 On the morning after the funeral, the girl rose very early 
 from the couch where she had passed a sleepless night, and 
 rolling together the few simple, but pretty articles of clo 
 thing she had purchased with the avails of her labor while 
 she was with Mrs. Maitland, and attiring herself in her worn, 
 scanty fishing-dress, brushing her hair back from her face, 
 and carelessly knotting it in the old unbecoming way, and 
 lifting the child almost savagely in her arms, went out from 
 the house. She locked the door behind her, and then 
 walked down over the ledge and along the white sand to 
 wards her old home. 
 
 The Indian summer had passed away on the night Mrs. 
 Maitland died. This morning, a cold, damp wind was blow 
 ing briskly from the north-east, each gust which swept over 
 the hills bearing away such showers of the bright-hued 
 leaves, fast changing now, that the forest seemed fading be 
 fore the gray morning as quickly as the gorgeously-tinted 
 sunset sky at the swift coming of night. 
 
 Brendice turned her face, which had grown thin and pale 
 during the past few days, up towards the hill-side. Under 
 the shelter of some tall, white pines, a spot she herself had 
 selected, was the grave, beside which she was standing 
 yesterday as chief mourner. She would have walked up
 
 JBack to the old Home. 173 
 
 there this morning, and replaced the sods upon the yellow 
 sand with her own hands, only the air was so cold and 
 damp that the child must not be exposed to it for such a 
 length of time as the long walk, and the sad task to be 
 performed, would require. 
 
 He was nestling very close to her now, and the little 
 cheeks looked blue and pinched in the chilly air, and Bren- 
 dice, as she glanced down into the face, as the lips attempted 
 to syllable a name he had many times tried to utter, but, 
 fortunately, in such an indistinct manner that no one but 
 herself conjectured upon whom he was calling thought how 
 much better it would be if the little fragile flower was lying 
 beneath the coffin lid on that still, white breast, than strug 
 gling to find life in the cold, hard soil into which it had been 
 so strangely transplanted. 
 
 No tender emotion for the child, she believed, could ever 
 enter her heart. No dawning love for the sweet young face 
 and little winning ways, or pity for the utter friendlessness 
 which, but for her, he might very soon learn was the portion 
 of his childhood, induced Brendice to take charge of the 
 boy. 
 
 Not these, but that another item could be set down in her 
 account against those whose crimes had go embittered her 
 life. 
 
 There were two of them now ! 
 
 She looked back from the little face, up again towards 
 the distant hills which the deepening mist was fast shutting 
 out from her sight. 
 
 When the long cold storm, now just coming on, should 
 have passed away, only the clustering pines, whose tall
 
 174 By the Sea. 
 
 branches seemed guiding the thoughts up to heaven, and 
 whose low, sweet, unbroken song was so full of words of 
 hope and faith fit monuments for the gsntle sleeper resting 
 there, in her white robes, made ready, waiting till the mar 
 riage of the Lamb shall come ; only the denuded branches 
 of the wide forest, the brown, leaf-strown earth, and here 
 and there a clump of the sombre evergreens could be seen. 
 
 And she thought how quickly the pale, bright beauty of 
 the one green sppt in the desert of her existence had worse 
 than withered. 
 
 She would have fed the fountain which leaped up from 
 that solitary oasis with the springs of her life ; she would 
 have deepened its verdure with her blood ; but sud 
 denly, in a night, a deadlier growth than the fabled upas- 
 tree had sprung up in that unnatural soil, and beneath the 
 pendant leaves,' dripping with poisonous dews, she must for 
 ever stand. 
 
 Luke Maitland had referred to the now wide-spread sus 
 picion that he was guilty of her father's death ; and without 
 uttering a word of self-justification, or saying he could give 
 the best proof that the suspicion was not well founded, had 
 only whispered, "You will promise not to betray ma ?" 
 
 And Brendice, knowing he believed that he was addressing 
 another, yet speaking for herself, had answered : 
 
 "I promise!" thus severing the right arm of her revenge. 
 
 "No, no!" she murmured, quickly and audibly, as the 
 thought had come to her ; and she turned her eyes ocean- 
 ward to where a deeper haze seemed settling down upon the 
 horizon. I am bound by no promise there ; and my arm 
 ehall be as strong and firm, when once it is raised to strike,
 
 Back to the old Home. 175 
 
 as his han.d was awkward and unequal to sustain, when the 
 lives of my mother and her babe were entrusted to his care." 
 
 The belief was continually fastening itself more firmly on 
 her mind, though there seemed no reason why it should be 
 so, that the lighthouse keeper was the man whom her father, 
 for so many years, had been waiting to find. 
 
 She hoped it was so, and now, very soon, she woiild know ; 
 for the purpose of speedy revenge had been settling upon 
 her all through the past night, as the long tedious hours 
 dragged on. She was lying upon her pillow ; but many 
 times she had put away from her with a firm hand the little 
 curly head that tried to nestle so closely to her side ; and 
 her eyes had been fixed on. that Medusa-like beacon-light, 
 flaming up brightly against the cold blue sky. 
 
 Brendice had drawn near her home. 
 
 She had been walking very slowly, pausing often to look 
 away up to the hills on the one hand and the ocean on the 
 other, and the cool, damp air was chilling her through. The 
 shawl she had wrapped about her was very soon taken off 
 her shoulders, and folded about the child. Her thoughts 
 were so busy, however, that she had not heeded the cold, 
 or the weight of the little boy upon her arm ; nor did she 
 heed the footsteps which had been hesitatingly echoing hers 
 for many minutes, until some one was close beside her, and 
 a frank, pleasant, but now slightly nervous voice, pro 
 nounced her name. 
 
 The voice had said " Brendice !" and the repetition of the 
 name, coupled with another word an expletive which would 
 have been uttered very softly, was on the sp3aker's lips. 
 But when she turned her head, and looked into the face
 
 176 By the Sea. 
 
 which sought hers, the young man started with surprise, 
 and called her Miss Du Bois. 
 
 William Jones was, however, not to be so easily moved 
 from the purpose he had, for months pagt, been cherishing, 
 in relation to the girl ; and, besides, as he glanced at that 
 countenance a second time, he saw there was an expression 
 on the features which astonishment and displeasure at the 
 suddenness and familiarity of his address had not called 
 there. 
 
 " My aunt went over to your house an hour since, Miss Du 
 Bois," he said, " but the door was locked. She thought you 
 would be lonely there, and she wished to ask you to come 
 and stay with us, you and the little boy. 
 
 "As she could not find you, I came out for that purpose, 
 and to repeat what she wished to say, and to speak to you 
 on my own. account, too : to tell you what I have been wishing 
 to say ever since ever since your father was drowned ; only 
 I could not ask you to leave Mrs. Maitland. Will you come 
 to our house, and make it, henceforth, your home ? 
 
 " It shall be a nice, pleasant home to you, and this that I 
 see you have returned to, is very dreary and destitute. 
 
 " Will you go with me, Brendice, and be a daughter tc my 
 kind aunt, who, these two months past, has been learning to 
 think more of you than she does of any girl at The Sands ? 
 And let me take the little boy, and put your arm in mine, 
 dear Brendice you are very cold and weary and walk away 
 home with me, to become the cherished wife of one who has 
 known, for a long time, how much superior in good " 
 
 " Hush, William !" she said, holding the child which he 
 was trying to take from her, firmly in her arms.
 
 Back to the old Home. 177 
 
 " You know not what you are saying ! You and your aunt 
 are sorry for me, and I thank you both. But I need no pity !" 
 And though a tear was trembling in her eye, the calm, stony 
 expression on her features deepened. 
 
 "I need no pity ; and the words of affection I can never 
 listen to from any one ! They are not for such an un 
 womanly nature as~ mine is now, and must always be. But 
 if you will, you can, perhaps, do me a great and invaluable 
 service, William Jones !" 
 
 She was gazing, abstractedly now, away over to The Rocks, 
 and he did not see her face. 
 
 " What is it, Brendice ?" he asked, eagerly, convinced that, 
 for the present, at least, he must relinquish the plan he had 
 been so long cherishing. 
 
 William Jones was high-minded and honorable, simple 
 fisherman though he was. 
 
 His strong feelings, and the purposes to which they gave 
 rise, quite too earnest, sometimes, for his peace of mind, he 
 never suffered to interfere with his sense of justice ; and so 
 knowing what he supposed no third person did, and, perhaps, 
 made more keen -sighted by his own emotions, seeing how 
 patiently another was waiting for the time to come when 
 he could seek the acquaintance of the French girl, he had 
 himself kept silent, till he fancied all obstacles were removed. 
 
 Years later, after his aunt had, of her own free choice, 
 found another home, William had his reward for his self- 
 abnegation, in the love of a warm-hearted, sensible girl, far 
 better suited to him than she would have been whom he had 
 first chosen ; or the little frivolous Emma Brown, who had 
 never been his choice. 
 
 8*
 
 178 By the Sea. 
 
 Brendice was looking towards The Hocks, quite shut out, 
 now, from view, by the thickening mist. 
 
 " If you will, you can, perhaps, render me a great service, 
 William !" she had said. 
 
 And he replied, with a question asked so earnestly that it 
 was a promise to follow her bidding, whatever that might 
 be : " What is it, Brendice ?" 
 
 She did not immediately answer, for she was replying to 
 another question, silently asked of herself : 
 
 Should she suffer any one, in the remotest degree, to aid 
 her in the work she was contemplating ? 
 
 And then she remembered that lately, many times, when 
 she had been looking out over the waters to the Convoy 
 light, a film had crept over her eyes. 
 
 Perhaps it was only imaginary ; for when she glanced 
 up to the red light away to the north, her vision had never 
 failed ; though, sometimes, as she looked there, it was 
 through dropping tears ; for then the sweet tones of St. 
 Mary's bell would softly fall on her ear, and she remembered, 
 that mild, bright afternoon in early autumn St. Michael's 
 day it was, five years ago : 
 
 That day on which she had tried to cast off the heavy 
 burden that always rested on her shoulders, and in seeking 
 to rid herself of which, she had drawn down a mountain of 
 woe upon her head. 
 
 Yes, she would let him aid her, in this ! 
 
 " Do you often look over there to the islands ? I mean, 
 over to the lighthouse, when the lamps are burning ?" 
 
 "Yes!" he said, at a loss to conjecture what possible 
 connection his doing so could have with what she might
 
 Back to the old Home. 179 
 
 require of him. And as Brendice waited for a moment, after 
 he had spoken, he repeated his affirmative, and continued : 
 
 "Very often, and I always thiuk of the keeper there, living 
 in such a lonely way, and feel very sorry for him. 
 
 " He has not been over to the mainland, now, for fifteen 
 years. I used to see him occasionally before that time, and 
 he had always a pleasant word even for such a little chap as 
 I was then. It is said he was always somewhat eccentric ; 
 but after that young lady Miss Rachel, they called her, who 
 lived with the old miser at the place the fishermen know as 
 The Stairs, because there is a flight of nice stone steps 
 running down from the old man's grounds into the water 
 I suppose you have not seen them, as you have never been 
 up to the Port after the morning when the young lady 
 who, no doubt, had had a hard time of it with her guardian, 
 went down the steps and away in the boat with her lover, 
 young Captain Singleton, whom she married and accompanied 
 on his voyage to Italy, the Commodore never went to N 
 again. It was said, after she had gone, that Mr. Aden was 
 in love with the girl himself, though no one had suspected 
 it; and took her elopement much more to heart than the old 
 man did ; for he, though he was very angry at first, was 
 soon ready to admit that it was the best thing the girl could 
 do, to marry the man who loved her." 
 
 William said this with considerable feeling. 
 
 " The old gentleman went away soon after the lady was 
 married, to reside with his relatives ; but his sister is dead, 
 and her daughters have husbands now, and he has returned 
 to his place here again, looking ten years younger then he 
 did when he quitted it, my aunt thinks."
 
 I So By the Sea. 
 
 The young man had said this, because Brendice was not 
 yet ready to answer his question, but stood, looking away 
 into the sea, in her old abstracted manner ; bat when he 
 added, still simply, for the sake of saying something : 
 
 " Mr. Aden has never been over to the mainland since, 
 though I have heard that Mr. Hall, that is the old gentle 
 man's name, and it is he who has been stopping at the 
 Ocean House this season, and is there still, is determined 
 that the keeper shall give up his post at the Convoy, and 
 come over and live with him. He has built him a nice 
 residence this summer, and " 
 
 Brendice turned and looked in his face so suddenly and 
 earnestly that the young man paused abruptly. 
 
 "Is he the keeper, going to resign his post?" she asked. 
 
 Jones had heard that he would not leave his post unless 
 he was discharged ; and he would not be likely to receive a 
 dismissal, after performing the duties so faithfully as he had 
 done. And he had never been a politician. 
 
 " That light never dims, does it ?" said Brendice, looking 
 away again, oceanward. 
 
 " I have never seen it biirning dimly but once !" 
 
 " And that was on the night " 
 
 Her face was still averted. 
 
 "On the night after the accident!" he said. 
 
 " When my father's boat came back with the tide, empty !" 
 She was looking at him now, earnestly. 
 
 " And Luke's did not return at all !" 
 
 Brendice did not observe how attentively he was watching 
 the expression of her countenance as he said this. Her 
 thoughts, at the moment, were widely different from his.
 
 Back to the old Home. 181 
 
 She made an effort to speak calmly, and he did not perceive 
 there was a tremulousness in her toae. 
 
 " Did the light go out that night?" she inquired. 
 
 " Yes, Brendice ! I have denied it before, because I have 
 always felt friendly towards the Commodore, and I would 
 not say anything to injure him. But it is true. 
 
 " After the fog had cleared away, for at one time, just past 
 midnight, I believe it was, when the wind suddenly lulled, it 
 hung heavily over the sea, I was thinking too much, that 
 night, to sleep, I saw the light growing paler and paler, 
 and two hours before daybreak it went out. It was while 
 the fog lasted that the Essex struck the sand-bar. The pilot 
 admitted that he saw both the lights after she had struck 
 the Convoy light and the red light at the Port. 
 
 " Greyson denies that the lamps went out earlier than an 
 hour before sunrine ; but they had been relighted then. He 
 says that the Commodore's boat was fretting against the 
 rocks, and that in trying to haul it higher on shore, he not 
 only lost his boat, but injured himself so much, that he was 
 unable to return immediately to the lighthouse. 
 
 " Very likely that was the case, for the boat was dashed to 
 pieces on one of the other islands, though the accident hap 
 pened earlier in the morning. 
 
 " But what can I do for you, Brendice ? You must re 
 main here no longer. You are becoming wet and cold." 
 
 "Only this!" she said, in a half whisper, though no 
 human being but the now sleeping child was within sight. 
 " If you ever see that light burning dimly again, come and 
 tell me !" 
 
 She opened the door as she spoke, and stepped into the
 
 1 82 By the Sea. 
 
 miserable dwelling, looking back, for a moment, to add, 
 "That is all!" in such a tone, and with such a look on her 
 countenance, that the young man checked the words which 
 were rising to his lips. 
 
 After a moment of silent hesitation, he turned away and 
 walked slowly up the beach, pondering on the strangeness of 
 the request Brendice had made. 
 
 What interest could she possibly have in Mr. Aden, or the 
 manner in which he discharged the duties of his post? Her 
 boat was very seldom on the water in the night, and he did 
 not believe there was any one now among the fishermen on 
 the coast whose safety she particularly cared for. 
 
 If her father were living it might be imagined she was 
 thinking the place over at the Convoy would be a very good 
 one for him ; but lie who had tried so hard a few months be 
 fore to have the present keeper discharged, in order to 
 obtain the situation himself, must be a stranger to her. 
 
 Mr. Aden she most likely had never seen, unless from a 
 distance in her boat. He had never been over to The Sands> 
 as Jones had heard, and it was before her father had come to 
 the neighborhood that he had made his final visit to the Port* 
 
 William had not been more than eight or nine years of 
 age when, it was said, the keeper went for the last time to 
 the mainland. He remembered the time well enough, 
 though, for it had been impressed on his mind the succeed 
 ing day by what he then considered a very great disappoint 
 ment, and which was so regarded, secretly, however, by one 
 more interested than himself. 
 
 He had run a long way up the beach to meet Greyson, as 
 his boat came to the landing.
 
 Back to the old Home. 183 
 
 Jerry was then a frequent visitor at the house of "William's 
 father, and his aunt Sally had managed to make the boy 
 coax her to let him go out, at the time the fisherman's boat 
 would return from The Rocks, and invite him down to sup 
 per. 
 
 The next time Greyson went over to the islands Miss 
 Jones and William were to go with him. 
 
 He had been there on purpose that day to ask the Com 
 modore when he should bring Sally to the Convoy to see 
 how she liked the nice, comfortable dwelling-house, over 
 which he hoped to see her installed, before long, as mistress. 
 
 But Greyson did not go home with William Jones that 
 night, to drink tea with his aunt. 
 
 The young man remembered, now, how the poor fellow 
 looked when he inquired how soon they were going over 
 to The Rocks, and he had said, with a great sob, " Never !" 
 
 And then he began to jabber in such a way, to himself, 
 that the little boy was almost afraid of him, though he could 
 not forget some words which Greyson had uttered. Among 
 other things, he said that people might call him a fool as 
 much as they pleased, for no doubt he was one ; but he had 
 wit enough to know whom he had been priest and sponsor 
 for ; and who it was, that, if he had received any christening 
 at all, had the rite performed by a gentleman Greyson did 
 not like to mention until he had got his things safe in the 
 boat-house. 
 
 For a long time after, months, at least, Jerry had never 
 called the keeper of the lighthouse either Mr. Aden, or the 
 Commodore ; but had said simply he, or had referred to him 
 only by pointing with his finger over towards The Rocks.
 
 184 By the Sea. 
 
 He had never explained to any one why he did not go 
 over to the Convoy to make his home there. He might 
 have made some explanation to Miss Sally, when he next 
 visited her, which was not until two or three weeks after the 
 evening when William had run up the beach to invite him 
 down to take supper ; but she received him in such a man 
 ner that he had made a hasty exit from the house, and 
 though fifteen years had since passed, had never re-entered 
 it again.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 ALL SAINTS' DAY. 
 
 JT was on a Holy Sabbath morning the Feast of 
 All Saints that Brendice Du Bois, bearing in her 
 arms the new burden she had voluntarily taken 
 up, returned to her old home, which she had entered but a few 
 times, and then solely for the purpose of looking after her 
 fish, since the evening, months ago, on which she had walked 
 away from it with Mrs. Maitland. 
 
 A faint, sickening sensation passed over her as she closed 
 the door against her companion, who would so gladly have 
 taken her to his own comfortable home, either as his wife, 
 or as a companion for his aunt. 
 
 She felt no regret that she had silenced him so suddenly, 
 though, sinking down upon a seat by the window, she sat 
 following with her eyes his retreating form, till it passed, 
 through the thick mist, beyond her sight. Neither did she 
 think, just then, how lonely and desolate her situation was, 
 especially at this season of the year, when the long, cold 
 
 winter was just coming on ; to say nothing of the dreariness 
 
 (185)
 
 1 86 By the Sea. 
 
 and discomfort of her abode, of her poverty, and the wants 
 of herself and the child. 
 
 She thought only of what William Jones had said of the 
 man at the Convoy, how confidently he had spoken of the 
 lighthouse keeper as a gentleman he had once well known, 
 and concerning whose identity with Mr. Aden, it might be 
 inferred, there had never been with any one the least 
 question. 
 
 The young man had not expressed to her the thoughts 
 which were now passing through his mind ; and, in fact, the 
 words he had heard Greyson utter long ago had not occurred 
 to him until after he parted with the girl. 
 
 Brendice was thinking of what he had said, and more 
 intently now than when she was listening to him, debating 
 with herself, as she was then, whether she should accept the 
 assistance of another in the accomplishment of the purpose 
 she had so much at heart. 
 
 Now she was summing up what she had used as proof that 
 the lighthouse keeper was the Mr. Maitlard who, her father 
 had told her, was the murderer of her mother. 
 
 The longer she reflected, the less weighty these proofs 
 appeared to her, and a faint, sickening feeling came over 
 her, as she thought, perhaps, she had as yet found no clue 
 which would lead to the discovery of the guilty man. 
 
 The child moved uneasily in her arms, and, without open 
 ing the sweet brown eyes, tried to speak the name : " Luke 
 Luke!" and to say that he was cold and hungry ; and when 
 he had waked, and stared about the strange, uncomfortable- 
 looking apartment, the little lips began to quiver with fear, 
 and tears rolled down his cheeks.
 
 All Saints Day. 187 
 
 An hour after, however, the child was playing, contentedly, 
 on the sanded floor. 
 
 Brendice had torn away a loosened plank from the old boat, 
 split it into pieces, and made a comfortable fire, and pre 
 pared for herself and the child some coarse but palatable 
 food ; and then had gone out into the rain, which was falling 
 fast now, while the weather had become so cold that the 
 ground was beginning to be iced over, and gathered 
 nandfuls of pebbles and sea-shells as playthings for L' Enfant. 
 
 That was the name she had given the boy, to the great 
 amusement of Miss Emma Brown, until Sally Jones had 
 said, in her determined way, that Brendice certainly had the 
 right to call him by whatever name she pleased, if she waa 
 going to take charge of him ; and that Lang was as good a 
 name as any other. 
 
 "When the child had been cared for, entirely to the little 
 creature's satisfaction, for the old room was ringing with his 
 peals of merry laughter, Brendice began to busy herself 
 about the apartment. She felt that she could no longer, 
 that day, continue the train of thought she had been following, 
 when the waking of the child disturbed her. 
 
 Then she remembered that this was the Sabbath. She had 
 scarcely thought of it before. And one of the Church's 
 holy-days. 
 
 Mrs. Maitland had referred to it the past Sunday, as she 
 sat, propped up in her bed, little thinking that it was. her 
 last earthly Sabbath. 
 
 She had told Brendice, with her peaceful smile, that she 
 had made up her mind to be sick that day, and be waited 
 upon, and to be read to ; and that a portion of the reading
 
 1 88 By the Sea. 
 
 must be the Visitation of the Sick ; for as she had never been 
 really ill in her life, that service had never been read to her. 
 
 " The next Lord's day," she said, folding her thin, white 
 hands above her head, and looking away through the open 
 window, up to the vapory eastern sky " which is All Saints' 
 Day, we will read together about the Blessed, who are sealed 
 in their foreheads the servants of our God that great 
 multitude whom no man can number, but whom our Saviour 
 will know, each one by name. 
 
 " Breudice, I have sometimes thought,when we are born 
 again born to the Life Eternal, that we shall be called by 
 a new name which the mouth of the Lord shall name. Those 
 who have been termed Forsaken, and their inheritance 
 Desolate, shall be called Hephzi-bah, and their portion 
 Beulah ; no more Jacob, the Supplanter, but, for his earnest 
 wrestling to obtain the blessing, Israel, a prince, prevailing 
 with God! 
 
 " That innumerable multitude, clothed in white robes, 
 with palms in their hands, standing about the Throne the 
 Throne of God and the Lamb, and singing, for evermore, 
 the song of the Redeemed. Those who will see God, are 
 the pure in heart, and it is the peacemakers who will bo 
 called His children. 
 
 " Brendice, we will pray together on that holy-day the 
 next Sabbath ; will we not ? you will not go out any more, 
 to walk alone upon the beach, and look so grievedly and 
 hopelessly into the sea, as you have always yet done, when I 
 sat down to read the Service of the Church !" she added, 
 pleadingly, as she removed one trembling hand from her 
 brow, and laid it on the girls arm. " We will together utter
 
 All Saints Day. 189 
 
 this prayer which the Church's thousands will breathe on 
 the coming Sabbath : 
 
 " ' Grant us grace to follow Thy blessed Saints in all 
 virtuous and godly living, that we may come to those 
 unspeakable joys which Thou hast prepared for those who 
 unfeignedly love Thee.' 
 
 " You will promise me this, dear Brendice ! 
 
 " It has grieved me, very much, these months past, to 
 think there was no voice to mingle with mine, when I read 
 the beautiful and solemn Service of the Church ; but hence 
 forth, while I live, there will be two of us to engage in it, 
 will there not ? And I have been praying, Brendice, that 
 when I am gone, the Lord will send some one to you, whom 
 you will love, as I am loving you." 
 
 She had been silent for a moment, and then had repeated 
 the request : 
 
 "Henceforth, while I live, you will read the service with 
 me." 
 
 It was not much to promise, for the girl was thinking that 
 the last earthly Sabbath for that gentle being, if not already 
 arrived, must come very soon, and she replied by returning 
 the soft pressure upon her fingers; and then she had taken a 
 low stool and sat down by the bedside, and read in a solemn, 
 sweetly-modulated voice, the Service for the Sick, until she 
 came to the beautiful words of blessing. The blessing which 
 the Hebrew leader, at the command of God, instructed the 
 high-priest and bis sons to pronounce over the congregation 
 of Israel as they journeyed to the proinisid land. The 
 beautiful words with which our holy and tender Mother 
 blesses her numerous offspring, as, weary and way-worn,
 
 190 By the Sea. 
 
 but with the desert now passed, they climb up the height, 
 and look away away from Pisgah, up, over the dark river 
 that rolls between, away to the better and lasting Inheri 
 tance : for Christ, himself, going before, has prepared the 
 place for them ! 
 
 And then Mrs. Maitland, raising herself higher in the bed, 
 had extended her hand and rested it on Brendice's head, 
 and in a low, and tremulous, but trusting voice, repeated the 
 words : 
 
 "The Lord bless thee and keep thee. The Lord make 
 His face to shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee. 
 The Lord lift up His countenance upon thee, and give thee 
 peace." 
 
 The "Amen " had risen to Brendice's lips; but she checked 
 its utterance. 
 
 " The peace of God !" No doubt it was a most blessed 
 thing something to be greatly desired. 
 
 But through the open window what object, or what dis 
 tance of time or space could shut out the sound ? she heard 
 a voice coming up from the never-silent sea ; her father's 
 voice : 
 
 "Kevanche!" 
 
 What had she to do with peace? And she shook off the 
 feeling which was stealing over her. 
 
 Mrs. Maitland had watched the changes of her counte- 
 ..tince. She took the Prayer-book after she ceased speak 
 ing, and held it for some moments in her clasp, with her 
 eyes closed, but her lips moving inaudibly, and then gave 
 it back to the girl. 
 
 And this Sunday morning, as Brendice was picking up her
 
 All Saints Day. 191 
 
 clothing to return to lier old home, she had taken the book, 
 the only thing that she did take from the house, and put it 
 in her bundle. 
 
 She had scarcely realized what she was doing at the mo 
 ment ; but now, as the remembrance of the past Sunday 
 came to her, and she, in her attempts better to dispose the 
 poor furniture of the miserable apartment, had stood before 
 the little dingy window which opened towards the west, and 
 looked away through the cold, drizzling rain, up to the 
 clump of evergreens on the distant hill-side, she thought of 
 the promise to Mrs. Maitland : 
 
 " On the" Feast of All Saints, we will utter together the 
 prayer which the Church will offer." 
 
 She took the book and an old copy of the French Bible 
 she knew in what part of the sea-chest to look for it, for she 
 had often seen it there, and sometimes, though not fre 
 quently, for her father had not taught her so to do, she had 
 read a few chapters in it, and sat down, turning to the Ser 
 vice for the Holy Day. 
 
 Where was she now, who, only one short week since, had 
 spoken, so confidently, of reading the Service with her ? 
 
 The question passed through the girl's mind, as her eyes 
 rested on the first Lesson for the evening. 
 
 Perhaps far away in infinite space, beyond the sight or 
 the knowledge of earthly things ; gone "Passed away as a 
 shadow, and a post that hasteth by ; as a ship that passeth 
 over the waters; a bird that hath flown through the air, or an 
 arrow shot at a mark ;" but, " Numbered among the children 
 of God," and " the care of them is with the Most High !" 
 
 And Brendice thought of herself, and read again and
 
 1 92 By the Sea. 
 
 again the words which seemed so applicable to her own 
 case : 
 
 " We have gone through deserts where there lay no way; 
 but as for ^the way of the Lord, we have not known it." 
 
 There was no more prayer for Mrs. Maitland now, no 
 mote striving to follow the blessed Saints, in whose footsteps, 
 Brendice thought, as she was reading the beatitudes, the 
 departed one had so closely walked ; one, herself, among 
 them, now, with the words of praise, henceforth, forever 
 upon her lips. 
 
 And the prayer for that day was not for Brendice to utter, 
 for as she turned to the Gospel for the Sabbath, she read : 
 
 " Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I for 
 give him ? Till seven times ? 
 
 "And Jesus saith unto him, Until seventy times seven." 
 
 As often as he shall sin against thee 1 
 
 And Brendice had not forgiven once! No, and never 
 would forgive 1 
 
 The softer expression which overspread her features as she 
 had looked up the hill-side, and thought of her so far away, 
 now among the Blessed, forever removed from all sorrow and 
 pain, had faded very quickly. 
 
 Beyond the opposite window, though now shut out from 
 sight by the heavy rain, lay the islands. 
 
 The hard, cold look, so habitual to it, though nature never 
 meant it to be so, came back to her face. 
 
 When her work was done when measure should have 
 been given for measure she might again, perhaps, look over 
 the pages of the Holy Book, and see if there was anything 
 written there for those who, instead of leaving their wrongs
 
 AIL Saints Day. 193 
 
 in the hands of Him who has said, " Vengeance is mine ; I 
 will repay," have taken the adjustment of their affairs entirely 
 upon themselves. 
 
 The little boy upon the floor, though well pleased with 
 his new, wonderful toys, was not so absorbed by his play that 
 he did not often turn the sweet eyes timidly around the 
 strange room, and then up to the face he was beginning to 
 love, to be assured, by its expression, that everything was 
 just as it should be. 
 
 He had been startled by the heavy fall of the Bible lid, 
 and the snap of its clasp, and looked up to see the great 
 change which had passed over her face, great even to him, 
 the child of two and a half years, and he dropped his shells 
 and got upon his feet, and hesitatingly drew near her, the 
 tears trembling in his eyes, and. the quivering lip restrain 
 ing the sobs, only till he could put one little, soft, warm hand 
 upon her fingers, and hide his face in her lap. 
 
 The girl glanced at the little creature, and thought of 
 what Mrs. Maitland had said, the past Sunday, that, when 
 she was gone, the Lord would send some one to Brendice 
 whom she could love. 
 
 She folded her arms around the child, and drew him 
 closely to her, wondering if heaven ever did, really, concern 
 itself with the affairs of men ; and hoping that the sweet 
 child, now so innocent and loving, and possessing, as it 
 seemed to, so happy a nature, might be spared such suffer 
 ing as her childhood had known, and such bitter, maddening 
 grief as was the portion of her youth ; hoping, too : her eyes 
 had rested so long upon the Collect which she had promised 
 to read, on this Holy- day, but which she could not bring 
 
 9
 
 194 
 
 herself to utter, that the form of words was passing through 
 her mind: hoping with an earnestness that was more 
 than half a prayer, that, when this brief life was over, he 
 might " Come to those unspeakable joys which Thou hast 
 prepared for those who unfeignedly love Thee !" 
 
 The desire for another's good was softening her heart; 
 and the child looked up as the tears fell on his brow, and 
 he nestled closer to her, twining his arms about her neck, 
 and cooing gently and pitifully in the little endeavor to 
 soothe her, till tho eyelids began to droop, and the head sank 
 down upon her shoulder. 
 
 Then Brendice took up the little sound, in a voice sweet 
 as that of the child, chanting over and over the closing lines 
 of the hymn Mrs. Maitland had selected for the day. The 
 leaf had been turned down, by her white, trembling fingers, 
 at the words : 
 
 " And forever from their eyes, 
 God shall wipe away the tears." 
 
 The child was still lying in her arms when the cold, dis 
 mal day drew to its close. 
 
 It was dark early in that cheerless room ; for the two win 
 dows in the apartment contained each but a dozen small 
 panes of glass, and they were thickly curtained with cob 
 webs and dust. 
 
 Here and there, as she looked out into the waning night, a 
 light was springing up, and sending its cheerful rays through 
 the darkness. 
 
 The first which appeared, had blazed out widely over the 
 sea ; then the red light came down from the north, and a 
 moment later, the lamps at the Ocean House were lighted.
 
 All Saints Day. 195 
 
 The boarders, with a single exception, had gone from the 
 hotel, two months since ; but the proprietor made the 
 dwelling his permanent home ; it would not be closed during 
 the winter. 
 
 Then lights in the other dwellings came out. 
 
 In the distance, Brendice knew scarcely one of those resi 
 dences from the other, she was still such a stranger in the 
 place, though, from her earliest remembrance, her home had 
 been there. 
 
 She sat, for so long a time, idly watching them, that her 
 room was almost dark when she rose to place the child upon 
 the bed which had been occupied by her father, and on 
 which articles of his clothing were still lying, as he had 
 thrown them down, just before she had seen him for the last 
 time, walking down the beach, to which his boat had re 
 turned empty. 
 
 A shudder ran through her frame, and her fingers trembled 
 as they touched the clothing which she wished to remove in 
 order to make a place for the child to lie comfortably in, and 
 something rustled down upon the floor. It was a folded 
 paper. 
 
 She did not notice it particularly. There was not light 
 enough now in the apartment to enable her to see whether 
 it bore any superscription or not, even if she had endeavored 
 to do so. 
 
 Sh3 wondered what it was ; but she was so strangely ner 
 vous, as it seemed to her, though it was simply long-contin 
 ued wakefulness, for she had slept very little during the last 
 three nights, which was exerting its influence over her, that 
 she had picked up the paper, and, scarcely glancing at it,
 
 196 By the Sea. 
 
 dropped it into the pocket of the old coat, which with 
 the other garments, she very quickly hung up in their form 
 erly accustomed place, the darkest corner in the room, and 
 then sank down on the couch, beside the child. 
 
 The frozen rain was falling heavily upon the roof of the 
 rude cabin, and beating against the window panes, and 
 the cold waves were dashing monotonously and gloomily 
 over the rocks. 
 
 Brendice drew the sleeping child into her tender embrace, 
 and thought how much another woman might love him ; but 
 the last object on which her eyes rested, before they closed 
 in slumber, was the Convoy light; and her lips shaped them 
 selves, at the close of that holy-day, to the words : 
 
 '"Measure for measure; pressed down and running 
 over.' "
 
 CHAPTER XY. 
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 HE early, cold winter was slowly passing on. It 
 was a particularly severe one, even for that bleak 
 coast. For many days in succession, would the 
 fine dry snow slowly sift down, and then a cold, swift wind 
 would lift the white covering from the earth, tossing it here 
 and there at its will, filling up the highways, and stamping 
 down the huge piles with its viewless feet, so firmly, that the 
 roads would be, for a long time, well nigh impassable, and 
 heaping the thick fleeces one above an other, till the fences 
 and stone walls, and many a low habitation, for man as well 
 as for beast, well nigh disappeared. 
 
 The little fish -houses, all of them now, save one, quite un 
 used during the winter, were more than once thus almost 
 lost to view. But from out the extremity of the long snow 
 ridge, a thin, blue smoke would curl up early each morning, 
 through the frosty air ; and no one ever went down to the 
 dwelling without finding a clearing before its entrance, 
 sufficiently wide for the door, which had been hung on the 
 
 outside of the building, to swing in, and the snow swept 
 
 (197)
 
 198 By the Sea. 
 
 away from the windows, so that the sunlight could find its 
 way into the apartment, which was much more orderly and 
 clean now than it had ever been before. 
 
 Brendice Du Bois was very anxious that the few people 
 who interested themselves in her welfare and that of the 
 little boy, should have no reason to suppose that she needed 
 assistance. 
 
 She had voluntarily taken upon herself the charge of the 
 child, and she felt, at most times, quite capable of accom 
 plishing her task. It might not be long that he would re 
 main with her. Some one who had a right to do so, might 
 come and claim him, or she might be obliged to relinquish 
 her care of him; but while she kept him, it should be with 
 out the aid of others. And, besides, she could not forget 
 that some of the neighbors, at one time, had contemplated 
 sending her to the alms-house. 
 
 No one had offended her with what might be considered 
 a real offer of assistance. 
 
 Mrs. Adams, of the Ocean House, had brought her down 
 some plain sewing; Brendice had learned from Mrs. Mait- 
 land to use the needle very cleverly. 
 
 Miss Sally Jones had come over one day during the first 
 week after Brendice's return to her home, and brought her 
 spinning-wheel, a.nd a bundle of "rolls," and taught the girl 
 to spin. She wanted some coarse yarn for a home-made 
 carpet. 
 
 And during the winter, when the weather would permit, 
 she went down daily on the beach and dug a basket of clams. 
 They were for the old gentleman at the Ocean House, Mr. 
 Hall. He was somewhat an invalid this winter, and he had
 
 Christmas Eve. 199 
 
 sent down to inquire if she could furnish him with fresh 
 shell-fish every day ; and as Brendice was very glad to do so, 
 when it was possible to gather them, a feeble little lad, the 
 son of a poor woman, widowed by the shipwreck which had 
 happened at the Bar some months before, whom the old 
 gentleman found frequent occasion to employ, was sent 
 down to the girl, every pleasant day, with a small basket and 
 a bright silver " quarter " for the fish. 
 
 The boy was to remain with " Lang " Miss Jones' abbre 
 viation was accepted while the clams were dug; and the 
 basket always brought something which added very much to 
 Brendice's necessarily plain fare, and which helped to while 
 away many an hour, which, otherwise, would have been very 
 long and lonely. 
 
 A dozen nice apples or pears, a handful of figs, a slice of 
 dripping honey-comb, a cluster of raisins, or a few nuts, 
 would be sure to come in the basket, well wrapped up in 
 some good, instructive newspaper. 
 
 The old boat, and the drift-wood she occasionally found 
 along the shore, furnished her tolerably well with fuel- 
 She had expected that she would be obliged to sell the new 
 boat, and some other articles, perhaps, which had belonged 
 to her father, to enable her to live through the winter; and 
 before the spring-fishing came on, the purpose she had so 
 much at heart, and which seemed daily to be strengthening, 
 she hoped to have accomplished. 
 
 What was to come after, she did not suffer herself to think. 
 Most likely she would never use the boat again. 
 
 The avails of her labor, however, furnished her with food, 
 without the sale of anything which had been her father's;
 
 2OO By the Sea. 
 
 , * 
 
 and she had been able, besides, to purchase such a warm, 
 soft dress for her little charge, that he was very comfort 
 able. 
 
 She made it her especial care that he should be so, and 
 happy, too; at first from principle, and afterwards from 
 affection. The sweet-tempered, engaging little creature 
 found his way to her inmost heart ; and his smile, which 
 seemed to light up the apartment like a ray of sunshine after 
 the storm had passed, and the cunning little baby words he 
 would try so hard to utter, awoke emotions which she had 
 supposed herself incapable ever of experiencing. 
 
 She did not know how much she loved the child until one 
 night it was Christmas Eve the thought suddenly flashed 
 across her mind that he might, perhaps, be taken immediately 
 from her. 
 
 The old gentleman at the Ocean House gave an entertain 
 ment to the children of the neighborhood; and Mrs. Adams 
 herself came down to invite Brendice to go up to the hotel 
 and take little Lang ; bringing a warm shawl to wrap him up 
 in, and promising that her son should come and help her 
 carry the child. 
 
 Brendice had not been away from her home since her 
 return to it, now nigh two months ago, except when she 
 went down on the beach for her basket of clams, or had 
 taken a swift walk while the child was sleeping, over to the 
 store, for the purchase of some article for her housekeeping. 
 
 Miss Jones had been very anxious that she should spend 
 Thanksgiving-day with her and William ; and Mrs. Brown 
 had compelled Emma, who was very unwilling to do so, to 
 invite her to a quil ting-party. Brendice had declined both
 
 Christmas Eve. 201 
 
 invitations, and she was very loth to accept that from Mrs. 
 Adams. 
 
 The little boy was not old enough to appreciate the 
 pleasant things prepared for the children, she said. The 
 night was cold, and he had better be at home and asleep. 
 
 And Mrs. Adams assented, but she added that the old 
 gentleman wanted to see all the children in the neighbor 
 hood together. He had been at considerable expense to 
 prepare the festival for them, and he was so very kind and 
 good that she thought every one ought to be willing to make 
 some little sacrifice for him. He had not a relative living 
 within hundreds of miles, and no particular friend, now that 
 Mr. Aden, over at The Rocks, to whom Mr. Hall had once 
 been greatly attached, persistently refused to visit him. He 
 had, besides, seen much trouble, and sometimes it weighed 
 very heavily on his mind, making him, in his rather feeble 
 state of health, almost sick, until he could, by the attempt to 
 make some one else happy, regain his accustomed cheer 
 fulness. 
 
 At the best, however, his was a most solitary life, and she 
 felt very sorry for him. He had been quite ill for a week or 
 two past, but had brightened up, as the thought occurred to 
 him of bringing the children together around the Christ^ 
 mas-tree. 
 
 A Christmas festival had never been held at H : 
 
 At St. Mary's, up at the Port, the holy season was ob 
 served with all its beautiful and impressive ceremonies. 
 
 The old gentleman had formerly worshipped at St. Mary's, 
 
 and he had been intending to go up to N , and spend 
 
 the holidays there, and renew the acquaintances he had formed 
 
 9*
 
 202 By the Sea. 
 
 there years ago. But his heart had failed him, as the time 
 drew near, and so he would keep the feast here, and gather 
 the little strangers about him. 
 
 " None of the children here, besides my own," Mrs. Adams 
 said, "know anything about the Church ; and this little festi 
 val will, I am convinced, for Mr. Hall has made it a subject 
 of prayer, produce a very pleasing and lasting impression on 
 their young minds. You will certainly bring the child." 
 
 And Brendice went, though very unwillingly ; she could 
 not well refuse, for she felt under great obligations to the 
 stranger, and to Mrs. Adams, too, for the employment they 
 had given her, and for the many very acceptable presents of 
 newspapers and fruits the old gentleman had sent her. 
 
 The festival was a very pleasant affair. 
 
 The good-sized hall at the Ocean House was handsomely 
 trimmed with evergreens, and brilliantly lighted. The 
 walls were hung Avith pictures, inexpensive, the most of 
 them, but very appropriate for the occasion; and the large 
 Christmas-tree was as much admired by the old, as by the 
 young, for all the people in the neighborhood must be gather 
 ed about it, Brendice thought, as she entered the hall, rather 
 late, herself, as she wished to make her stay there as brief as 
 possible. 
 
 The child had fallen asleep in her arms, as she was carry 
 ing him up to the house, and had not waked when his 
 blanket was removed, and Mrs. Adams had placed the little 
 fellow beside her own babe in the crib, to be brought to St. 
 Nicholas, she whispered to him softly, just as soon as he 
 should open his eyes. 
 
 Mrs. Maitland had thought, and with good reason, that
 
 CJiristmas Eve. 203 
 
 the mother of Brendice Du Bois was, by far, the most beau 
 tiful woman she had ever seen ; and as Mrs. Adams conducted 
 her, who to some eyes might have seemed the almost perfect 
 counterpart of that unfortunate lady, into the lighted hall, a 
 similar thought occurred to her. 
 
 Brendice had strangely altered, in her whole appearance, 
 within the past few months. Mrs. Adams did not know 
 which most to admire, the symmetry and delicacy of feature, 
 the perfect good taste displayed in the arrangement of the 
 simple toilet, or her quiet dignity and repose of manner 
 when she suddenly found herself the object to which many 
 wondering eyes turned now with manifest pleasure and re 
 spect. 
 
 The host was an old man now; but, had it not been for the 
 sad intelligence which had reached him some months before, 
 and which had sensibly affected both his health and spirits, 
 not aged for his eighty years. Even now, he seemed in 
 better condition than when mention was made of him, 
 earlier in this narrative, though more than fifteen years had 
 passed over his head since the period then referred to. 
 
 He had a fine, pleasaut countenance, a somewhat sad, but 
 kind smile ; and the eye, yet undimmed, showed that the 
 intellect, which had never been very brilliant, was not yet 
 impaired by age. 
 
 He received Brendice very kindly, holding her hand for a 
 long time in his trembling fingers, and looking up from the 
 soft cushions on which he half reclined for he seemed 
 rather more feeble than usual that evening into her face, al 
 most silently, but with an expression of pleased surprise on his 
 features, and following her with his eyes as Mrs. Adams led
 
 2O4 By the Sea. 
 
 her away, so that he could continue the remarks which her 
 entrance had interrupted, to those gathered around the 
 beautiful Christmas-tree. Half an hour later, he called her 
 again to his side, and asked her if she would sing for him. 
 
 Those were pleasant little songs which the children had 
 been singing, he said; but he would like to hear a Christmas 
 carol. Jerry G-reyson had just been telling him that Miss 
 Brendice had a very fine voice. He had heard her sing 
 many times, and very nicely. 
 
 If she knew some little simple rhyme for Christmas Eve, 
 would she make an old man, who heard none but strange 
 voices now, happy by singing it ? 
 
 Brendice flushed slightly, but she could not utter a refusal, 
 for she saw that it would give the old gentleman pleasure to 
 hear her sing, and what mattered it whether that group of 
 girls gathered around Miss Emma Brown, several of whom 
 had been the tormentors of her childhood, made themselves 
 merry at her expense, or not ? 
 
 The host saw that she needed no more urging, and he turned 
 to the children and spoke a few words to them, that Bren 
 dice might have time to collect her thoughts; but she was 
 only listening to what he said. 
 
 He had wished to tell them something more, he re 
 marked, about Christmas ; but he was becoming rather 
 tired, and perhaps they were tired too, though he could 
 detect no sign of weariness in the smiling little faces. He 
 had wanted to say to them that it was not because Christ 
 was born, that those who love him celebrate his birthday, 
 but because he was born to die, to die, that man might 
 hereafter, have a life which shall never end.
 
 Christmas Eve. 2o5 
 
 This tree, lie said, ever green, was typical of the tree on 
 which he suffered; never destructible, never to lose its beauty 
 and verdure. 
 
 Once, long ago, there was a beautiful tree in the midst of 
 a beautiful garden. The fruit was very fair to look upon, 
 and very pleasant to t the taste. But it was poisonous fruit- 
 And he who had planted that fair garden had said to the 
 man and the woman who walked therein : 
 
 " Ye shall not eat of it, neither shall ye touch it, lest ye 
 die !" 
 
 But they listened to the voice of the serpent, and ate 
 and died ! And their sons and daughters, for many and 
 many a generation, which passed like the hours of a gloomy 
 night, whose silence was only broken, now and then, by the 
 prophetic voice, telling how the time was wearing away, 
 died too! 
 
 Another Tree uprose at length ; not fair, at first, to the 
 sight, as that had been, nor as sweet to the taste as was the 
 poisonous fruit. The eyes of man saw not well now, and 
 their taste had become corrupted. 
 
 But as one looked on that Tree, which grew on Mount 
 Calvary the Tree of the Cross it grew wondrously beau 
 tiful, so beautiful that all the fair and bright things of earth 
 faded before it. 
 
 They who ate of the Fruit of this Tree should hunger 
 no more, neither thirst any more, neither should they, ever 
 after, lack any good thing. 
 
 Beneath its branches the sxm should not fall upon them, 
 nor any heat. It should be a covert from the storm, a hid 
 ing place from the tempest; and the serpent, whose head had
 
 206 By the Sea. 
 
 been deeply bruised, should never beguile them more 
 charmed he never so wisely. 
 
 And this Fruit is free to all ! For God, who planted this 
 Tree the Healer of that fearful and deadly disease which 
 came with the poisonous fruit, so wickedly eaten the poison 
 destroying the body, the disobedience, destroying the soul, 
 God, himself, who planted this Tree, the Tree of the won 
 drous Cross, 
 
 The aged man raised himself up upon his cushions, and 
 lifted his eyes towards heaven, 
 
 "' Glory to God in the highest; on earth, peace, good-will 
 to man !' He has said to every one, ' Come, eat, be healed, 
 and live forever !' " 
 
 And then Brendice's voice, now in her native tongue, 
 for the words, to her, seemed to lose a portion of their sweet 
 ness in the translation, and now in the language which 
 she spoke quite as well, rose sweet and clear in the simple 
 rhymes she tried to weave out of the words the old gen 
 tleman had uttered. In listening to him, the Christmas 
 carol she had learned years ago, and fragments of which had 
 been on her lips many times that day, passed entirely 
 from her recollection. 
 
 Her voice rose singularly clear and sweet, notwithstanding 
 the slight tremulousness of her tones, which, however, no 
 feeling of embarrassment, but simply the sense of loneliness 
 and isolation that stole over her, while he was speaking, 
 had caused :
 
 Christmas Eve. 207 
 
 Glorie a Dleu! 
 Not to the tree 
 In the midst of the garden, 
 
 Though pleasant to see, 
 
 And laden with fruits the most rich and most rare, 
 For the breath of the serpent was felt on the air, 
 And the long night that followed 
 
 Of darkness and pain, 
 Caught never a sound 
 Of the welcome refrain : 
 
 Bonne Volonie, 
 Paix sur la Terre ! 
 
 Glorie a Dleu ! 
 The darkness is passed ; 
 The Star in the East 
 Has arisen at last ; 
 
 And the long- withered stock of a lovelier Tree 
 Sends a branch o'er the earth and a branch o'er the sea, 
 And the mountains of Judah 
 
 Ee-echo the strain 
 Which the angels are chanting 
 In glorious refrain : 
 
 Bonne Volonie, 
 Paix sur la Terre ! 
 
 Glorie d Dieu ! 
 Ever to Thee, 
 Thou wonderful Fruit 
 Of a wonderful Tree, 
 
 Thou one great Messiah, Redeemer, and King, 
 Born a babe in the manger, our offerings we bring ; 
 While heaven's highest arches 
 
 Awaken the strain, 
 We taste of the Fruit, 
 And we chant the refrain : 
 
 Bonne Volonte, 
 Paix, sur la Terre !
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 BURIED TALENTS. 
 
 JKENDICE, Bren dice !" was uttered in a quick, 
 half-frightened, baby voice from the doorway, 
 and a pair of wide-open, wondering eyes 
 glanced about the crowded room. 
 
 Little Lang had caught the sound of her voice, and 
 climbed out of the crib to find her. 
 
 He was a very fair child, so many thought who looked at 
 him, as he stood there ; the little brown eyes beginning to 
 moisten, and the lips slightly quivering 5 very fair when a 
 sweet smile gleamed out like a burst of sunshine on the 
 clouded face, and a short crow of delight came from the rosy 
 mouth, as he spied the object of his search, and ran swiftly 
 forward to meet her, and cling to her hand, and bury his 
 curly head in the folds of her dress, occasionally peeping out 
 shyly, because he knew many strange faces were regarding 
 him, to catch a glimpse of her features, and see that every 
 thing was right. 
 
 The old gentleman very near whom Brendice was standing, 
 had heard the child's voice, and had seen the blue-robed
 
 Buried Talents. 209 
 
 figure, with the pale-brown hair floating over the shoulders, 
 bounding across the room, but he had not particularly 
 noticed the child. 
 
 He had been attentively regarding Brendice ever since she 
 commenced singing. In fact his eyes were continually turn 
 ing towards her, from the moment she was introduced to 
 him. 
 
 He was trying to realize that this young girl, of whom his 
 landlady had told him all that was generally known of Bren 
 dice Du Bois, so very good-looking, and apparently well- 
 bred for her fine intellect and quick perceptions, with the 
 little aid she had received from Mrs. Maitland, were filling 
 up many a gap left by her stern instructor was the one to 
 whom he was sending, almost daily, for the basket of freshly- 
 gathered fish; his sole purpose in thus employing her being 
 to enable her to eke out a scanty but independent support 
 for herself and the child, and in solving the problem which 
 had so puzzled Miss Emma Brown. 
 
 Sally Jones could not deny herself the pleasure of teasing 
 that young lady, by circulating the report that William's 
 offer of marriage had been firmly rejected by Brendice. 
 
 Mr. Hall, as he looked on her, thought he could under 
 stand how this girl might refuse the love and the hand of 
 a good-hearted and sensible young man who could give 
 her a pleasant home, and surround her with all the com 
 forts of life, and then go down, so often, wrapped up in a 
 fisherman's coat, upon the wet, slippery beach, through the 
 cold wind, and sometimes through the drifting snow, with 
 the basket and the fork to dig the clams. 
 
 He did not compliment her singing, as many of the guests
 
 2io By the Sea. 
 
 were doing, nor thank her for complying so readily with 
 his request ; but after a few moments' silence, and while 
 the company were partaking of the nice refreshments pre 
 pared for them, he said, so softly that Brendice bent her 
 head to listen : 
 
 " You have read the parable of the man travelling into a 
 far country, who called his servants, and delivered unto 
 them his goods, to one, five talents, to another, two, and 
 to another, one?" 
 
 "Yes, sir!" Brendice said. 
 
 " And you have thought that he who received the one 
 talent each man had received according to his ability the 
 proper use of which would, undoubtedly, have furnished him 
 with the means of making himself, and perhaps others too, 
 comfortable and happy, and yet enough have been left of the 
 avails of his labor to pay the usury also, when he returned 
 unto his lord what was his own ; you have thought, for 
 digging in the earth, and hiding his lord's money, he de 
 served to be called the wicked and slothful servant ; to have 
 the one talent taken from him, and to belong, no more, to 
 the household of his lord. 
 
 " But did this unprofitable servant, whom his lord ad 
 judged to the outer darkness, more richly merit his fate than 
 he would have done who should employ only one of the five 
 talents entrusted to him, and that perhaps the least worthy, 
 wrapping all the others in a napkin, and burying them in the 
 earth ? 
 
 " I have often thought, lately, my child, my own short 
 comings first led me to think of it, though the idea has never 
 been so deeply impressed upon my mind as it is now,
 
 Buried Talents. 2 1 1 
 
 while I look at you, and remember what my landlady has 
 told me of you, that by-and-by, when our Lord calls u? be 
 fore Him, for the great and final reckoning, how many of us 
 will Jiave to return to Him, without the usury he requires, 
 the talents, worth thousands of gold and silver, he has en 
 trusted to us, the brightest and best the most carefully 
 wrapped in the napkin, and buried most deeply in the 
 earth 1" 
 
 He paused abruptly. 
 
 She had suddenly raised herself erect, and he saw a look 
 of proud contempt flashing out from her eyes, followed 
 quickly, however, by the drooping of the lids, while an ex 
 pression of deep pain passed over her face. 
 
 She was wondering if Mrs. Adams had told the old gen 
 tleman that some of the people who were his guests this 
 evening, had concluded, not many months since, they would 
 be obliged to send her to the almshouse. 
 
 But that was a momentary feeling, for the words which 
 followed that allusion to what his landlady had said, struck 
 a chord in the girl's heart which she was always trying to 
 silence, and which rang out, now, a music like the voice of 
 many waters ; and she bowed her head again, as if to suffer 
 the swift billows to roll over it. After a brief pause, during 
 which he was attentively watching the changes of her counte 
 nance, Mr. Hall extended his hand, and added, in a gentle 
 tone : 
 
 " Remember it is an old man who is addressing you, my 
 dear, one who always thinks that the words he is speaking 
 may be the last he will ever utter in this life ; and do not be 
 offended with me !"
 
 212 By the Sea. 
 
 "Oh, sir, I am not offended!" Brendice said, quickly, as 
 she took his offered hand. " I was thinking" 
 
 "Of what, my child ?" he asked, retaining her fingers in 
 his grasp. 
 
 " That if your faith was mine, I would dig the wide earth 
 
 over to see if there were any buried talents I could believe 
 
 
 loaned to me, and consecrate them to the service of Him who 
 
 may some time recall His own, and to the good of my fellow- 
 beings, the only usury to be offered to Him. Bat the law of 
 love is not the governing rule of my life !" 
 
 She spoke very sadly and earnestly, and as if to contradict 
 her words, she stooped and gathered the child, who was 
 shyly endeavoring to attract her attention, into her arms, 
 putting into his eager hand the delicacies just brought to 
 her, with such an expression, that a smile came to the face 
 of the aged man, and he was whispering softly to himself : 
 
 " Not far from the kingdom ; with such unselfish love as 
 that, not far from the kingdom !" when the child chanced to 
 lift his eyes to the gentleman's countenance ; and then some 
 one exclaimed, hurriedly : 
 
 " Mr. Hall has fainted ! Bring water, he has fainted, or is 
 dying!" 
 
 Many gathered around him, but of them all, only Brendice 
 knew, or even conjectured rightly, what had caused his 
 sudden emotion. 
 
 She alone observed that Jerry Greyson, who, while the 
 host had been addressing herself, was standing not far off, 
 with that look upon his face of greater stupidity than usual 
 that he always assumed when he had some purpose in his 
 mind which he considered very important, slowly edged his
 
 Buried Talents. 213 
 
 way to Mr. Hall, as she was turning her attention to the 
 child. 
 
 She knew that his keen, searching eyes, half closed as they 
 were, rested on her face. They often did so lately when she 
 chanced to meet him. There was nothing particularly un 
 friendly in their expression, but there was a disagreeably 
 inquisitive look in them. 
 
 He had drawn close behind Mr. Hall's lounge, and when 
 he thought she was not observing him, he bent his head low, 
 and whispered a few words in the old gentleman's ear. It 
 was at the very moment that little Lang glanced up into his 
 face. 
 
 What Greyson said, Brendice did not know ; but through 
 the buzz of voices she heard the whispered words of the old 
 gentleman : 
 
 " Kachel's child ! Eachel Boss's child !" 
 
 He tried to extend his arms, but sank back, with a white 
 face, on his cushions. 
 
 No one but Brendice had observed Greyson ; but when 
 Miss Jones, who resolutely elbowed her way through the 
 group gathered around the fainting man, happened to con 
 front him, he stood looking so like a culprit before her, that 
 she was certain he was, in some way, responsible for the sud 
 den emotion of their host; and that slip of paper which Jerry 
 had found upon the beach the morning succeeding Luke 
 Maitland's stealthy visit to The Sands, and which had been, 
 ever since, carefully preserved by him, thinking it might be 
 of some pecuniary benefit to its finder, was thrown into the 
 fire an hour after ; and no one but Sally could have made 
 him confess he had ever heard of its existence.
 
 214 By the Sea. 
 
 Brendice alone, beside Greyson, conjectured what was the 
 cause of Mr. Hall's fainting fit. 
 
 She was sure he had bean told something concerning the 
 child. She had not forgotten that lost slip of paper, and she 
 remembered now it was Jerry, who, earliest after day-light 
 had appeared, came down the beach to Mrs. Maitland's dwell 
 ing on the morning which followed her death. 
 
 The child of Eachel Eoss ! 
 
 The woman was dead, Brendice had heard ; she had 
 perished when the Essex was wrecked. That was her hus 
 band's ship, it was said. 
 
 But Eachel Eoss had been Mr. Hall's foster-daughter ! 
 
 An icy hand seemed suddenly laid on her heart. 
 
 The parable which the old man had just referred to, came 
 into her thoughts, and though she could not feel that they 
 were particularly applicable to her, she could not deafen her 
 ear to the words she fancied were murmured close beside 
 her : 
 
 "And from him shall be taken away even that which he 
 seemeth to have." 
 
 The guests were thinking only of their host, and Brendice, 
 clasping the child in her arms, passed quickly out of the 
 room, unobserved by any one. 
 
 She made her way to the apartment where the company 
 had left their outer garments, and found the wrappings of 
 herself and the little boy ; flinging the shawl loosely around 
 her shoulders, but very carefully shielding him from the 
 bitter cold. 
 
 There had been a sudden change in the weather during 
 the hour and a half that she was in the house. She stepped
 
 Juried Talents. 2i5 
 
 out into the chilling air. For a moment she hesitated, and 
 glanced back to the lighted windows. 
 
 Most likely this man would immediately try to take the 
 child from her. He had looked as if he had a right to do 
 so. But she would not give him up. 
 
 The little arms were at this moment twined about her 
 neck, and his warm breath was on her cheek. 
 
 She looked away towards the west. 
 
 There was a little confusion in her thoughts. 
 
 She wondered if she could walk up to N that night; 
 
 if she might not drop down on the cold snowy earth, should 
 she attempt to do so, and she and the babe perish together. 
 
 Then she remembered that it was Christmas Eve, and St. 
 Mary's Church would be decked for the holy festival with 
 the emblematic evergreen, and brilliantly lighted; and she 
 thought how many hearts there, and through the wide world, 
 were throbbing with happiness, at this very moment when 
 she was so lonely and wretched. 
 
 Why was not she, too, happy ? 
 
 She pressed her lips very firmly together as the silent 
 question arose ; and then her eyes turned towards the east, 
 where, throwing its clear, white gleam far and wide over the 
 dark sea, itself seemingly as cold and defiant as were those 
 briny, surging waters, stood the sentinel light, which could 
 always blind her eyes and deaden all other perceptions to 
 everything but the one great object of her life, which rose up 
 now, a mightier skeleton than had ever before confronted 
 her, from its momentary hiding in the unclosed sepulchre, 
 and stalked by her side, as with firm, hasty steps, she walked 
 away to her home.
 
 216 By the Sea. 
 
 The dwelling seemed not utterly comfortless on her 
 return. 
 
 She had not intended to accept Mrs. Adams' invitation to 
 pass the night at the Ocean House, or even to make a long 
 stay there; and she had not been absent more than two hours 
 from her home. 
 
 Her fire was not yet quite extinguished, and her lamp 
 burned no more dimly than at the time she left it ; and after 
 drawing the embers together and putting a few pieces of fresh 
 fuel upon them, she sat down, and took the little boy, who 
 was now ready to fall asleep again in her arms, holding him 
 closely and tenderly, looking down into his face, and won 
 dering how a nature as unloving as she thought her own to 
 be, could have ever given birth to such a strong affection as 
 she was beginning to feel for the child, and wishing that her 
 arm was powerful enough always to encircle him. 
 
 That Mr. Hall would send for him early the next morning, 
 she had not the least doubt. Perhaps he would endeavor to 
 ascertain who had brought him to The Sands. 
 
 She was very sure he would not learn from her ; and the 
 little boy had, some weeks since, ceased his attempts to 
 pronounce the name of Luke. He spoke it, however, that 
 night, with a quick start, and a sweet, wondering smile. 
 
 Brendice had held him in her arms while the hours were 
 passing, heedless, in her strong purpose, and in her bitter 
 
 
 
 grief, how the time was advancing, until, at length, when the 
 fire was burning low, and the lamp was extinguished, the 
 appearance of the heavens told her that it was past midnight ; 
 and then she remembered suddenly that it was the festive 
 Christmas.
 
 Buried Talents, 217 
 
 Christmas ! She and the little one in her arms had been 
 solemnly given to her whose Lord was born on this holy- 
 day, the blessed mother-Church. 
 
 And then a question came which answered the half-uttered, 
 agonized prayer that had arisen many times to her lips 
 during those lonely hours. 
 
 A far-off wanderer, herself, from the loving bosom, and 
 from the Father's house, and looking down the dark, rough 
 path, whither tending she dared not conjecture, but which she 
 felt sure nothing could ever deter her from treading, how 
 would she venture to trust herself with the charge of this 
 little innocent being, even if she should be permitted to do 
 so ? This Church-child, over whom prayers had been made 
 that he might "lead the rest of his life according to this 
 beginning " ? 
 
 Following her gaze, where would the untrained vision 
 turn ? Guided by her steps, how would the feet ever find 
 their way to " The everlasting Kingdom " of which his 
 sponsors were daily petitioning Heaven he might become an 
 inheritor ? 
 
 When Mr. Hall should send for him, in the morning, she 
 would take the child, whose bright eyes, wide open now, 
 were gazing up, with a prematurely thoughtful expression, 
 into her troubled face she would take him, herself, up to 
 the hotel. 
 
 She would tell the old gentleman that he who had brought 
 the child to The Sands she would not disclose who he was 
 had thought he was left in the care of Mrs. Maitland. 
 
 That was all she knew of the little boy. 
 
 She wished she could tell him the child's name. Perhaps 
 
 10
 
 2 1 8 By the Sea. 
 
 Mr. Hall knew it himself, now. Thus far, she had no\ been 
 able to learn it, though she had many times endeavored to 
 gain it from him. The little fellow could not understand. 
 
 "Brendice's little boy!" was all the name he knew now. 
 
 Lately she had thought of a device which might, perhaps, 
 recall his vanishing recollection. Luke might never return, 
 and if that paper was lost, which, however, she now supposed 
 was not the case, the child might never know his parentage. 
 
 She had labored secretly, but with a will, at the execution 
 of her plan ; sometimes hopelessly, and sometimes, these 
 moments occurred most frequently, with gushing tears at 
 the consciousness of the power within her, and at its devel 
 opment, as the fabled Undine wept with joy at the coming 
 of the soul. 
 
 In her work, Brendice had two purposes in view. The 
 primary one was to learn the child's name ; the other : 
 
 Many years hence, she thought, if she was able to com 
 plete her work to her own satisfaction, when the memory of 
 his early childhood had passed away entirely from the mind 
 of her present charge, she would put this work into his 
 hands ; or if any accident happened to herself in that other 
 task she hoped soon to accomplish, this might assist in the 
 search after his parentage. Luke Maitland, by that time, 
 might be beyond the reach of any one who cared for his 
 crime or his fate. 
 
 She rose from her seat and placed the little boy near the 
 fire, which she stirred till a bright flame flashed up, for a 
 moment, in the stone fire-place, and then, going into the 
 inner apartment, she brought out an easel, on which was 
 stretched a sheet of canvas.
 
 Buried Talents. 219 
 
 The child had never seen what was on the canvas before, 
 for Brendice had worked at her task only at the hours when 
 he was sleeping. She had purposely concealed it from 
 him. 
 
 The idea which had occurred to her, when she began to 
 fear that the little boy was forgetting his name, was to por 
 tray on canvas the two faces she had seen, in the bright 
 moonlight, looking through the open window, just beyond 
 the bed on which was lying the lifeless form of Mrs. Mait- 
 land ; and present them, suddenly, to his gaze. If the work 
 was tolerably well executed, she reasoned, perhaps the unex 
 pected vision would recall the vanishing remembrance to 
 the little mind. 
 
 This was not her first attempt at portraying the human 
 face ; nor, though it was not yet finished, were its merits to 
 be questioned, either in design or execution. 
 
 Her father, who, in his own country, had enjoyed some 
 reputation as an amateur painter, and who early perceived 
 the artistic talent of his daughter, had commenced, a few 
 months previous to his sudden disappearance, to give her 
 some valuable instructions. 
 
 She placed the easel so that the child could obtain a good 
 riew of what was on the canvas. 
 
 The red flame gave an unnatural hue to the imperfect 
 coloring of the picture, but after a moment of silent wonder, 
 he uttered a cry of delight, and sprang with extended hands 
 toward? it. 
 
 "Luke, Luke!" he exclaimed, "and L'enfant, no, no, 
 Brendice! little Eoss ! little Eoss Aden, Brendice !" and he 
 looked up in her face, questioningly, and pleadingly, think-
 
 22O By the Sea. 
 
 ing it strange she did not call him Boss, and wishing she 
 would ; but not knowing how to express his little thoughts. 
 
 Ross Aden 1 Brendice wondered, when the child should re 
 peat his name to Mr. Hall to-morrow, if it would suggest the 
 same idea to the old gentleman as now occurred to her. 
 
 But the child was not sent, for the next day the little 
 errand boy came down, somewhat later than usual, to her 
 dwelling, for the freshly dug clams. 
 
 The fish-basket contained a rather larger supply of fruits 
 than it commonly brought, and there were besides some 
 trilling but very useful articles for Brendice, and pretty 
 playthings for the child. They were all products of the 
 Christmas-tree, however, and consequently she could do no 
 otherwise than accept them. 
 
 But no message was sent to Brendice from the old gentle 
 man, nor did she hear from him particularly all through the 
 winter ; only the basket and the fruits, nicely wrapped in a 
 fresh newspaper, and the silver " quarter," came every day 
 when it was possible for her to go down on the beach. 
 
 Mrs. Adiins called quite frequently, on the pretence, 
 Brendice felt sure it was only that, of looking after the sew 
 ing entrusted to her ; but she was such a kind lady-like 
 woman, so entirely unobtrusive in her manners, that the 
 sensitive girl did not feel that she was under an espionage, 
 or was suffering herself to be patronized ; though she never 
 allowed Mrs. Adams to make any progress in the attempt to 
 cultivate her acquaintance ; and Brendice could not perceive 
 that she manifested any unusual degree of interest in the 
 child.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE CONVOY LIGHT. 
 
 HE winter, as if wearied, itself, by its unusual 
 surliness, had passed away early, and now it was 
 the sweet spring again ; very sweet for the time 
 of year in that cold region where The Sands is situated, and 
 the Leutal season was drawing to its close. 
 
 It was the Thursday evening before Easter-day ; a Tery 
 mild, serene night, though a few light, fleecy clouds were now 
 and then drawing a thin vail over the face of the rounding 
 moon, or dancing about her in varied fantastic forms. 
 
 The snow had, some weeks since, disappeared from the 
 plains, but the cold, white crown would rest, for some time 
 yet, heavily on the hill-tops. 
 
 "With the voice of the unbound stream, hastening so 
 swiftly down to meet the sea, every day with increasing 
 speed and deepening song, mingled many other tongues oi 
 awakening nature ; and from an open window, that which 
 looked into the west, of one of the little fish-houses on The 
 
 Sands, a human voice very sweet and clear was chanting a 
 
 (221)
 
 222 By the Sea. 
 
 glad, happy song; and the face of the singer was radiant with 
 a smile in which there was no trace of grief or care. 
 
 And yet the singer was Brendice Du Bois. 
 
 An hour before she had been reading, with the softened 
 feeling which had come over her, during that solemn week, 
 very many times, the Church service for the day. Tears 
 dropped from her eyes as she thought of that innocent, 
 patient Prisoner, voluntarily giving Himself up into the 
 power of His guilty accusers, and His unjust judges. 
 
 They dropped very fast as she read how, forgetting His 
 own great present sufferings, and the terrible death to which 
 the weary feet were hastening Him 
 
 "Jesus turned and said: Daughters, weep not for me, 
 weep for yourselves !" 
 
 And how, even on the cross, he had prayed for those that 
 had nailed Him there, and were now mocking at His agonies: 
 " Father, forgive them !" 
 
 Since she had finished her reading, Brendice had had a 
 visitor. Mrs. Adams stepped in for a few minutes with her 
 two little girls, who had wanted to have a run down over the 
 
 beach to ask if little Lang might go with them up to N , 
 
 on Easter-day. 
 
 There was to be a children's festival at St. Mary's ; and Mr. 
 Hall, who had that morning left The Sands, to the great 
 grief of her whole family, the lady said, hoped that many of 
 the children who had gathered around his Christmas-tree, 
 would go up to the festival at the church. 
 
 Mrs. Adams added much more, but Brendice only heard 
 that the old gentleman, who she had, ever since Christmas
 
 The Convoy Light. 223 
 
 Eve, been expecting, daily, would send down and take the 
 child from her, had left the neighborhood. 
 
 Would Mr. Hall return after Easter? 
 
 No ! he was going to housekeeping. His residence was 
 completed last autumn. He had intended to occupy it 
 during the winter, opening his house before the holidays 
 commenced, but his health was so feeble that he did not 
 like to make the change until the coldest part of the season 
 had passed. 
 
 His housekeeper and her husband, who was also in Mr. 
 Hall's employ, were good people, and would make him very 
 comfortable; and the old gentleman had not yet given up 
 all hope of persuading the lighthouse keeper, who had been 
 a very particular friend of his years since, to resign his 
 post at The Rocks, and make his home with Mr. Hall. 
 There was no one in the world, Mrs. Adams said,, beside 
 Mr. Aden, whom the old gentleman took any especial 
 interest in ; and him he had not seen for the past fifteen 
 years, or more. 
 
 Brendice did not know, until it was removed, what a 
 great sorrow had been weighing upon her, all through that 
 cold, tedious winter. 
 
 When Mrs. Adams, wondering what had brought that 
 sudden change to the young woman's unusually pale and 
 thoughtful face during her momentary stay in the dwelling, 
 at the readiness with which Brendice had accepted the 
 invitation extended to herself, and especially her pleased 
 assent to the offer her visitor had made her, went away, 
 leading her two li ttle girls, she had taken the child into her
 
 224 By the Sea. 
 
 arms, feeling now that lie was all her own to love and watch 
 over. Mr. Hall would not take him away. 
 
 For a brief moment she forgot that she had any other 
 work in life to perform than to care for him, or that some 
 some one else might appear to claim the child ; and the glad, 
 sweet song had burst from her lips, and the radiant smile 
 had overspread her face. 
 
 The girls had been promised that " Lang " Brendice did 
 not repeat after him the name he had spoken on Christmas 
 Eve ; she was now very willing that he should forget it, and 
 he again seemed to be doing so ; the girls had been promised 
 that he should go with them to St. Mary's. 
 
 Mrs. Adams had been told that Brendice would be very 
 well satisfied to receive from that lady, for the sum due her 
 for her needle-work, which her employer suffered to amount 
 now to some dollars, the simple straw hat and low-priced 
 shawl that she had spoken of ; and would be willing, herself, 
 to go up to the church, that little Lang might not be timid 
 and troublesome in finding himself among strangers, the 
 girls wished him, so much, to be his own sweet little self. 
 
 He wa's wanted by them, for a very particular reason. 
 
 They were going to have a most splendid boquet for the 
 Festival, they were telling him, as earnestly as if his little 
 three years understood it all. 
 
 Mother's beautiful house-plants were all in full blossom, 
 and she had promised them all the roses and geraniums, and 
 they were going out among the hills on Saturday to look for 
 wild flowers too ; and if Brendice was willing, he should 
 carry the boquet up to the chancel, and present it to the
 
 The Convoy Light. 225 
 
 rector, because, the eldest girl remarked, baby Lang was 
 nothing but a sweet little rosebud himself. 
 
 And Brendice, loving the girl for her words, remembered 
 what she had said, and wondered how it had come about that 
 such a sweet young blossom had been grafted into her 
 verdureless life ; and thought hopefully and confidently, as 
 she looked down so lovingly into his face, and sang the glad 
 song to him, how, though he seemed to have been transplanted 
 into a very uncongenial soil, she would try to shield him 
 from the scorching sun, and chilling winds, and to take all 
 of the thorns out of his life. 
 
 Her thoughts were disturbed by the sound of a light, quick 
 footstep, coming up over the rocks. A shadow passed by the 
 little window which looked towards the east, and through 
 which, now and then partially dimmed by a fleeting cloud, 
 came the soft moonlight. 
 
 An instant after, the figure of a man stood at the open 
 door-way, and looked, silently, into the apartment. 
 
 Brendice readily recognized him, and she knew, in-, 
 stinctively, why he was there ; for William Jones had not 
 come to her dwelling before, since that cold, stormy Sunday 
 morning, months previous, when she returne'd to her old 
 home, and he had walked down the beach with her, and 
 asked her to be his wife. 
 
 She knew why he had come now, and for a moment all 
 consciousness seemed utterly to have forsaken her ; and then 
 a fancy seized her that she was dreaming, a fancy that she 
 was in her boat, adrift far out upon the sea, without sail or 
 oar, with darkness above, and wild billows around her. But 
 calm, concentrated thought, immediately returned. 
 
 10*
 
 226 By the Sea. 
 
 " I thank you, William !" she said, quickly, as she rose and 
 
 i 
 stood beside him at the door. She had placed the child 
 
 upon the floor. 
 
 The young man had not spoken yet. 
 
 " Miss Sally told me last week," Brendice proceeded, " that 
 she would have some more work for me, which she would 
 bring over herself. "Will you ask her to come down to 
 morrow morning, very early ?" 
 
 "Yes, Brendice! but would you not prefer that she 
 should come down to-night?" 
 
 It struck him that there was something very peculiar in 
 her appearance, notwithstanding the quietness of her manner, 
 and the evenness of her voice ; and why was she so interested 
 in the fact which he had come down to communicate, that 
 she appeared to have comprehended what it was, before he 
 had time to mention it ? 
 
 " Or, what would be better, Brendice," he continued, " go 
 over and stop with my aunt, to-night. She will be quite 
 alone. I am going to Mr. Brown's, to watch with his son, 
 who is very sick. I will ask one of the boys to come here, 
 and go up with you to my house, and carry the child." 
 
 But Brendice declined the invitation, and so firmly that 
 the young man did not repeat it ; and he walked away, 
 wondering what was the reason that the lamps over to the 
 Convoy were not lighted, and why that fact should interest 
 Brendice Du Bois as much as it seemed to. 
 
 He thought he would watch for the appearance of the 
 light ; but though he did not forget to do so, or to feel a 
 little anxiety in regard to Brendice, he could not find 
 opportunity to leave the bedside of the sick lad, to step over
 
 The Convoy Light. 227 
 
 to his home, which was only a few rods distant from Mr. 
 Brown's, to ask his aunt to go down to the ledge and pass 
 the night with the girl, as he feared she was either ill, or 
 was in some trouble ; nor had he a spare moment, early in 
 the night, to go around to the east of the dwelling, and look 
 for the Convoy light. 
 
 When he did find time to look away, again, over the water, 
 the lamps were brightly burning. It was past midnight 
 then. 
 
 Brendice remained standing by the open door, after Jones 
 had walked away in the direction of Mr. Brown's. 
 
 Scarcely conscious in what direction her eyes were turning, 
 she was glancing up the hillside where, during the past 
 autumn, the grave had been dug under the cluster of ever 
 greens. The spot was turfed over now, and the work had 
 been done by Brendice's own hands, a week or two earlier 
 than the present time ; just as soon as the snow had melted 
 away from the hillside, and the ground had softened beneath 
 the influence of the sun. 
 
 They were green, mossy sods, which she had placed there, 
 and small, hardy plants, covered with swelling buds, and 
 lifted so tenderly from their native beds that they would be 
 sure, soon, to turn their fearless little faces up to the smiling, 
 daily brightening sun, and send out their breath to deepen 
 the perfume of the sweet spring air. 
 
 Just as, Brendice thought, when she was planting them 
 there, the gentle slumberer by-and-by, after a long, long 
 time had passed, and Earth's great cycle was run, at the call 
 of the same Voice which was now awakening nature to a new 
 existence, would lift up her lowly head, and open her
 
 223 By the Sea. 
 
 wondering eyes, and look away towards the east, where, in 
 the then Long- Ago, the mild radiance of the Advent Star 
 met the gaze of the learnedly-watching Magi, and the trust 
 ingly-waiting shepherds ; where the Star a second time may 
 be seen, then the Sun the Sun of Righteousness ! 
 
 " Every eye shall see Him !" and she would gaze without 
 fear on that glorious Luminary, before whose inconceivable 
 brightness all created lights shall be as darkness ; and join 
 her grateful song to that of the innumerable multitude, each 
 separate voice of which our wonderful Lord shall hear, that 
 the long night has passed, and the dawning of the Day has 
 come. 
 
 Another thought had come, too, to Brendice, as she stood 
 beside the grave when her mournful, but willingly performed 
 task was ended, and looked away to the ocean. 
 
 It took the shape of a fearful question. 
 
 During the winter now passed, every day, since Christmas 
 Eve, it seemed to be done almost mechanically, the old 
 Erench Bible had been lifted out of the sea-chest, and an 
 hour or more had been spent in its perusal ; and its great 
 truths were becoming quite familiar to her mind. 
 
 And, though, on the morning of All Saints' day, she had 
 believed she would never again open the book Mrs. Maitland 
 had placed so solemnly and lovingly in her hands, yet every 
 Sunday since, the beautiful Church Service was read very 
 slowly and thoughtfully. 
 
 Somehow, after that first Sunday, when she had read it 
 with the dying woman, the Service seemed to have fastened 
 a strong hold on her. The great truths it taught convinced 
 her understanding ; they tried so hard to enter her heart that
 
 The Convoy Light. 229 
 
 oftentimes it was only by wrapping her deadly purpose 
 closely about her, that she could shield herself from their 
 influence. 
 
 Mrs. Maitland had prayed that, when she was gone, Heaven 
 would send another friend to Brendice ; and sometimes, dur 
 ing those long, lonely Sunday hours, as she sat, slowly reading, 
 and deeply reflecting, the thought had come that there was 
 a form near her, besides that of the sweet little child, if only 
 her vision could discern Him, standing, with eyes full of love 
 and pity, by her side, in the midst of the cold, dark waters 
 which were dashing their great billows over her, as He had 
 walked in the midst of the fire, the form of the Son of God 1 
 But with a shudder, she had wished, only, that her vision 
 might be more deeply darkened. 
 
 As she stood by the grave, a certain text of Scripture had 
 impressed her, very forcibly : 
 
 " And the sea gave np the dead which were in it." 
 
 The sea which had swallowed up, so long ago, her fair 
 young mother. And then this : 
 
 " And I saw the dead, small and great, stand before God !" 
 
 Where would her station be ? 
 
 Would she join her mother, coming up from the sea, 
 wearing the youth and the beauty which had gone down into 
 it ? Would she take the hand of the gentle being whose 
 fingers were encircling her own, when they were becoming 
 icy in death, and who had said, after the cold touch had been 
 laid upon her : 
 
 " Something, sometime, will bind us together !" 
 
 And walk, with them, up to the great white throne, into 
 the presence of the then inexorable Judge, whose eye will
 
 230 By the Sea. 
 
 see alike the blood-spot upon the hand, and the deeper 
 stain upon the heart ? 
 
 But the wish that the defilement might be washed away 
 from the soul, and that no opportunity might ever be afforded 
 her for so marring the body that at the great Day when the 
 offering shall be made unto the Lord the offering which is 
 to be without spot or blemish she must stand without the 
 gates of the city, stand there for evermore, the wish was 
 strangled before its birth. 
 
 Now, as she was leaning aginst the doorway, looking 
 mechanically up the hillside, after the sound of the young 
 man's footsteps, as he walked over the ledge, ceased to fall 
 upon her ear, the thoughts which had come to her a week 
 or two before, as she stood beside that grave, again returned ; 
 but that smothered wish no more awoke to life, than did 
 that cold form beneath the clods, and the countenance, 
 which, but a few brief moments before, was so gladdened 
 and fair, now grew dark and terrible in its expression. 
 
 She turned from the dusky west, and fixed her eyes, not 
 on the beautiful Easter-moon, whose light fell softly, and, one 
 might have thought, pityingly, on the suddenly corrugated 
 and ageing face, but on that spot on the horizon which 
 seemed now a dark blot on the moonlit water, The Rocks, 
 where the Convoy light was not burning, and her lips, quiver 
 ing from the sternness of her resolve, murmured the words: 
 
 " Measure for measure ; pressed down, and running over 1" 
 
 The child had fallen asleep upon the floor, and without 
 unrobing the little form, or glancing once into the face, over 
 which the sweet dream-smiles were chasing each other like 
 a troop of merry fairies, she lifted him in her arms and
 
 The Convoy Light. 231 
 
 placed him on the bed ; pinning to his frock a slip of paper 
 on which she >had written a few hasty words. 
 
 They were addressed to Miss Jones, who, a very early 
 riser, would, undoubtedly, come over to Brendice's dwelling 
 the next morning, before the child's eyes were open. 
 
 The written words were the little boy's real name, as he, 
 himself, had spoken it ; and the request that the woman 
 would take the child to the old gentleman, Mr. HalL 
 
 Brendice made no allusion to herself in the note. 
 
 When she had done this, she took down her long hair, 
 combed it very smoothly over her temples, and bound it in 
 heavy braids in her neck, and then carefully attired herself 
 in the pretty, deep-green dress. 
 
 She did not light her lamp and glance into her little mir 
 ror, as she at first intended to do, to see if the look Mrs. 
 Maitland had said so much resembled her mother's was 
 upon her countenance. 
 
 She knew it could not be there, while such thoughts as she 
 was now cherishing, were surging through her brain. 
 
 If her eager hopes should be realized, if she could once 
 fasten her hand on her intended victim, she would compel 
 her countenance to wear whatever expression she chose to 
 assume. 
 
 The tide was coming in ; but the light breeze, sweet with 
 the breath of the hill-sides, was oceanward ; and Brendice, 
 after looking up for a moment into the clear, starry heavens, 
 which were, to her trained vision, as an unsealed book, 
 stepped into her boat, and pushed off from the shore. 
 
 She directed her course to the islands, which, now more 
 than fifteen years before, her father, on a soft, bright night
 
 232 By the Sea. 
 
 as was this, though then it was early autumn, had so eagerly 
 and hurriedly approached : that night when the lighthouse 
 keeper, George Aden, had quitted his post to make little 
 Kachel Boss his wife, and take her to a home beyond the 
 seas ; and his half-brother, Philip Maitland, who, never 
 quite conscience-seared, was trying to hide, not only from 
 the man who was pursuing him, but from his wife, his son, 
 from the whole world and from himself, took up the em 
 ployment, for his guilty, restless mind far too light, and the 
 monotonous existence which was, to him, such a wearying 
 burden.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 BEEAD UPON THE WATERS. 
 
 JJND how had those years passed with Eachel 
 Ross ? 
 
 The conviction that she had done right in leav 
 ing her guardian, that his charities might be bestowed on 
 those who had a greater claim on him than she could have, 
 and the love and tender care of her husband, had stayed 
 the seemingly vanishing life ; and a sojourn in a land more 
 suited to her delicate constitution was slowly making her a 
 healthful and physically strong woman. 
 
 But care and sorrow had often found their way to the 
 little humble home which Mr. Aden had made for himself 
 and his wife in the suburbs of an Italian city. 
 
 Several times Rachel had become a mother, but the lips of 
 each child had grown white and still before another echoed 
 its merry music ; and again and again almost absolute want 
 had stared the foreigners in the face. 
 
 Mr. Aden, though of a somewhat provident nature, had 
 expended the means at his command rather lavishly on his 
 
 young wife. He had not dared hope that she would long be 
 
 (233)
 
 234 By the Sea. 
 
 spared to him, and it was his first wish to make that brief 
 life as happy as possible. 
 
 When it became necessary for him to seek employment, he 
 found it very difficult to procure any sufficiently lucrative, 
 even for the support which Rachel could manage to make 
 very inexpensive ; and with his best endeavor, his business 
 was always a precarious one. 
 
 Very often, even while her maternal heart was bleeding 
 with a fresh wound, Rachel, walking a mile or more down 
 the dusty road which Mr. Aden would take on his return 
 home from the city, paused and looked up the steep 
 eminence, half-way up whose height stood a little chapel ; 
 and, forgetting for a moment her deep grief, prayed earnestly, 
 and with child-like simplicity, for daily bread for herself and 
 her husband. 
 
 One sweet evening, it was the Feast of St. John, the 
 tenth year of her married life ; want was very near her then, 
 for Mr. Aden had been, for several days in succession, in 
 the city, seeking, in vain, for employment as she drew near 
 the little eminence, the chapel bell began to ring for vespers, 
 and Rachel, though quite wearied with her walk, toiled up 
 the height, and entered the church. 
 
 There was a female figure kneeling near the altar. The 
 woman was magnificently attired, though it was only a 
 travelling-dress that she wore; and at a short distance from 
 her stood an old, but hale, cheerful-looking man, apparently 
 a little wearied with the lengthened devotions of his com 
 panion, but maintaining as reverential an attitude as pos 
 sible. 
 
 The lady, who was speaking audibly, uttered her prayers
 
 Bread upon the Waters. 236 
 
 in a very sad tone, but her voice was remarkably sweet and 
 musical, and after a moment, Rachel caught her words, 
 though she spoke in Italian ; for Mr. Aden understood the 
 language very well, and his wife had learned from him and 
 the little peasant girl sometimes in her employ, the import 
 of many phrases. 
 
 She was repeating many times over, a portion of the pro 
 phecy for the day ; and her voice, at length, grew stronger, 
 as if she was pronouncing absolution over herself : 
 
 " Her iniquity is pardoned ! She hath received of the 
 Lord's hand double for all her sins !" 
 
 Then her voice sank to a whisper, and Rachel, kneeling at a 
 little distance, forgot the stranger's presence, as her thoughts 
 went on with the lesson for the day ; and Ler tears dropped 
 fast upon her once handsome, but uow worn and faded 
 mourning dress, as her lips shaped themselves to the words : 
 
 " All flesh is grass, and all the goodliness thereof is as the 
 flower of the field. The grass withereth, the flower fadeth, 
 because the spirit of the Lord bloweth upon it !" 
 
 For a moment she felt that a double portion had been 
 meted out to her. But the hands which were folded upon 
 her breast, rested upon a little locket, and she drew it forth 
 and pressed the picture which it contained to her lips ; 
 thinking that, notwithstanding all she had suffered, the Lord 
 had gently led her, and that through all that might yet be 
 before her, He would " feed his flock like a shepherd!" She 
 was still gazing on the painting, which was a striking likeness 
 of her husband, when it was rudely snatohed from her hold 
 by a fair, white hand, suddenly thrust out over her shoulder, 
 and a voice, full of horror, whispered in her ear :
 
 236 By the Sea. 
 
 " Is this the saint you are praying to ?" 
 
 Rachel rose to her feet, ana turned towards her strange 
 questioner ; and the woman who had been kneeling when she 
 entered the chapel, stood before her. But for a moment she 
 did not reply. 
 
 The vision which met her gaze, though she had seen it 
 once, years before, was of such surpassing loveliness, mature 
 beauty though it was, and though the eyes were lighted up 
 with such a fierce flame, while the tears were yet undried 
 upon her cheeks, that everything else was forgotten in its 
 contemplation. 
 
 "Madam, I pray only to my Go!!" she said, at length, 
 quietly. " That face is my husband's. You have seen him. 
 You followed us once through a picture-gallery in Florence, 
 and you said, as he turned his face, and looked at you, ' It 
 is not he!'" 
 
 The lady, apparently unconscious that she was addressed, 
 so earnestly was she regarding the painting in her hand, was 
 repeating the same words "now ; "It is not he! Pardon; 
 it is not he !" 
 
 She returned the miniature without farther apology, and 
 walked away towards her companion, who was now waiting 
 for her at the entrance of the chapel. But before reaching 
 him, she turned and went back to Rachel, and stood, for an 
 instant, silently regarding, first her attire, and then her coun 
 tenance. Mrs. Aden was sure the lady was contrasting her 
 present appearance with what it was when the stranger's 
 beautiful dark eyes, proud and commanding in their expres 
 sion, but full of tender love and sympathy, were fastened on 
 her, for a moment, years before.
 
 Bread upon the Waters. 237 
 
 Then she was a nicely-dressed, happy young bride ; now 
 it was a long-used mourning suit that she wore, and lines 
 of sorrow and care were on her brow, though she strove, so 
 hard, to make her countenance a still cheerful one. 
 
 Rachel quietly bore the scrutiny, for the lady's face had, 
 for her, a strange fascination. 
 
 "We worship the same God !" 
 
 The woman spoke now, with a slight accent, but very 
 sweetly, Mrs. Aden's native tongue. 
 
 " We worship the saaia God ; we kneel at the same altar ; 
 we are children of our Father ! What is the tearful petition 
 you have offarad to Hirn to-night, my sister?" and the beau- 
 tifal whita fingers, sparkling with jewels, fastened themselves 
 on Mrs. Aden's poorly-gloved hand, with a firm hold. 
 
 Rachel returned the cordial pressure, and replied to the 
 questioner, as if it was the daughter of the same mother, too, 
 wh.3 stood before her ; for the look of deap-seatad, hopeless 
 sorrow, which sudlenly came out on her face, knitted 
 liachel's tender heart closely to that of the stranger. 
 
 " I came here to ask of Him who holds the treasures of the 
 earth in His hand, for daily bread for my husband and my 
 self!" she said. "The remembrance of my lost babes 
 checked the utterance of the prayer ; and then want and grief 
 were both forgotten in the thought that my husband, de.irer, 
 by far, than everything else earthly could be to me, was 
 mine still. And so iny earnest petitions and sad complain 
 ings were changed to tearful praise/V)ur heavenly Father 
 never leaves H.s children quite destitute of aUthg^ood 
 things He has promised shall be added !"f /(^.rf^A**^ 
 
 " No 1" said the stranger, but speaking rather to herself
 
 238 By the Sea. 
 
 than to Mrs. Aden : " Even from me He has not taken the 
 power of doing good !" and she placed something in Eachel's 
 hand, and turned quickly away. 
 
 The immediate entrance into the chapel of a crowd of wor 
 shippers, prevented the hasty egress which Mrs. Aden de 
 sired to make ; and when she had reached the flight of steps 
 leading up to the building, the lady and her companion were 
 nowhere to be seen, and a travelling carriage was rolling 
 rapidly over a highway branching from that which led out 
 from the city the road which her husband was now coming 
 down, not with his usual light, quick step, but slowly and 
 weariedly, and with his eyes bent to the earth. 
 
 His wife descried him in the distance, and concealing be 
 neath her shawl what had been placed in her hand, half ter 
 rified at its apparent value, she hastened towards him, won 
 dering how she should excuse herself to him for retaining 
 that purse of gold. 
 
 But Mr. Aden's proud spirit was, that night, almost 
 broken, though it was an approaching illness which was, 
 more than anything else, subduing him. 
 
 He had again been unsuccessful in his search for employ 
 ment, and was now returning to his home without the means 
 4>f furnishing his wife with one suitable meal ; and with the 
 confession of his poverty, the extremity of which she did not 
 yet fully comprehend, he had decided to ask her what article 
 of their plainly-furnished cottage could best be dispensed 
 with, that food for the coming day could be purchased by its 
 sale. 
 
 A deep flush came to the unusually pale face when he 
 heard the story of her interview with the strange lady, but
 
 Bread upon the Waters. 239 
 
 he was silent when his wife asked him to take speedy mea 
 sures to return the gold. 
 
 " Shall I believe that Heaven sent it to us in answer to my 
 prayer ?" she asked, when she observed how he was hesitat 
 ing. " Shall we use the gold, George ?" 
 
 " Yes, Eachel !" he replied, " as you need it ; for absolute 
 necessities alone, however. I will ascertain who the liberal 
 donor is, and some time we will repay her. Misfortune 
 cannot pursue me forever !" 
 
 But the money, notwithstanding Mrs. Aden's best care, did 
 slip away rapidly, through the long, though not very danger 
 ous illness which came immediately to her husband ; and 
 though a former employer sought his services as soon as 
 he was again able to labor, nothing could be spared from his 
 wages to replenish the diminished purse. 
 
 On the contrary, one gold piece after another disappeared, 
 till all that remained of the lady's gift was the silken netting, 
 and the gold clasp with the name Maria engraved upon it. 
 
 His early illness had prevented Mr. Aden from ascertain 
 ing who the travellers were ; and after the money was all ex 
 pended, Rachel hoped that her husband would never learn 
 anything about them. Almost every evening, however, when 
 it was possible for her to do so, she knelt near the altar in 
 the little chapel on the hillside, and prayed Heaven to re 
 store to that beautiful lady, whom in her soft whisperings 
 she would often call Sister, all the earthly blessings of which 
 she had been deprived. 
 
 It may be high Heaven heard those earnest prayers, and 
 the restoration of all her good things came to her for that 
 casting of her bread upon the waters.
 
 240 By the Sea. 
 
 The strange lady herself thought so, years afterwards, when 
 her blessings returned doubly to her. 
 
 When Rachel saw how the money which had been given her 
 was slipping away, and that there was no prospect that the 
 sum would ever be made whole again, the thought had come 
 to her of returning to their native land while it was possible 
 for them to do so. ' 
 
 Her health was now very good, and the sale of their few 
 effects, with what remained in the purse, would furnish them 
 with a sum sufficient to defray the expenses of the voyage. 
 She had learned, lately, that her former guardian was now 
 almost alone again. 
 
 His sister was dead, and one or two of her daughters were 
 already married or about to be ; and she longed very 
 earnestly to see him, and to care for him again, feeling very 
 sure that his strong love for her could not have quite died 
 out, and that, thereafter, he would regard Mr. Aden only 
 through her eyes. 
 
 They could all be very happy together, she thought. 
 
 But her husband would not listen to her suggestion. 
 
 Through Captain Singleton, from whom they occasionally 
 heard, they learned that Mr. Maitland, whose identity with 
 the former lighthouse keeper had never been doubted, was 
 still at The Rocks, faithfully keeping the promise he had 
 made his brother, and Mr. Aden shrank from dislodging him 
 from the place, and even from having any communication 
 whatever with him. Above all things, he did not wish to 
 meet Mr. Hall. 
 
 "While our kind friend lives, Rachel," he said, "we will 
 not return. I could not stand in his presence again, suffer-
 
 Bread upon the Waters. 241 
 
 ing him to retain the same opinion of me which he has so 
 long cherished ; and enduring the eager, unbroken scrutiny 
 of those eyes, whose light, I have many times nervously 
 fancied, has been drawn from my very life, leaving to me only 
 gloomy darkness. 
 
 " If I ever seek him again, it will be for the purpose of 
 taking my brother to him, and making him confess how he 
 wronged me in my boyhood ; and if he refused to do so, one 
 of us would 
 
 "The sea must roll between Philip Maitland and myself, 
 my wife !" 
 
 And so Kachel's hopes were crushed ; and the weeks and 
 months, till five more years were added to her married life, 
 passed away, with much the same chequering of light and 
 shade as had been woven into the preceding ones ; and then 
 the night, whose morning, it seemed most likely, would be 
 the eternal one, settled down upon them. 
 
 There was a terrible pestilence raging in the city, and one 
 evening, as he was returning from his place of employment, 
 from which, at the half frantic entreaties of his wife, he had 
 absented himself for several days, but to which, at length, 
 dire necessity compelled him to return, Mr. Aden staggered 
 like a drunken man as he drew near his threshold, falling so 
 insensibly upon it, that, for an hour or more, his wife 
 believed him dead, or quite past resuscitation. 
 
 Rachel had not for some months past had her usual degree 
 of health, and so palsied was she at the sight of her husband's 
 situation, that but one thought would enter her mind ; and 
 she knelt beside him, clasping her child, a beautiful boy of 
 
 11
 
 242 By the Sea. 
 
 two years, to her breast, and praying for the death of herself 
 and her babe. 
 
 Her attention was at length drawn away from herself, for 
 a moment, by the rumbling of carriage wheels, an infrequent 
 sound in the immediate vicinity of her dwelling ; and she 
 remembered that her cousin, Captain Singleton, was to visit 
 her that evening. 
 
 His ship had come into a neighboring port a few weeks 
 previous. Her husband had met with him, and the captain 
 had promised to call on her the night before he again sailed 
 for America, and to take charge of a letter to Mr. Maitland. 
 
 Mr. Aden had finally given up all thoughts of ever return 
 ing to his native land, and he had concluded to write to his 
 brother to that effect, and to tell him that thereafter he was 
 at liberty to consult his own inclinations in relation to 
 retaining longer his post at The Hocks, with the single 
 condition that he would never seek him again. 
 
 The carriage stopped before the cottage. 
 
 Its occupant was, indeed, Captain Singleton, and his young 
 wife was with him ; and Rachel, holding the child in her 
 arms, rushed to the gate, to prevent their entrance. 
 
 "The pestilence is here!" she exclaimed, wildly. 
 
 " My husband is already dead ; and I I am dying ! but 
 my baby oh, Edgar! if" 
 
 The young bride stepped quickly forward, and gazed for 
 an instant into the sweet childish face before her, and then 
 she extended her arms. 
 
 "He shall be mine! "she said. "If you live, Edgar will 
 bring him back to you ; but he shall never be motherless !" 
 
 While she was speaking, her husband had pushed open the
 
 Bread upon the Waters. 243 
 
 gate, and walked up to the cottage door, though Rachel had 
 tried to stop him, and was now closely examining the 
 prostrate man. 
 
 Mr. Aden was not dead, but the fearful disease was upon 
 him. He would not be likely to recover, and so the captain 
 told his cousin, as she aided him to carry the still insensible 
 man into the dwelling, and place him upon a cot ; but he 
 would send a physician down from the city, as soon as he 
 could return there. And then the carriage rolled away, and 
 her sweet boy she was glad for that was gone ; and she 
 was alone with her husband, whose eyes, most likely, would 
 never again unclose, and whose voice she would never more 
 hear. 
 
 She crouched down on. the floor beside the low cot, and 
 looking on the darkening face towards which the soft moon 
 beams were slowly creeping, she began to fancy, for she was 
 not thinking clearly now, that when the light should fall 
 upon his countenance, and her own, which w.as very near to 
 his, it would be midnight then, that breathing, momen 
 tarily more difficult, would cease ; and her lips moved again 
 in prayer that her life might pass away with that of her 
 husband. 
 
 She did not know how long she thus prayed ; but after a 
 while the air felt very fresh and cool upon her heated brow. 
 She thought she was moving, seemingly without any volition 
 of her own, however, and in what direction, or for what 
 purpose, she did not even try to think ; and then there was 
 only confusion in her mind. Even her husband was quite 
 forgotten. 
 
 After a while, however, drops of rich perfume fell upon her
 
 244 By 
 
 brow, an arm was tenderly clasped about her, and soothing 
 words, which reached her yet dull ear like a strain of low, 
 distant music, were whispered close beside her. 
 
 Was that terrible midnight passed, and was this the farther 
 shore of the dark River ? 
 
 She opened her eyes, and not the soft moonlight, but the 
 beams of the bright morning sun, clothing themselves in 
 rainbow hues as they came through the richly stained window 
 of the little hillside chapel, were encircling her as with a halo 
 of glory. 
 
 Rachel thought of the "bow of the Covenant :" and the 
 voice beside her was whispering : 
 
 " Out of the deeps I cried unto the Lord, and He heard 
 me ! He hath delivered my soul from death !" 
 
 She remembered the voice, and she looked up into the face 
 of the beautiful lady she had met there, five years before, and 
 who had called her Sister, and for whose happiness she had 
 so many times since prayed, in this consecrated place. 
 
 The lady assisted her to rise from the kneeling posture she 
 had sustained for several hours, for, crazed by her grief, as 
 she sat, watching that advancing moonlight, she at last had 
 left her husband's side, and wandered away from her home, 
 directing her steps instinctively towards the little church. 
 And then the Signora Maria so Mrs. Aden had always 
 spoken of the strange lady to her husband interrupting 
 Rachel's expressions of dismay and self-accusation that sli< 
 had left the bedside of her dying husband, informed her 
 that he had been properly cared for during the past night. 
 
 Half an hour since, he was living, though the prospect of 
 his recovery was doubtful.
 
 Bread upon the Waters. 246 
 
 While the lady was leading Rachel out of the chapel, and 
 down the hillside to her carriage, she briefly answered the 
 astonished woman's many inquiries. 
 
 She had been, the past evening, on her way to the city, she 
 said, and when a few rods distant from what proved to be 
 Mr. Aden's dwelling, one of her horses stumbled and injured 
 a leg, and while her coachman went forward to procure an 
 other, the lady and her female attendant approached the 
 open door near them, to request permission to remain within 
 the cottage until her servant returned. 
 
 The low moans and the labored breathings which met her 
 ear, she had just been listening to in her own family. Her 
 uncle, the old gentleman whom Mrs. Aden had seen with 
 the lady on the two occasions when the women had met 
 before, and one of her domestics, had very recently died of 
 the pestilence ; and the suffering man was cared for to the 
 best of her ability. 
 
 Fortunately there were medicines in the carriage, and she 
 knew how to administer them. 
 
 After some hours they gave him much relief. 
 
 His torpor had passed away ; his reason returned, and he 
 had looked about him, and called for his wife and child. 
 Her servant had informed her that when on his way to the 
 city to procure a horse, he had seen a woman entering the 
 chapel, and therefore the lady had sought her there. 
 
 The skilful but careless physician for whose promised 
 prompt attendance on Mr. Aden, Captain Singleton had 
 most liberally paid, had finally made his appearance ; but 
 the sick man had again fallen into a state of insensibility,
 
 246 By the Sea. 
 
 when his wife returned, and for many succeeding days his 
 life was despaired of. 
 
 Most likely Rachel would not have been alive to rejoice 
 over his, at length, slowly returning health, but for the 
 tender, sisterly care of the beautiful lady Signora di Leuca, 
 so her attendants called her who, with a female servant, 
 remained at the cottage for the most of the time, till Mr. 
 Aden was pronounced by his physician out of danger. 
 
 In her great anxiety and grief she scarcely comprehended 
 how she and her husband were watched over, and how their 
 wants were all anticipated and supplied. 
 
 But when those terrible days and nights, so wearying in 
 their rapid alternations of hope and fear, were passed, and 
 on a bright, sweet morning, when all nature seemed rejoicing 
 as in renewed existence, the lady came to her, and put h3r 
 arms about her neck, and whispered, herself greatly 
 moved : 
 
 " He will live ; and you will again be happy !" 
 
 Rachel, with a flood of tears gushing from her eyes, sank 
 down at the woman's feet, and exclaimed : 
 
 " I told you once that I worshipped my Maker, alone ! but 
 henceforth, while I live " 
 
 The white hand was suddenly placed on her lips. 
 
 "You owe me no thanks !" the lady interrupted ; "I have 
 only been seeking my own pleasure. Mine is a darkened 
 life ! The one blessing left me, is the ability, sometimes, to 
 serve my fellow-beings !" 
 
 Then she went away, and Rachel, though she was sure 
 that she had never loved a woman in her life half as much as 
 she loved this stranger, and though she believed her little
 
 Bread upon the Waters. 247 
 
 short of an angel in purity and goodness, felt relieved when 
 she was gone. 
 
 " There is something very strange about her, George !" 
 she said, as she sat alone with her husband, her arms about 
 his neck, and her head close to his, drinking in great draughts 
 of life from the renewed fountain of his existence ; " some 
 thing very strange ! 
 
 " I scarcely thought of it when you were so ill, but I re 
 member now, how often, when you were lying with your eyes 
 closed and your face partially averted, and we were watching 
 beside you, if her glance happened suddenly to fall on you, 
 a very terrible expression would come <over her features. 
 Agony and hate, deeper and bitterer than I could have be 
 lieved the human countenance capable of revealing, marked 
 her fair face ; and then if you chanced to turn your head or 
 open your eyes, that frightful look would pass quite away, 
 and the sweet, beautiful smile, so full of sad, but patient 
 resignation, would return again ; just as she looked when 
 she first glanced at your miniature, just as she looked after 
 regarding it, attentively, for a moment. 
 
 "But she has been an angel of mercy to us, and may 
 Heaven bless her, and restore to her whatever good she has 
 lost." 
 
 Mr. Aden responded Amen ! very slowly and with unusual 
 thoughtfulness ; and then suddenly asked : 
 
 " Do you know anything of this lady's history ?" 
 
 Eachel knew nothing farther than that she was unmarried ; 
 that the elderly gentleman in whose company she was, when 
 they had seen her in Florence, who was with her when 
 Rachel met with her in the little chapel five years since, was
 
 248 By the Sea. 
 
 only her uncle, though Mrs. Aden had supposed him her 
 husband. The gentleman had recently died, leaving his 
 niece a very large fortune. 
 
 Those particulars she had gathered from the casual re 
 marks of the lady's maid. 
 
 " And did she make any inquiries, or did you speak to her 
 of our past history ?" Mr. Aden asked. 
 
 Kachel had said nothing to the lady about her husband or 
 herself. She had only told her of her little boy, why she 
 'had sent him from her, to whose care she had entrusted him, 
 and where he would be taken. 
 
 The lady, she thought, had been singularly reticent about 
 herself, and she had not manifested the least curiosity in re 
 lation to the antecedents of the people she was so greatly 
 assisting. She appeared simply desirous of seeing them 
 restored to health. 
 
 A few days after the lady's departure from the cottage, a 
 gentleman from the neighboring city called on Mr. Aden, to 
 offer him a situation of profit and trust at a place some score 
 of miles distant from his present abode. 
 
 His friend Signora di Leuca, who, he incidentally remarked, 
 was about to travel in some foreign country, had spoken to 
 him of the American gentleman as a person well qualified to 
 perform the duties which would be required ; and Mr. Aden 
 could retain the situation as long as he chose to do so. 
 
 Tha offjr was very gladly accepted, and Rachel, with fully 
 restored health, now looked forward to the future with 
 brighter hopes than she had ever before suffered herself to 
 entertain. 
 
 A joyful letter was written 'to her cousin Captain Single-
 
 Bread upon the Waters. 249 
 
 ton to be mailed for the port to which his ship was bound, 
 requesting him, on his next voyage, which he expected would 
 again be to some Italian city, to bring back her little boy to 
 her when the mother's heart was again most sorely wounded. 
 News came to Mr. Aden that Captain Singleton's ship was 
 wrecked only an hour's sail distant from its destined port, 
 and his wife and her child, with most of the crew, had 
 perished. 
 
 11*
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 MEASURE FOE MEASURE. 
 
 JWICE during those fifteen years and upwards of 
 his monotonous life at The Kocks, and the shocks 
 were comparatively recent, and they were not 
 wide apart, Mr. Maitland had felt the earth heaving beneath 
 his feet, and ponderous ruins falling about him ; but, unmer 
 cifully, he then thought, he had not been engulfed, his life 
 had not been crushed out. 
 
 The first woe that came was the supposed drowning of his 
 son, the intelligence of which Greyson had brought to him in 
 the early evening of the day on which Luke's boat had failed 
 to return to the beach ; when, hours later, heedless whether 
 the gaping seas made him their prey or not, he had taken 
 his boat, and crossed over to the mainland, to stand for a 
 moment beside his wife, as unknown to her, he had more 
 than once done before since that night when he had first 
 sought the island. 
 
 This time, if he could reach her alive, he was determined 
 to speak to her, whatever the consequences to himself might 
 
 be. 
 
 (250)
 
 Measure for Measure. 2 5 1 
 
 Jerry Greyson, for reasons best known to himself alone, 
 had not mentioned to him the disappearance of Du Bois ; 
 and for aught Mr. Maitland knew that night, or for some 
 succeeding days, the Frenchman was still in the neighbor 
 hood. 
 
 But half-maddened by agony as he was, he had been so 
 terror-stricken at the moment he reached the bedside of his 
 wife, by the sight of that face looking through the window, 
 whose lineaments were clearly denned to his keen gaze by 
 the bright, lingering lightning-flash, that he had fled precipi 
 tately from the dwelling, to return to it no more, not even 
 when the second and bitterer woe came the death of his 
 gentle, wronged wife. 
 
 Monotonous ! Beside those two events, nothing had come 
 to disturb that terrible monotony. 
 
 To trim and light those beacon-lamps when the sun was 
 going down, to watch them steadily burning through the 
 seemingly interminable hours, and to extinguish the flame 
 when it was no longer needed ; to gather the fuel which could 
 never be consumed, and pile it high above memory's ever- 
 heated ashes, till the fires leaped out dense and wide, and the 
 soul was scorched and the brain seemed maddened, and thcu 
 to draw over the unhallowed holocaust the thick, dark cur 
 tain of despair this was the employment of the night. 
 
 And the sole business of the day was, frequently, to 
 wander along the rocky shores of the islands with a glass in 
 his hand, seldom elevated, however, to the mainland, or to 
 the white sails coming and going hi the distance ; sometimes, 
 when the fishermen were absent, to push his boat off a short 
 way oceanward, and sit idly for hours, suffering it to move at
 
 252 By the Sea. 
 
 its will, repeating to himself, as he often did, the words of 
 " the gentle angler " : 
 
 "watch the sun to rise and set, 
 And m3ditate my time away, 
 And beg a quiet passage to a welcome grave !" 
 
 That was the only future Mr. Maitland came, at length, to 
 look forward to. 
 
 While he knew his wife and son to be living, he had been 
 hoping 'Very faintly, indeed, sometimes, but always hoping 
 that, at length, he would be released from his self-imposed 
 imprisonment, which, now and then, but for the sake of those 
 on whom it would bring such sorrow and shame, seemed 
 more intolerable than the most ignominious death would be. 
 
 Perhaps Du Bois, for whose residence at The Sands Mr. 
 Maitland easily enough accounted, might, in time, give up 
 watching and waiting for his return to his wife and son, and 
 quit the neighborhood. 
 
 Then, though he would not break the promise made to 
 his brother, never to resign his post without the knowledge 
 and consent of George Aden, or, while their old friend Mr. 
 Hall was living, suffer the exchange of " keepers " which had 
 been made at the lighthouse to be known without the 
 acknowledgment of his youthful crime, he might have some 
 communication with his son. 
 
 Most likely, after Mr. Hall's decease, intelligence of which, 
 knowing the feebleness of the old man's health at the time 
 his ward had left him, he wondered year after year, did not 
 reach him through Greyson, his half-brother would return ; 
 and then, if lie could safely do so, he would leave the island.
 
 Measure for Measure. 263 
 
 But after those two great sorrows came, he looked forward 
 only to the release which death would bring. 
 
 No one, he believed, but Greyson, had ever suspected that 
 he was not George Aden ; and the fisherman, who plainly 
 perceived that he would gain nothing by the disclosure of 
 the secret, even if it were a very important one to the light 
 house keeper, and who, as has been before remarked, never 
 concerned himself with any affair which was not likely to 
 bring him some pecuniary profit, manifested, after the first 
 shock of disappointment at the frustration of his hopes in 
 regard to Miss Sally Jones was over, as much interest in the 
 welfare of th'e present keeper, as he had done in that of the 
 " Commodore." 
 
 The increase of pay, slight as it was, for the services ren 
 dered, satisfied Jerry perfectly. 
 
 Mr. Maitland could not have afforded a large sum for the 
 lulling of the fisherman's suspicions. His salary, and that was 
 small, was all the means at his command ; and of this a por 
 tion was scrupulously put aside, so that when the time 
 should come at which he might safely do so, a comfortable 
 home could be provided for the deserted woman who was 
 now laboring so incessantly. 
 
 On the night when he had first gone over to the light 
 house, and persuaded his brother to allow him to remain 
 there, he had, at the moment of parting with Vn'm, and un- 
 perceived by George Aden, thrust a wallet which had just 
 been well filled, for the purpose of paying off the workmen 
 employed on the house, into his coat pocket; so carelessly, 
 however, that it had fallen thence into the sea as Mr. Aden 
 stepped into his boat.
 
 254 By the Sea. 
 
 Mr. Maitland was forgetful, at tLe time, that that was all 
 the money at his immediate control ; and the wealth so 
 guiltily taken from others, was, in his present situation, 
 entirely beyond his reach. 
 
 He could neither use it himself, nor return it to its right 
 ful owner, without confessing his great crime. 
 
 After his wife, and as he supposed, his son were dead, 
 feeling sometimes that his own life would soon be ended, he 
 had written a letter which would come into his brother's 
 hands after his Mr. Maitland's death, in which he had told 
 the whole story of his terrible sin, and described the place 
 where that wealth was concealed, that George might find it 
 and see that it was rightly disposed of. 
 
 Occasionally within the first two or three years after he 
 had taken up his residence at the island, and once or twice 
 more recently, the few people in the neighborhood who were 
 friends of George Aden endeavored to keep up an acquaint 
 ance with the lighthouse keeper. The visitors, however, 
 Mr. Maitland took good care never to see. The invitations 
 to go over to the mainland were always declined in such a 
 manner that they were seldom repeated by any one except 
 the old gentleman, Mr. Hall, after his return to the vicinity ; 
 and the infrequent letters he received, a search among the 
 carefully-preserved papers of his brother enabled him to 
 reply to in a manner which created no surprise in the cor 
 respondents. In his solitary walks along the shores of the 
 island, whenever he was hailed by the fishermen, whose 
 homes were at The Hocks or The Sands, he was always called 
 Commodore, or Mr. Aden. 
 
 Greyson, however, began at length to suspect that there
 
 Measure for Measure. 255 
 
 was some one beside himself who did not believe that the 
 lighthouse keeper had a right to answer to those names ; and 
 after the disappearance of her father, he began, very care 
 fully, to watch the movements of Brendice Du Bois. 
 
 But during the week referred to in a preceding chapter, the 
 week before Easter, the fisherman had been away from his 
 home, back some miles from the coast, and was not expect 
 ing to return until Saturday night ; and the girl's boat had 
 moved away from the shore in the direction of The -Bocks, 
 on the eve of Good Friday, when the Convoy lamps were not 
 lighted, unperceived by any one. 
 
 After his great sorrows had come, Mr. Maitland, as has 
 been said, began to look forward to death alone for release 
 from his present sufferings. 
 
 Through the last terrible winter, the mind began to com 
 municate its ailments to the physical system. 
 
 Several times, when the spring was approaching, as he 
 went over that flight of steps which seemed daily to increase 
 in steepness and in the number of its windings, he had sud 
 denly paused and shivered with something which was not 
 simply coldness ; and, after a moment of strange surprise, 
 almost of fear, he had looked cautiously over his right 
 shoulder, feeling that a form, from which some deadly emana 
 tion proceeded, had drawn close to his side. 
 
 He had always sat down upon the stairs and rested for a 
 brief space, when that disagreeable sensation was passing 
 away ; and when it was quite gone, and he rose again to his 
 feet, he was not perfectly sure that he had not been, for a 
 few minutes, sleeping. 
 
 Every time that feeling had stolen over him, that dread
 
 256 By the Sea. 
 
 form seemed to draw nearer ; and when it passed away, 
 though wondering why the slumber came so suddenly, he 
 was more convinced than before that he had simply been 
 dreaming. 
 
 But on one pleasant spring morning, that Presence did 
 more than merely draw near and stand by his side ; and the 
 stupor which followed never quite passed away. 
 
 It was the morning of Maunday Thursday. 
 
 He had not been feeling very well for a few days past ; but 
 that morning, when he had extinguished his lamps, and de 
 scended the topmost turn of that long flight of steps, and had 
 paused to look out upon the ocean, he was thinking that he 
 had not felt such a buoyancy of spirits, and such freedom 
 from physical weakness, for a long time ; and he began to 
 wonder if there might not still be a pleasant future for him 
 in this world. 
 
 He had promised his brother never to quit his post with 
 out his knowledge, but he knew at what point a letter would 
 reach Mr Aden.; and he thought, a few hours hence, after he 
 had taken a short walk along the beach, he would write to 
 George ; the letter to be given to G-reyson when he came 
 over to the island the next Saturday evening. He and his 
 brother had- agreed in what manner to address each other, if 
 either ever wished to open a correspondence. 
 
 During the preceding night he had written a letter to Mr. 
 Hall, in reply to those frequently^ent him, to answer at once, 
 and forever, the gentleman's earnest entreaties that George 
 " would make his future home with his old friend." In the 
 reply he wrote his own name Philip Maitland and con 
 fessed the ingratitude and crimes of his youth, and begged of
 
 Measure for Measure. 25 7 
 
 Mr. Hall, if he could pity and forgive him, never to seek him 
 or address him again. 
 
 He had not decided, after it was completed, to send this 
 letter to his former friend. The fancy had seized him to pen 
 the few lines ; he could not have told why. He would make 
 up his mind, in the course of the morning, whether or not to 
 send it ; perhaps when he was determining what he would 
 write to George. 
 
 There might be a pleasant future ready to open before him 
 still. He was not an old man yet, hardly fifty-three ; and the 
 various schemes for the acquisition of wealth and happiness 
 he had decided that henceforth he would employ no un 
 lawful means to secure either which presented themselves 
 to his mind, were so engrossing his thoughts that he did not 
 heed how the time was passing, until the sun had turned an 
 angle of the lighthouse, and was shining brightly upon his face. 
 
 Then he looked up straight at the luminary, and won 
 dered, in a dull way, why his eyes could never gaze on its 
 glare before, and why he did not experience any warmth 
 from its beams ; and, though the sky was cloudless, and he 
 was not dazzled by the intense light, why it seemed that there 
 was a curtain of ever-thickening texture unrolling itself be 
 tween him and the sun. 
 
 Slowly, it seemed to him and the cold touch which was 
 laid upon his shoulder, and reached upward, over one side of 
 his head, and downwards, the whole length of his body, he 
 thought was many moments in -making its terrible progress ; 
 though it had been but the briefest space between the first 
 fall of the sunlight upon his brow, and the prostration of his 
 form by the terrible stroke of paralysis.
 
 258 By the Sea. 
 
 He was conscious that some heavy body had fallen ; fallen 
 upon the stairway ; and that it was dropping down, step 
 by step ! Then there was a faint consciousness which 
 appeared to come neither by the sense of hearing nor the 
 sonse of feeling, of the grating together of broken bones ; and 
 a flesh wound upon the brow and down the side of the face, 
 deep, but from which the sluggish blood could scarcely 
 trickle. 
 
 And then there was a long darkness, really hours in length, 
 for when the half-dead man again lifted a single eyelid, igno 
 rant of what had happened to him, and, for a brief space, for 
 getful even of where he was for an indistinct remembrance 
 of scenes passed through long years before, came to him 
 with his reluctantly returning and dim consciousness all was 
 blackness around him. 
 
 There was a sweep of cool air ; it seemed to him like the 
 motion of softly-flowing waters, and it partially restored 
 his senses ; and looking up, far away he thought it was, a 
 single shaft of moonlight was spanning that river of darkness. 
 
 He tried to rise from his recumbent position, and then he 
 became sensible of the horror of his situation. 
 
 His right arm, from which the coat sleeve was rolled back 
 until the broad, blood-red mark upon the wrist was wholly 
 uncovered, and the right leg, were no longer obedient to his 
 will. The left arm was broken ; and between him and tho 
 hurried, fearful plunge down that long flight of steps, down 
 to the flags at the bottom, there was only one foot, acci 
 dentally so braced, by the hold of the nails in the heel of his 
 boot to the strip of iron fastened upon the stairs, as to 
 prevent him from falling.
 
 Measure for Measure. 269 
 
 In this fearfully dangerous situation lie had been lying for 
 hours, and he was fully aware how much his danger was 
 increased by the return of sensibility. The strain upon the 
 limb which was upholding him, began to cause him almost as 
 severe suffering as did the fractured arm ; and each moment 
 a change of position was becoming more and more absolutely 
 necessary, he thought, to his very existence. And where was 
 help to come from ? 
 
 He knew of Greyson's absence from his home, and that he 
 had not intended to return to it for some days. 
 
 The inhabitants of the adjacent islands would not care 
 whether the beacon-light was burning or not, and they felt 
 no interest, he was very certain, in himself. 
 
 There was no ship expected, immediately, at the port, and 
 no person would be likely to come, to-night, to see why the 
 lamps were not lighted. Some one might be over to the 
 lighthouse in the morning ; but long before that time, for he 
 knew by the level moonbeams it must be now an early hour 
 in the evening, it would be all over with himself. 
 
 And now that death was so near, it seemed far less 
 welcome to Mr. Maitland than he thought it would be, 
 though it was not so much what was to come after, as what 
 had gone before, of which he was thinking. 
 
 To him, no object looked out from the darkness of the 
 future, and no sound disturbed the portentous silence. 
 
 But in those moments of extremest suffering, both of body 
 and mind for a stronger vitality, it seemed, had been seized 
 upon by the one part of the system, when the other was 
 struck lifeless ; and with a prostration of some of its faculties, 
 more acute perception had come to the mental powers which
 
 260 By the Sea. 
 
 were yet untouched, the past spread itself out before him, 
 but not like a wonderfully painted and wonderfully illumi 
 nated panorama. 
 
 It was the living, voiceful reality : more distinctly heard 
 and more clearly seen than it was when the eyes of that fair 
 woman, standing on the deck of that burning ship, looked in 
 his so trustingly, as his hand had fastened its hold on hers, 
 and then so wildly and desparingly when his fingers 
 loosened their grasp ; the glance of the husband which had 
 been so warmly grateful, changed to that vengeful, maniacal 
 glare ; the agonized shriek of the woman, the low wail of the 
 drowning babe, and the unuttered curses of the Frenchman, 
 which were now being fulfilled ; the smile of his own gentle 
 wife, which, though it was so sweet, was always so full of 
 unasked questions, and the prattle of his child, whose 
 thoughtless words were often venomous arrows to that guilty 
 heart. 
 
 "Infinite Mercy!" faintly articulated that trembling, half- 
 palsied tongue, as, for a brief moment, he forgot his terrible 
 corporeal sufferings, "shut out the past from my sight and 
 hearing, and I will ask for nothing more !" 
 
 "Was that prayer answered ? 
 
 An insensibility was coming, but he must not yield to it ; 
 for with it, he believed, death would now come. 
 
 Again lie felt that rush of cool air, which had, at first, 
 revived him. And could it be ? Would a so justly offended 
 Heaven be merciful to him ? 
 
 Was that faint, echoing sound coming up the stairs, a 
 human footfall, or was his reason forsaking him ? 
 
 Nearer and nearer ; more and more distinct !
 
 Measure for Measure. 261 
 
 Not like Greyson's slow, cautious step, but uncertain, and 
 with hurrying swiftness. But Mr. Maitland knew that his 
 hearing was now very imperfect. No one but Jerry would 
 have come to him to-night. 
 
 " You you," he repeated, in a feeble, tremulous voice. 
 
 He remembered the fisherman's name well enough, but he 
 could not utter it ; and he strove earnestly, though vainly, 
 he thought, to find words which would express what he 
 wished to say. 
 
 But the eager listener who paused on the stairs a few steps 
 below the prostrate man, understood the words of deep 
 thankfulness which issued from his lips, that some one had 
 come to his aid ; the request to pass by him very cautiously 
 and hasten up to the lamps, which were ready to be lighted, 
 and then, taking along the strong rope that would be found 
 easily enough as soon as the lights were burning, hurry back 
 to him. And then, the light, swift tread went on. 
 
 Mr. Maitland fancied that they were flowing garments 
 which swept past him, and "when the person darted through 
 that shaft of moonlight, he thought it wore the figure of a 
 woman ; but, of course, he must be mistaken. 
 
 He closed his eyes, and tried to collect his scattered senses 
 and to gather strength from hope, to bear his removal to a 
 place of safety, which Greyson would, undoubtedly, be able 
 to effect ; sending up an earnest, wordless petition to Heaven 
 it was a strange thing for Mr. Maitland to pray for himself 
 that life and reason might be spared him till he could car 
 ry out the resolutions which had been suddenly formed in his 
 mind, when his strained ear was listening to the first footfall 
 upon, the stairs.
 
 262 By the Sea. 
 
 A strange peace came to the agonized heart when that 
 prayer silently arose, and a calmness and collectedness of 
 thought to the widely-tortured brain. When he looked up 
 again, thinking it was time that Jerry should return to him, 
 the lamps were brightly burning ; but the light which fell 
 about him did not all proceed from the beacon lamps. 
 
 Some one who stood beside him was holding an unclosed 
 lantern about his head, and the blaze, flashing out in the 
 brisk current of air coming up the long stairway, was glaring 
 so dazzlingiy in his face, that, for a moment, he saw nothing 
 but the light. 
 
 When he looked again, however, the lantern had been 
 placed on a step above his head, and the brightness fell full 
 on the countenance of the one at his side. It was not Jerry 
 Greyson, but a tall, stately woman, of elegant form, and 
 transcendently beautiful face ; that face whose features, for 
 now nigh twenty years, had been engraving themselves more 
 and more deeply upon his memory. 
 
 Her arms were folded over her breast, and though a most 
 sweet smile was dimpling the flushed cheek, wreathing the 
 parted lips, and dancing about the brilliant dark eyes, the 
 poise of the head, and the position of the whole figure, was 
 that of proud and exultant triumph. 
 
 The feeble gaze of the prostrate man grew keener as his 
 eyes erested on Brendice Du Bois. 
 
 He knew who she was by her striking resemblance to the 
 woman he had suffered to drop into the sea. 
 
 He had looked on. her countenance before, though a great 
 change had passsd over her since the night he had seen that 
 face peering through the window when he was standing, for
 
 Measure for Measure. 263 
 
 the last time, by the bed of his slumbering wife. This was 
 the girl concerning whom Greyson had, several times, thrown 
 out some dark hints, which Mr. Maitland understood now 
 well enough. 
 
 The man he had so terribly wronged had failed to find 
 him ; but his daughter had discovered where he was, and 
 fate had delivered him into her hands. 
 
 Those hands, he knew, had no " sweet mercy " in them, for 
 as his gaze dropped, for an instant, from her face, he saw, 
 though they were still folded upon her breast, that the fin 
 gers were beginning to move convulsively ; and when he 
 again looked up, the smile had faded from the features, the 
 head was thrown forward, the nether lip held between the 
 teeth, and there was a chill and a terror to the beholder, in 
 the fixed gaze of the dim, half-closed eyes. 
 
 " I accept my fate !" Mr. Maitland said. 
 
 The extremity of despair gave him, for a moment, power 
 to utter the words very intelligibly. 
 
 " It is right that I am lying here, helpless, at your feet ; 
 right that I should die before your eyes, when your hands 
 could save me ! I would that the past could be undone, but 
 the dead cannot be restored to life by the bitter repentance 
 of the murderer. "What I can, I will return to you. Your 
 wealth" 
 
 His strength was entirely exhausted ; his lips moved only 
 silently. 
 
 Brendice uttered a single word. 
 
 He did not know what it was. A sound which seemed to 
 come from a very great distance fell softly and sweetly as a 
 silvery lute-note upon his deafening ear, and to the dimming
 
 264 By the Sea. 
 
 vision the face above him grew wondrously fair with a beauty 
 which seemed not of earth, and from the glittering eye a 
 drop fell on his brow which he thought was heavenly dew. 
 
 He heard and saw nothing more. 
 
 He knew that his one sound, but utterly wearied limb 
 could sustain his weight no longer. His foot slipped from 
 the stair to* which it had clung, and now 
 
 No, he was not* dropping down that frightful descent. 
 There was the clutch of a hand upon his shoulder, and then 
 he knew nothing more ; only once, a while later, he seemed, 
 for an instant, to be dreaming that he caught the sound of a 
 panting, struggling breath above him, that there was a great 
 strain upon the one shoulder not yet beyond feeling, and 
 that he was moving, not swiftly downward, mangled and 
 bleeding, but slowly very slowly and tenderly, as if drawn 
 by the hand of love, upward !
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 GLORIA TIBI, DOMINE! 
 
 IT had required a long and desperate straggle to 
 remove Mr. Maitland to a place of safety. 
 
 It seemed hours to Brendice before her efforts 
 were crowned with success ; and though she had great con 
 fidence in her physical strength, and her power of endurance, 
 the thought, several times, flashed across her mind, that her 
 attempts would be unsuccessful. 
 
 Her own life, as well as that of the helpless man, was at 
 stake ; for she had not only wound the rope which she 
 passed beneath his arms around her own wrists, but had 
 thrown it over her shoulders. 
 
 She was not thinking, however, much of her own danger, 
 or her own suffering, though the feet which she had bared, 
 lest they should slip, were cut till the blood flowed by the 
 sharp edges of the strips of iron fastened upon the stairs, 
 and her wrists and hands were blistering within the coils of 
 the rope. 
 
 The silent cry of thanksgiving which went up from her 
 heart as each separate step was safely passed over, and an 
 
 12 
 
 (265)
 
 266 By the Sea. 
 
 agonized petition that her strength might not be exhausted 
 till she had gained the summit of the stairs, was offered far 
 less for herself than for him whom, so lately, she had thought 
 she would be willing to peril both body and soul to destroy. 
 
 Why was she trying to save him ? 
 
 "When the perilous ascent was ended, and she had released 
 herself from the rope, and sank down upon a bench before 
 the open window, almost as much exhausted as was the 
 breathing, but insensible man, she began to- ask herself the 
 question : Why had she been trying to save him ? Why did 
 she now wish that strength would come with the cool, fresh 
 air which was fanning her aching, heated brow, and staying 
 the thoughts which had been rushing tumultuously through 
 her brain, till the dulled organs became again sensitive and 
 acute that strength would come back to the sharply aching 
 hands and wearied feet, in order that she might descend the 
 long stairway, and take her boat back to The Sands, and 
 seek, there, the aid she could not give him herself ! 
 
 She listened to the sounds of the mighty ocean ; but she 
 could, no longer, catch the tones of her father's voice : 
 
 Bevanche ! 
 
 It was only the words of the great Father she heard, the 
 words which she would never listen to before, but which 
 came to her now as with the awful terror and majesty of Sinai : 
 
 " Vengeance is mine ! I will repay, saith the Lord." 
 
 She looked down into the water, whose peacefully-flowing, 
 white-crested waves, sparkling in the moonlight, were laving 
 the smooth, shining rocks ; and far away, out upon the sea ; 
 but there were no eyes glancing up from its depths now, 
 either in sad complaint, or in implacable wrath.
 
 Gloria Tibi, Domine. 267 
 
 Only the reflection of the beautiful constellation, the 
 highest in heaven, was there ; and Brendice thought of the 
 Lion of the tribe of Judah, who, on the day of which the 
 morrow was the anniversary, became a Lamb, voluntarily giv 
 ing Himself up a sacrifice on the altar of Infinite Justice, 
 that the flame of the vengeful sword might be quenched in 
 His pure blood, and guilty man, repentant and believing in 
 Him, go free. 
 
 She sank upon her knees and looked up to the clear sky, 
 and answered the question which had arisen in her heart, 
 with quivering, but determined lips : 
 
 " It is for Thy sake, O Lamb of God, my ever blessed Re 
 deemer!" adding, after some moments had passed, very 
 softly, and with flowing tears : 
 
 " Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who tres 
 pass against us !" 
 
 And then thought ran on : 
 
 Out of the boat to which she had clung so long, though it 
 was oarless and sailless, and there was in her hand only a 
 false chart of the dangerous seas out of the boat, she was 
 flinging herself into a wide, deep ocean, but safely! for 
 coming down to meet her, walking upon the rough billows, 
 which, at His approach, sank to peaceful rest, was a bright 
 Form, with outstretched hands, and a smile which ensured 
 safe conduct to the desired haven. 
 
 When half an hour had passed, Brendice rose to her feet 
 and went to look on the face of Mr. Maitland. 
 
 She had not dared to do so before since the thought came 
 to her that she must try to save his life. 
 
 He was breathing more regularly now, but his reason was
 
 268 By the Sea. 
 
 gone ; and his ability to move himself, though the girl could 
 only conjecture why, aside from the fracture of the left arm, 
 which, she observed, had dropped down helplessly as he 
 attempted to raise it, appeared to be no greater than when 
 she had found him lying upon the stairs. But she knew that 
 he needed skilful and immediate medical assistance. 
 
 Would she be able to procure it for him, while assistance 
 might be availing ? She glanced about her to see if anything 
 could be found which would administer, in any degree, to 
 his relief, while she made the attempt to return to the main 
 land. 
 
 Fortunately there were at hand a couple of pillows, one of 
 which she placed beneath the head, which had been turning 
 uneasily and trying to lift itself from the floor, and on the 
 other she rested the broken limb in a position most com 
 fortable for it ; and then she bathed the deeply-wounded 
 face, which would never again be mistaken for that of 
 George Aden, in the fresh water she found near her. 
 
 She felt very faint and sick herself, when, as the long, 
 heavy hair was brushed back from his brow, and the dark, 
 dried blood washed away, the excessive pallor came out on 
 the wasted features. 
 
 But she quickly conquered the weakness, and drew back 
 from the prostrate man, as his eye slowly unclosed and 
 sought to raise itself to her countenance, though she thought 
 there was little intelligence in its expression. 
 
 The few brief words he incoherently strove to utter, she 
 fancied were addressed to his wife, and she did not wish to 
 change the direction of his thoughts to the terrible channel 
 they might follow, if his gaze fastened on her features ; and,
 
 Gloria Tibi, Domine. 269 
 
 besides, there was something in the expression of that eye 
 which brought very forcibly to her mind the fact, the ex 
 istence of which she was always denying to herself, and 
 which must no more be acknowledged, now that she was try 
 ing to save this man's life, than when she was seeking for an 
 opportunity to destroy it. 
 
 She turned away from him, thinking that she must delay 
 no longer, though her descent must be slow and cautious, 
 for she believed that the hurried swiftness with which she 
 had ascended the stairs would be fatal to her, exhausted 
 as she now was. She paused a moment near the top of 
 that long, unbroken flight, and looked from the window, 
 out of which Mr. Maitland had been gazing when that cold 
 hand was laid so heavily upon him. 
 
 As she glanced over that stretch of water which must 
 be rowed across, and against a stiffening breeze and an 
 out-flowing tide, she would have thought little of the 
 task but for ths aching shoulders and the swollen hands 
 and wrists, she endeavored to exercise her new-found faith 
 in heaven, and to force back from the eyes which were very 
 unused to weep, the tears which the fear of failure caused 
 to flow. While still looking from the window, she fancied 
 she heard a faint sound coming up from the spot where 
 she had landed. 
 
 She leaned quickly, and almost dangerously, from the 
 aperture which overlooked the little inlet that ran up between 
 the huge rocks serving for the foundation of the lighthouse, 
 and she saw a figure moving swiftly forward, striving to keep 
 in the shadow of the boulders, towards the spot where she 
 had left her boat.
 
 270 By the Sea. 
 
 The great dread which seized on Brendice, as she looked, 
 for there was no boat but her own there, Mr. Maitland not 
 having supplied himself with one since his had been dashed 
 to pieces, the preceding summer the great dread gave her 
 strength to go over that long stairway with fearful speed. 
 
 She did not reach her boat an instant earlier than was 
 necessary for its preservation, for the person, who was a 
 woman, whom she had observed while looking from the win 
 dow, had loosened it from its fastenings, and was just step 
 ping into it, as Brendice suddenly laid her hand upon her 
 shoulder. 
 
 The woman uttered a low cry, and turned her face, which, 
 in the bright moonlight, looked deadly pale, towards her, and 
 she recognized the countenance as that of the young girl she 
 had heard called Ives Dorn, and with whom she had had a 
 long conversation, at her one visit over at The Rocks, on the 
 day after her father's boat had returned, without an occupant, 
 to The Sands. 
 
 She was, herself, also recognized ; for the girl, whose color 
 quickly returned when her eyes met those of Brendice, and 
 who was more embarrassed, though less terrified, than she 
 would have been if the new-comer was the one she expected 
 it to be, heightened her confusion by her attempts to con 
 ceal it ; and confessed plainly enough, by her denials of it, 
 her intended theft ; and, at length, laughing at her want of 
 cleverness, she said, half hysterically : 
 
 " What is the iise ? I know you ; you are one of us ! better, 
 perhaps, than we are, but you understand us ; I wanted the 
 boat ; I did not know it was yours, or I would not have tried 
 to get it. I got mad with somebody to-night, and so,
 
 Gloria Tibi, Domine. 271 
 
 two hours ago, I crept down to the beach, and set a boat 
 adrift. 
 
 "I don't mind telling you of it ! 
 
 " But after it was gone, and I stood watching its course 
 upon the water, now carried out to the sea, and now thrown 
 up towards the rocks, and the moon and the stars looking 
 down at it and me, I thought that we, the boat and myself 
 were very much alike. 
 
 " Did you ever think you would like to be good ?" she 
 interrupted herself to ask ; and before Brendice had time to 
 reply to the sudden question, she continued : 
 
 " It is easy enough to be so, when you can come in on a 
 smooth wave; but you just try it, some time, when the tide is 
 turning, and see what luck you will have ! 
 
 " And so I ran along down the shore, to watch the boat ; 
 and as the water was not very high, I waded across the 
 channel, hoping that some wave might throw it up so far 
 towards the beach that I could get it; and hoping, too," and 
 the girl laughed again, low and sadly, now, but as if in self- 
 derision, " that somebody, some time, would stretch out a 
 strong hand and save me 1 
 
 " But when I got over here, it was gone ; and I felt sorry 
 for it, and for myself, too; and half wished I was in the boat, 
 out at sea, though it had neither sail nor oars in it, nor ever 
 could find its way " 
 
 " And you were taking my boat to go out in search of the 
 missing one !" said Brendice, in an apologetic tone. 
 
 "No, I was not !" replied the girl, defiantly. " I was going 
 to steal it ! I knew it did not belong to the fisherman who 
 comes over here so often from The Sands. I thought it
 
 272 By the Sea. 
 
 might have drifted in here lately, and lie," she pointed up 
 to the lighthouse, " had hauled it on shore. I should have 
 told him, if he had caught me stealing it, that it was my 
 property. I am not so much afraid of him as some of them 
 are ; and I wanted a boat to take back to the old woman I 
 quarrelled with to-night, though she was more to blame for 
 our difficulty than myself ; and she will not believe it was I 
 who sent her boat adrift, unless I tell her so." 
 
 " Well, you may have mine," said Brendice, " if you will 
 help me row back quickly to The Sands !" 
 
 The girl looked incredulous. 
 
 "Yes, see my hands! You shall have it, if you will 
 hasten." She stepped into the boat. 
 
 Ives Dorn immediately followed her, and lifting both the 
 oars, began to ply them vigorously, expressing unbounded 
 astonishment that one so accustomed to manage a boat as 
 was Brendice, should have injured her hands so much by 
 rowing ; and thinking it was not at all strange that she ran 
 her boat ashore, in order to rest awhile. 
 
 " Only I would not have gone in there," she said ; " you 
 did not know where you were, though, maybe, as the Com 
 modore lighted his lamps so very late to-night. Haven't 
 got any fish, I see, though you did stay out so long. Well, 
 some of our boats came in almost empty to-night." 
 
 Brendice did not reply to these, and many other volubly 
 expressed remarks, though she was very well satisfied that 
 her presence at the island, which, it suddenly occurred to 
 her, might appear most singular to her companion, was so 
 easily accounted for by the young woman. 
 
 Brendice did not reply ; but she was very busily, and, had
 
 Gloria Tibi, Domine. 273 
 
 it not been for her anxiety in regard to Mr. Maitland, very 
 pleasantly thinking and planning for the future of herself 
 and little Lang. 
 
 Yes ! this girl, Ives Dorn, should have her boat. 
 
 She would never need it herself again ; for the next Mon 
 day morning she would take the little boy and go away from 
 The Sands forever, and forget all about her old, cheerless 
 life there. 
 
 She would remember that solitary grave on the hill-side, 
 beneath the clustering evergreens, and always feel very 
 grateful to the gentle being whose image was impressed 
 upon her mind as sl-e was kneeling by the open window, 
 high up in the lighthouse, and looking away towards the sky, 
 as deeply as if her actual presence was there. 
 
 She would always feel very grateful to Mrs. Maitland for 
 the patient, unwearied efforts which she had made to weave 
 some brighter threads into the dark woof of her life ; to guide 
 her feet into the path which grows brighter and brighter 
 unto the perfect day. 
 
 Almost with her latest breath the dying woman had com 
 mended her to the care of Heaven, and at length, out of the 
 darkness of her old life, she was very humbly thinking, she 
 would come up, henceforth, to walk in that Path ; He being 
 her Helper. 
 
 Her future seemed not gloomy to her, now. 
 
 Thanks to her father, who, every day through that long 
 winter, she had been thinking of with softening feelings, 
 though she had not spoken yet to Mr. Brown about putting 
 up, in the graveyard, a simple stone to his memory, or 
 commenced cutting his name into the granite rock on which 
 
 12*
 
 274 By the Sea. 
 
 she had stood, so many times, looking away over the sea for 
 the boat which finally came up to the beach without a hand 
 to guide it, when she had thought of doing either, some feel 
 ing which she could not account for having withheld her 
 from the execution of her purpose thanks to her father, 
 both her physical and intellectual powers had received such 
 a training that it would be very strange if she could not 
 procure for herself and for the little boy a comfortable and 
 respectable livelihood. 
 
 He would be all her own, now, she thought ; and she 
 would trust herself to love him. 
 
 Of Luke Maitland there came no intelligence. 
 
 No letter, since her decease, had reached H directed 
 
 to his mother, and Miss Emma Brown, it was certain, had 
 not heard from Luke ; for after it became evident, even to 
 herself, that her efforts in another direction would be entirely 
 useless, she began to make a great show of mourning for the 
 young man. 
 
 Brendice had arrived at the conclusion that he had learned, 
 soon after the night he had stealthily visited The Sands, of 
 his mother's death, and that be either had lost the interest 
 he manifested in the child as soon as the little loving face, 
 which alone, she supposed, had ezcited that interest, was out 
 of his sight ; or that some accident had happened to him 
 self. 
 
 The child, by this time, had probably quite forgotten his 
 real name. The passing recollection, called up by the sight 
 of that painting which she took good care he should never 
 see a second time, seemed to have gone from his mind as 
 quickly as it came ; and she would keep it a secret until some
 
 Gloria Tibi, Domine. 2/0 
 
 one who, she was sure, had a right to do so should appear to 
 claim him. 
 
 Luke had referred to his orphanage. 
 
 Mr. Hall, even if he had any real claim to the child, which 
 was not very likely, Brendice preferred to think, could not, 
 with all his wealth, do more for the child than she would 
 d ; the tenderest mother could not surpass her love and 
 care for him ; and besides, the old gentleman had returned 
 to his home, without seeking the little boy. 
 
 With the sweet babe to love and cherish, and Heaven to 
 look forward to, and to trust in, Brendice thought she would 
 forget the bitter portion which must always be mingled with 
 her cup ; and 
 
 " Cant you sing something?" 
 
 Ives Dora, as soon as she found, which was not immediately, 
 her own tongue moved so nimbly that her companion did 
 not reply to her, not offended, however, at Bren dice's silence, 
 as she accounted for it by the girl's very apparent fatigue, 
 had commenced singing, in the rude vernacular she had 
 dropped, as far as she was able, while talking. 
 
 Her voice was a rather pleasant one, and the boat-song was 
 lively, though not particularly choice. 
 
 Suddenly, as she looked up to the sky, and saw that the 
 midnight was past, she remembered that it was the morning 
 of the day which her mother, who died some years before, 
 had regarded as most holy ; and her careless face grew 
 thoughtful, and she held up the oars for a moment, out of the 
 water, and turning to Brendice, asked abruptly, but in a 
 lower tone : 
 
 " Can you sing something which ought to be sung to-day ?
 
 276 By the Sea. 
 
 My mother used to sing a solemn, but sweetly glad song on 
 this morning. I have been forgetting that Good Friday was 
 so near ; for nobody over there," she nodded towards The 
 Rocks, "cares for anything. I wish they did, though!" she 
 added, huskily. 
 
 " What did your mother sing about ?" Brendice inquired, 
 gently, taking one of the oars from the girl's hand, and 
 lowering it to the water. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know!" she returned, as the boat, now rowed 
 by both the girls, again danced over the sea. 
 
 " They were strange words ; in some foreign language, I 
 think. My mother was a foreigner. My father, who once 
 went out as mate in a merchantman, brought her home from 
 over the seas. 
 
 "I only remember, perhaps you can tell what she 
 meant, I don't believe I understand it very well, my 
 mother often said, on this day, if the angels sang when 
 Christ their Lord was born born to die, what should men 
 do, when He, their elder Brother, died, to live again forever ?'* 
 
 The tears dropped softly from Brendice's eyes. It was the 
 very question she had asked herself when she was kneeling 
 in the lighthouse ; and after a few moments of silence with 
 both the girls, Brendice's voice rose loud and clear, as Ives 
 had said in a very solemn, but sweetly-glad song, ringing far 
 out over the gently rolling waters : 
 
 Gloria tibi, Domine ! 
 
 The boat was now nearing the shore. 
 
 It had moved rapidly for some time past, for Brendice's 
 fatigue was leaving her, or was forgotten, and she was a very 
 swift rower ; and William Jones, who was, at length, able to
 
 Gloria Tibi, Domine. 277 
 
 leave the bedside of young Brown, and was walking down 
 towards the beach, looking away to the beacon-light, that now 
 burned brightly, and thinking of Brendice Du Bois, caught 
 the sound of the voice which he, readily enough, recognized 
 as hers. 
 
 He reached the water's edge just as the boat touched the 
 sand, and while Ives, who had consented to defer her return 
 to The Rocks till the morning, as the air had become quite 
 chilly, was caring for the boat, Brendice hastily stepped on 
 shore, and drew near the young man, addressing him in so 
 low a tone that Ives did not comprehend the import of her 
 words. 
 
 "Something very terrible has happened to the man over at 
 the lighthouse !" she said. " I am afraid, by this time, he is 
 beyond the reach of medical skill. Hasten to him, William, 
 and take a good physician with you; and, if he is still alive, 
 oh, try to save him !" 
 
 "I will, Brendice !" he replied, in the same low tone. 
 
 "Doctor Clark is still at Mr. Brown's, but his patient is 
 sleeping ; and, it is thought, all danger is passed. We can 
 both leave the sick lad now, and I will get my boat out at 
 once and take the doctor over to the island. 
 
 " Clark is very skilful. He will do all that can be done 
 for Mr. Aden. He is Mr. Hall's physician ; and you have 
 heard how much interest the old gentleman takes in the 
 lighthouse keeper. It is said that he is determined to have 
 Mr. Aden at his house before Easter." 
 
 William Jones forgot, for a moment, the concern he 
 naturally felt in the welfare of his fellow-beings, in the 
 pleasure he experienced in lingering near Brendice Du Bois,
 
 278 By the Sea. 
 
 and looking in her face ; but her reply to his words, though 
 it conveyed an idea to him very different from that which 
 was passing through the mind of the girl, crushed forever out 
 of existence the hope he had secretly been cherishing all 
 through those many months past, notwithstanding the 
 prompt rejection of his suit the previous autumn. 
 
 " Do not let it be known how you heard that he needed 
 assistance ;" she said, " and, William," in her earnestness, 
 she laid her hand upon his arm, " let this remain a secret 
 with you, until some one else ascertains the fact, or he, him 
 self, reveals it. The man at the lighthouse is not Mr. Aden. 
 He is the father of Luke Maitland !" 
 
 The young man made a great effort to gulp down some 
 thing which seemed to be choking him, but he did not 
 succeed well enough to trust his voice to answer her. 
 ^ He only took the hand she had placed upon his arm, and 
 held it, for a moment, in both of his, and then turned and 
 walked quickly away. 
 
 Very soon after, Brendice, followed by Ives Dorn, moved 
 towards her abode. Ives, who had been heated by her swift 
 handling of the oar, and who had not the physical strength 
 of Brendice, was now trembling with cold, and much 
 exhausted ; but she was soon made so very comfortable by a 
 cup of hot tea, and a nice tucking about her of warm bed- 
 clothing, that she slept soundly. 
 
 Brendice, however, did not seek her pillow. 
 
 She had listened until her quick ear caught the sound of 
 voices, one of which she knew to be that of young Jones, and 
 the other, she doubted not, was the physician, down upon 
 the beach ; and then she knelt by her Couch with one arm
 
 Gloria Tibi, Domine. 279 
 
 encircling her little charge, whose slumbers, since his head 
 had dropped heavily on her shoulder at early night-fall, had 
 not been disturbed. 
 
 She had removed the slip of paper that had been fastened 
 to his dress, and thanked Heaven that the Power, she 
 thought it could be nothing else, which stays the raging of 
 the furious, mighty sea, had held back her eager hand, that 
 night, from blood-guiltiness. 
 
 And she prayed, very earnestly, that the hand might, 
 henceforth, be so kept from evil, that it could be fit to point 
 out the path in which he should go, to this sweet child, and 
 to guide therein his uncertain footsteps. 
 
 Then her thoughts went out from herself, and, im 
 portunately, as for a very dear friend, she began to ask of 
 Heaven that the efforts which would be made to better the 
 condition of the wretched man over at the island, might be 
 successful ; falling insensibly into the form of words, as far 
 as she could recollect it, which she had read at the bedside 
 of Mrs. Maitland, on the last Sabbath of her earthly 
 existence : 
 
 " Give him unfeigned repentance for all the errors of his 
 past life, and steadfast faith in Thy Son Jesus ; that his sins 
 may be done away by Thy mercy, and his pardon sealed in 
 Heaven, before he go hence, and be no more seen !"
 
 m 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE EASTEE-OFPEEINGS. 
 
 |VES DOBN awoke very early from her sound 
 repose, quite free from her cold, and perfectly 
 rested ; but Brendice, whose eyes had not been 
 closed above an hour, was now sleeping quietly and pro 
 foundly. 
 
 Her head was resting upon the side of the low couch, and 
 one arm still encircled the little boy. She had not risen 
 from the floor since kneeling down upon it. Sweet sleep had 
 come to her, while the words of prayer were on her lips. 
 
 Ives dressed herself noiselessly, that she might not disturb 
 the sleepers ; and when her very unstudied toilet was 
 completed, feeling the necessity of an immediate return to 
 The Rocks, she searched about the room for some article of 
 clothing to protect her shoulders from the cool, fresh morn 
 ing air. 
 
 There was nothing to be found which she felt at liberty to 
 appropriate to her use but a fisherman's old coat, which was 
 hanging from a peg in a dark corner of the apartment. But 
 that would serve her very well.
 
 The Easter -offer ings. 281 
 
 She took it down, and was thrusting her arms into the 
 sleeves, when she heard the rustling of a paper in one of the 
 pockets. She quickly checked the movement, fearful of dis 
 turbing Brendice and the little boy, and sought very cautious 
 ly to remove the letter, such she thought it was, from the 
 manner in which it was folded, before arraying herself in the 
 tattered garment. 
 
 A letter it proved to be, and addressed to Brendice Du 
 Bois. Ives was not greatly skilled in chirography, but she 
 managed to read the name, for the writing was as legible as 
 it was elegant ; and it was so beautiful to the girl that she 
 wished the paper had not been such a " crunkly " one 
 here came in her vernacular so she might open it, and see 
 if the contents were as nice as the exterior looked. She 
 would have attached no consequence to the breaking of the 
 seal. 
 
 Ives would have learned nothing, however, had she at 
 tempted to gratify her curiosity, for the writing was in a 
 language of which she understood not a single word. 
 
 There was something, however, in the old coat pocket, 
 besides the letter ; and that she could examine noiselessly, 
 for the small, solid substance was wrapped in many folds of 
 soft, white cotton. 
 
 She glanced at Brendice and the child. They were both 
 still soundly sleeping, and then she unrolled the cotton wind 
 ings. But a shade of disappointment passed over her face, 
 for there was nothing before her eager eyes but a small, 
 white, shining stone. 
 
 Ives thought, contemptuously, that she had seen "lots o' 
 just sich dimuns " many a time, over among the rocks. It
 
 282 By the Sea. 
 
 was encircled the rest of the setting had been broken away 
 by a narrow band of gold, on which was a monogram, now 
 partially obliterated, and originally so fancifully described, 
 that it did not occur to the girl the lines were anything but 
 accidental cuttings. 
 
 What Ives would have done with the " dimun," had it not 
 been, in her opinion, so utterly valueless, is uncertain. 
 
 Most likely she would have taken it over to The Kocks, 
 and after a sharp conflict with herself, either would have 
 thrown it into the sea, or in bringing back the old coat, have 
 brought back, too, the roll of cotton in the pocket, and that 
 small, hard substance carefully wrapped within it. But 
 as it was, after deliberating, for a moment, whether she had 
 best try to get off that circlet or not undoubtedly the band 
 was nothing more than brass, Ives thought she dropped it 
 behind the couch, which was drawn away a short distance 
 from the wall, upon a pile of little Lang's treasures the 
 pretty tinted pebbles and sea-shells which Brendice found 
 on the beach for him ; and placing the letter on the bed, so 
 near the edge, however, that, unnoticed by her, it, too, fell 
 upon the floor, she finished the arraying of herself in the old 
 coat, and stepped noiselessly out of the dwelling. 
 
 A few minutes later, she was in Brendice's boat, which was 
 skimming, like a white-winged sea-bird, over the smooth 
 water, laughing merrily to herself as she thought of the old 
 fish-woman's surprise, when, on going down to the shore, 
 she would find this nice new boat in the place of her old 
 worn one, and the perfect ignorance which she would, her 
 self, manifest of the exchange that had been made. And 
 then Ives grew very sober.
 
 The Easter-offerings. 283 
 
 She began to wonder how she could make up .to Mother 
 Hobart the loss of her boat and get back this one, which 
 she was determined to return to Brendice Du Bois, whose 
 home the girl wished was over at The Eocks, as she had told 
 her companion a dozen times the night previous, while 
 they rowed over the water. 
 
 She was relieved of one anxiety, however, as she drew near 
 the landing. A fisherman was just pushing off from the 
 Convoy, it was William Jones and at her request, he very 
 willingly promised to see that Brendice's boat was safe at 
 The Sands before night-fall. 
 
 On the second evening after, which was Saturday night, as 
 Brendice went down on the beach, she found, to her regret, 
 that it had been returned. She would have preferred that 
 Ives should keep it, as she had often thought she would 
 never dispose of, for money, the last thing which her father 
 had purchased, and which always reminded her, so forcibly, 
 of his death ; though, in order to carry into execution the 
 plans which had been perfected in her mind while she was 
 returning on Friday morning from The Rocks, she must sell 
 everything else, and there were some quite valuable articles 
 in the sea-chest, at her disposal. 
 
 But the boat she could never offer for sale, though she had 
 decided never to use it again. Even if she remained at The 
 Sands, she could never resume her former avocation ; her 
 care of little Lang would prevent that. 
 
 Her woman-heart would never allow her to expose a child 
 to the suffering and danger she had, herself, been subjected 
 to, in her infancy. But she would not remain at The Sands. 
 
 That Saturday night was to be the last of her week-day
 
 284 By the Sea. 
 
 life there, she thought, and she had gone to the sea-shore to 
 listen, for the last time, to the voices which always seemed 
 coming up to her out of the water. 
 
 She wished to watch once more for the advancing and re 
 treating of the waves, and the quick disappearance of her 
 footprints upon the sand, on whose yielding surface she had, 
 many times, in her early girlhood, long before any idea of 
 what was now absorbing her thoughts had entered into her 
 mind, with her fingers made such traceries, that it saddened 
 her to see them so suddenly obliterated. She would walk 
 once more over the ledge whose stones had been trodden, so 
 often, by her bare feet, and recall the thoughts which had 
 come to her in her childhood ; and climb up the high boul 
 der, on which so many hours of her life had been passed, and 
 look away over the water as she had so constantly for years, 
 then with the expectation that her mother would come, some 
 time, to the earth to seek her child, now with the hope that 
 at no very distant period she would, herself, be searching for 
 that mother, in a far-off, better land. 
 
 The lamps were lighted at the Convoy, while she stood 
 there, upon the beach. 
 
 She had heard nothing in relation to the keeper since she 
 was, herself, at the lighthouse ; for no one had been into 
 her dwelling since Thursday, besides Mrs. Adams' little girls. 
 They had stepped in, for a moment, on Saturday afternoon, 
 to bring the pretty hat and shawl for Brendice, and the 
 children's present for the little boy, which was so nice, and 
 would keep him so warm, when he rode with them, to-mor 
 row, they told him, up to the church ; and to tell Brendice 
 that their elder brother had taken them over to the hills that
 
 The Easter -offer ings. 285 
 
 morning, and to show her the few sweet wild flowers they 
 had found there, and especially to make sure that she and 
 " dear little Lang" would go up with mother and themselves 
 to the Easter Festival. 
 
 Sally Jones, at whose home Brendice had just called, to 
 return some completed work, hoping to hear something 
 about Mr. Maitland, made no allusion to the lighthouse 
 keeper, or to her absent nephew. 
 
 When she turned back from her long walk up the beach, 
 Brendice paused by the dwelling which had been Mrs. Mait- 
 land's, the doors of which had not been opened, she supposed, 
 since she had, herself, closed them; though she had, soon 
 after returning to her own home, the previous autumn, given 
 the keys to Mr. Brown, with a remark which convinced him 
 that she was doing well in not making the house her home, 
 as he had advised her to do. As she looked up to the 
 white-curtained windows, the thought struck her that there 
 was a faint light within the dwelling ; but when she drew 
 nearer, she was satisfied that what had caught her eye was 
 nothing but the moonbeams reflected by the glass. 
 
 The second night from this, her own home would be for 
 saken too. It was a rather saddening thought to her ; but 
 she felt that for her own sake, as well as for that of the child, 
 from the sweet burden of which she prayed never to be re 
 leased, henceforth her life must be a very different one from 
 what it had ever been before ; strengthening herself with 
 the thought : 
 
 " I shall not fail, who all my trust 
 Repose on Thee, my God !"
 
 286 By the Sea. 
 
 " Christ our Passover is sacrificed for us ; therefore let us 
 keep the Feast !" 
 
 The words came to her at the early dawn ; and all through 
 the hours of that bright, sweet, Easter morning, her lips 
 were uttering the glad chant ; and as she read the beautiful 
 Service for the most holy-day, her heart, many times, re 
 peated the prayer that the dark shroud which had held her 
 so long in its folds might never again enwrap her ; that the 
 sun of a resurrection morning might, indeed, have arisen 
 for her. 
 
 An hour or two before noon, Mrs. Adams' daughters, 
 dressed for church, came down for her and the child. 
 
 Lang had been enjoying himself finely, all the morning. 
 He was a very sweet-tempered little boy. 
 
 Brendice, in her long walk the previous evening, thinking 
 it would be the last time she might ever do so, had picked 
 up a large handful of shells for him, and he was very happy 
 with this great addition to his treasures ; and when the 
 girls, with whom he was beginning to feel quite acquainted, 
 came in, he was very eager to display it to them. 
 
 The children, of course, expressed great wonder and de 
 light, and then the eldest, after a moment's sudden silence, 
 exclaimed, in unaffected surprise : 
 
 " Why, Brendice, what is this ! Where did you get it ?" 
 \ Brendice, busying herself in the other apartment, only 
 glanced carelessly towards the half-open door. 
 
 "Nothing but a pebble, Ruth I I found it on the beach." 
 
 " Did you ? Why " the girl spoke slowly, " it looks very 
 nice ; handsomer, a great deal, I think, than mother's opal,
 
 The Easter -offer ings. 287 
 
 which uncle sent her from France ! and I wonder how this 
 happened to be on it." 
 
 She did not say what, or Brendice might have taken a 
 nearer view of that, which not her own hand, but the hand 
 of Ives Dorn had dropped among the little boy's playthings. 
 
 " Oh, I wish you would let Lang carry this to church, for 
 an Easter-offering !" continued the girL 
 
 "It is valueless, Ruth!" Brendice replied. 
 
 " But it is so beautiful !" the child persisted. 
 
 " It looks so pure and so rich ! Mother says that if we 
 give the best we have to God, He will count it above all 
 price, whatever it may be. And she says, too, that very often 
 we don't know how valuable a thing is ; and that there were 
 many people who did not think much of it, even when God 
 gave to the world what was worth more than the whole 
 universe, on Easter morning The Risen Christ I 
 
 " Please let Lang take it, Brendice, for an offering !" 
 
 " He may, dear Buthy !" Brendice said, the tears coming 
 into her eyes. " He should take it, if it were even a diamond, 
 and at my disposal." 
 
 " Oh, I am so glad !" the child replied, and she went be 
 hind the couch, to pick up the paper, a corner of which was 
 visible beneath the bed covering, with the intention of wrap 
 ping the "pebble" within it, before consigning it to the 
 little boy's pocket. 
 
 The paper proved to be a letter, however, and she 
 dropped it upon the bed ; and, not to trouble Brendice, who 
 was busied in preparing for her ride, put the treasure into 
 the little coat pocket, and placed her own handkerchief above 
 it, to keep it safe. And then, stooping down, and taking the
 
 288 By the Sea. 
 
 round rosy face in her hands, and looking into the dark eyes, 
 sparkling with delight, she said : 
 
 " Now, you little mouse, you must remember every word I 
 say ! "When we are in the church, that is the great nice 
 house where we are going " 
 
 " Yes, Brendice told me !" he interrupted. 
 
 " I shall take hold of your little hand, and lead you up to 
 the chancel, where a tall man stands " 
 
 " In his white gown Brendice told me !" 
 
 " And just as soon as you see me put something into his 
 hand, you must take this out of your pocket, and give it to 
 him. Now remember !" 
 
 " May I, Brendice ?" asked the child. 
 
 "Yes, dear!" Brendice said. "Ruthy desires it so much." 
 
 " No one will mind it, in such a little creature as you are !" 
 she mentally added ; and she wished that the stone was 
 really as beautiful and rich as the little girl's fancy had made 
 it, and that it was in her power to present an Easter-offering, 
 herself, that day, to the Lord ; but then, she thought, she 
 had a willing mind, and as Ruth had said, if we offer to the 
 Lord the best that it is in our power to give, it will be accept 
 able to Him, whatever the offering may be. 
 
 As they were riding over the smooth, hard road, somewhat 
 umisually so, at that season of the year, Mrs. Adams remarked 
 on the beauty of the day, and expressed to Brendice the 
 great sorrow she felt that the old gentleman, lately an inmate 
 of her house, would not be able better to enjoy it, especially 
 as so many of the children, who had been made happy by him 
 on Christmas Eve, were going up, as he had requested them, 
 to the Easter festival.
 
 Tke Easter-offerings. 289 
 
 "Was he ill?" Brendice asked, faintly. 
 
 For some reason, though she should always feel very grate 
 ful to him for the assistance he had so kindly and delicately 
 rendered her, during the past winter, and though her fears 
 that he would try to take the little boy from her had been 
 almost entirely removed, she did not like to hear his name 
 mentioned, and she was afraid that Mrs. Adams would 
 observe the emotion which she fancied that she manifested. 
 
 No, he was not ill, the lady said, but he had met with 
 another great trouble. She did not, herself, understand 
 fully what it was. Somebody had sent down to Mr. Adams, 
 the day before, to see that Jerry Greyson went over to the 
 lighthouse, and remained there until a new keeper was 
 appointed, as something had happened at the Convoy. Mr. 
 Hall sent a boat to the island, Saturday morning, to fetch his 
 friend, Mr. Aden, to the mainland, to pass Easter week with 
 him. His messenger brought back word that only the keeper's 
 deputy, who proved to be a brother, or some near relative of 
 Mr. Aden, the lady had been informed, was there, and he was 
 ill, very dangerously so ; but so uncomfortably situated, that 
 an endeavor was to have been made, the .afternoon previous, 
 to remove him to the house of Mr. Hall. 
 
 " Why to Mr. Hall's ?" Brendice asked. 
 
 Mrs. A.dams did not know, unless the man proved to be 
 that brother of Mr. Aden, long supposed to be dead, of whom 
 the old gentleman had once spoken to her, as having been a 
 very fine, promising young man. Mr. Hall had formerly 
 known him very well, and had been greatly attached to him ; 
 but it had been so long since he had been heard from, his 
 friend had believed that he could no longer be living. 
 
 13
 
 290 By the Sea. 
 
 Was the present illness of this man what was troubling Mr 
 Hall so much ? Brendice inquired. 
 
 Yes, that, and the absence of Mr. Aden. 
 
 " And he has had so much trouble !" Mrs. Adams said. 
 " You have heard about Rachel Ross ?" 
 
 Brendice's heart gave a great throb, for as the lady uttered 
 the name, in a rather emphatic tone, little Lang, who was 
 whispering softly and laughingly to "kitty" that was Euth's 
 white muff turned a surprised and thoughtful face towards 
 her, and opened his lips to say something, only the lady pro 
 ceeded : 
 
 " Rachel's mother, who was a very sweet girl, I have heard, 
 was to have been the wife of Mr. Hall ; but his friends inter 
 fered with his plans, and sent him to a foreign country ; (he 
 did not forgive them for it, for many long years,) and the 
 match was broken off. 
 
 "The girl married, but very indiscreetly, and she died 
 young, she, and quite a number of little children, all but one, 
 the youngest, Rachel, who was named for her mother. 
 Mr. Hall found this child, accidentally, as, homeless and 
 friendless, she was wandering in the streets of a southern 
 city. He took her to his home and bis heart ; but the news 
 of her mother's fate he had not heard of her marriage, even, 
 until a few weeks before he had found her child, and all 
 through those years, he had been looking forward to the time 
 when she should become his wife, the news of her mother's 
 fate so affected him, that he was not his own self for years. 
 
 " He seemed to live only, I have been told, in the life of 
 the young girl. And at length she left him. 
 
 "It is now more than fifteen years it is almost sixteen
 
 The Easter-offerings. 291 
 
 years since she went away ; the same period of time that has 
 elapsed since Mr. Aden" 
 
 " Why, that is certainly very strange ;" she interrupted 
 herself to remark. " People have told me that Mr. Aden was 
 very fond of this girl ; and I was formerly acquainted with 
 her cousin, Singleton, whom, it is said, she married. 
 
 " It always surprised me that Edgar Singleton should per 
 suade a girl to marry him in a clandestine manner; and I do 
 not believe now, that he did!" she added, earnestly. "I 
 should not wonder if it was Mr. Aden who became her 
 husband ; and that this man, whoever he may be, has been 
 at the lighthouse, all these years since. 
 
 " Mr. Hall was so deeply wounded by the elopement of 
 this girl," continued Mrs. Adams, " that he made no effort to 
 discover what became of her. His feelings towards her, 
 however, were just beginning to undergo a change; and then 
 the news of her supposed death reached him. But she may 
 be living 1 
 
 " He has earnestly requested me to stop at his house to 
 night, and I intend to do so, since he is in such trouble ; and 
 he particularly wishes that you and little Lang should 
 remain there with me, till to-morrow. 
 
 "I will tell him what an idea has occurred to me, and if 
 this man, who, it is said, is almost speechless, and has his 
 reason only at brief intervals, can be restored to conscious 
 ness, perhaps the old gentleman will be able to ascertain " 
 
 "Why, you are faint, Brendico ! Let me " 
 
 "I am so unaccustomed to the motion of a carriage!" 
 Brendice managed to say, with tolerable composure, when 
 the window was partially opened, and she could avert her
 
 292 By the Sea. 
 
 face from her companion's inquiring eyes, under the pretext 
 of seeking the cool, fresh air. 
 
 But a few more words were spoken, before they reached 
 the church. Mrs. Adams was reflecting on the plausibility 
 of the idea which had suddenly occurred to her. 
 
 The more she thought of it, the more convinced "she was 
 that her conjecture was well founded ; and it would be very 
 gratifying to her kind feelings, should it prove to be so. If 
 Mr. Hall's adopted daughter, she reasoned, had been the 
 wife of Captain Singleton, she was dead; for it had been the 
 ship of that unfortunate man which had struck on the sand 
 bar the preceding summer, and his wife and her child, as 
 well as most of the ship's crew, had been drowned. 
 
 If Rachel Ross had been married to the man that 
 nominally held the post of lighthouse keeper, she might 
 still be living ; and the old gentleman who loved her so 
 much, though he was so unfitted to be her guardian, might 
 yet be gladdened by a reconciliation with her ; for Mr. 
 Aden's whereabouts, at least, would be likely to become 
 known, now that this accident, or whatever it was, had 
 happened to his relative and deputy. 
 
 As for Brendice, she might not have been able, herself, to 
 tell what was passing through her mind, except that this 
 little creature who, as be had looked up into the face, to the 
 expression of which he always seemed striving to suit his 
 mood, crept out from the encircling arms of the girls, and 
 nestled closely to her side, and turned his loving, pitiful 
 eyes up to her this little creit'-ire should never be taken 
 from her while she was able prop3rly to care for him, 
 unless his father or his mother claimed him.
 
 The Easter -offer ings. 293 
 
 She was thinking only this, and wishing she had not come 
 up to the Festival, but had taken the child, and without a 
 word to any one, had gone away from her old home forever, 
 early the next morning after her work at the island was 
 done. 
 
 And when she knelt in church, it was the first time she 
 had ever done so, and tried to put away the bitter thoughts 
 which were so nearly overwhelming her, and to order her 
 prayers in accordance with the Morning Lesson she had 
 read with so much interest : 
 
 " Not with the old leaven, neither with the leaven of malice 
 and wickedness " 
 
 Her heart had responded : 
 
 "I had put it the old leaven out of my house, for ever 
 more, before the Pasch was slain!" 
 
 Yet when she thought on : 
 
 " But with the unleavened bread of sincerity and truth !" 
 she could only answer : 
 
 "No one shall ever extract from me the secret in relation 
 to this child : neither his name, nor how I obtained 
 possession of him!" 
 
 " Set your affections on things above; not on things on the 
 earth !" 
 
 And her firm lips framed the words : 
 
 " Have I not already cut off my right hand, and plucked 
 out my right eye? Must I rend out my heart too ?" 
 
 And when she rose from her unblest prayer, and Mrs. 
 Adams put into her hand the book from which the children 
 were singing their glad Easter-songs, with the pencilled 
 words :
 
 294' -By th e Sea, 
 
 " Sing, dear Brendice ! Mr. Hall bade me ask you to, at 
 the Festival. It will make him very happy to hear your 
 voice. He was looking very sad and thoughtful when we 
 came into church, but a sweet, satisfied smile came to his 
 pale face, when he saw you and the little boy !" 
 
 Brendice thought, if she opened her lips at all, it would 
 only be in self-upbraiding that she had not earlier discovered 
 how dear he was to her, and had not more carefully guarded 
 her treasure ; and especially that she had placed it, a second 
 time, before the eyes of that old man. 
 
 Let her once get beyond the reach of those eyes, she 
 thought, which, were now, when the children were presenting 
 theii; simple offerings at the altar, so closely following the 
 figure of little Lang, who, carrying the beautiful bouquet, so 
 heavy that the little fat hand could hardly manage to hold 
 it upright, was led towards the chancel by Ruth Adams 
 let her but once get beyond the reach of those covetous eyes, 
 and 
 
 The flowers were placed upon the altar, and Ruth had 
 presented the offering of the Sabbath-school class of which 
 she was a member, and then little Lang, remembering what 
 had been told him, drew forth the beautiful "pebble " from 
 his little pocket, and held it up to the rector. 
 
 The gentleman took it with a look of such marked surprise, 
 that many in the church observed it, and he bent his head, 
 and inquired softly of the girl : 
 
 "Whose child is this little boy?" 
 
 Ruth was so much embarrassed, that she did not know 
 what reply to make. She had noticed his surprise, and was
 
 The Easter-offerings. 296 
 
 afraid that something was not quite right ; and to encourage 
 her to speak, he put the question in another form : 
 
 ""What is this child's name?" 
 
 But Ruth still hesitated. She did not know whether she 
 ought to call him Lang, or whether she had best try to speak 
 that French word which Brendice pronounced so queerly. 
 
 The little boy, who appeared to be very glad that his part 
 of the performance was ended, turned his bright, dark eyes 
 from the troubled countenance of Euth to that of the rector. 
 
 He had heard both questions, and was wondering why 
 they were not replied to ; and then he suddenly looked 
 around, and down the aisle, and over the sea of faces, till his 
 eyes rested on that, to him, sure haven the face of Brendice. 
 
 There was a look of eager inquiry on his face, but he 
 seemed quickly to have found an answer to his question, for 
 he immediately turned his head, and glanced up again to the 
 rector, and the sweet young voice rang through the spacious 
 church : 
 
 "Boss Aden ! Brendice Du Bois' little boy!" 
 
 There was a quick movement, as these words were uttered, 
 somewhere, far back in the church, and a lady who had been 
 kneeling, ever since she entered the edifice, half rose from 
 her seat. 
 
 After a moment, the lady she was a stranger, and had 
 been shown into the pew where sat Mrs. Smith, the house 
 keeper of Mr. Hall, whispered softly, but in a startled tone, 
 to the woman beside her : 
 
 " If you please, what was the name ?" 
 
 " Boss Aden I I thought ;" was the reply. 
 
 " No, no ! the other name ?"
 
 296 By the Sea. 
 
 "Brendice Du Bois!" and Mrs. Smith, who never suffered 
 an opportunity for speaking a good word for a fellow-being 
 to pass unimproved by her, put her book over her mouth 
 and continued : 
 
 " The girl is a poor young fish-woman. She found that 
 child, last autumn, down on the sea-shore, I have heard. 
 The town authorities were intending to send him to the 
 almshouse, but she carried him to her own home, and has 
 fed and clothed him, herself, all through the past severe 
 winter, by the avails of her daily labor, which has been, in 
 great part, digging clams, down on the cold beach." 
 
 " Is the girl in church ?" asked the stranger. 
 
 Mrs. Smith glanced about her. She had observed the tall, 
 handsome young woman who had come in with Mrs. Adams, 
 but she could not have thought that was Brendice, the fish- 
 girl, and she replied in the negative. 
 
 How the services of the occasion proceeded, after Euth 
 Adams and the little boy moved away from the chancel, 
 Brendice could not have told, though she was listening, in a 
 dull way, to the voices which were speaking, and thinking 
 dreamily. 
 
 Now she heard one voice, alone. A kind, pleasant, fatherly 
 voice it was. 
 
 The rector referred to the offerings which the children had 
 just made, telling their worth in the currency of men ; and 
 hoped, that, in the standard of Heaven, which weighs what 
 the heart hides away in its secret recesses, as well as what is 
 displayed in the unclosed hand, these bits of silver and gold, 
 ( >r their equivalent, enriched by humble, trusting prayers, by 
 little sacrifices, by love to God and good-will to men, might
 
 The Easter-offerings. 297 
 
 prove treasures of untold worth ; and that these gifts at the 
 altar might be returned to them, in their hour of greatest 
 need, by Him who holds all things in His hand, and who 
 can bless one without injury to another, a hundred-fold in 
 this life, and in the life to come he hoped they might receive 
 the reward promised to him, even, who has given a cup of 
 cold water in the name of a disciple. 
 
 And then he ascribed all glory and honor to Him who has 
 made that great and blessed promise, and the whole assembly, 
 Brendice alone excepted, stood up and said Amen ! 
 
 She understood something of this, and a faint, strange 
 smile passed over her white face. 
 
 Her offerings had not always been made with prayer and 
 good-will to men, perhaps never, with true love to God ; 
 but had they not been sacrifices such as few people are ever 
 required to make ? 
 
 And now the hundred-fold was coming to her ! 
 
 After thab, many voices were joined in grand chorus. 
 
 They were singing something about " merry Easter-bells," 
 and Brendice remembered how many times through the long 
 years gone by, as, wandering alone, up and down the smooth, 
 white sand, and listening to the sounding sea, on the holy 
 Sabbath, bright and sweet as this fair Easter-day, she had 
 tried to catch the peals of St. Mary's bell. She had often 
 thought how, if she could once find herself within the church 
 which her vivid imagination never pictured to her as more 
 beautiful than this fine edifice proved to be, all the hard, 
 bitter feelings which were so poisoning and deadening her 
 young life, would forever pass away. 
 
 " What chant the merry Easter-bells ?" 
 13*
 
 298 By the Sea. 
 
 The children were repeating the words, and now another 
 voice joined in the chorus, not commingling with the other 
 voices, only sweetly harmonizing with them ; and reaching 
 the ear separate and distinct in its richness and beauty, as 
 the light of the bright evening star falls upon the eye, un 
 blended with another ray. 
 
 A firm, mature voice, it was ; but one of wonderful 
 sweetness and depth, and perfectly trained ; and no one who 
 heard those words, somewhat peculiarly pronounced, but 
 articulated with surpassing clearness : 
 
 " That Christ, our Lord, is risen again !" 
 
 would be likely ever to forget the music or the occasion. 
 
 The closing word in the stanza was especially remembered. 
 The unknown singer lingered as long upon it as the deep 
 tones of the organ were reverberating through the church, 
 the voice rising higher and higher, bearing up with it the 
 hearts of the listeners, and ever more and more sweet, till it 
 seemed ready to enter the orchestra above. 
 
 Brendice heard the singer. Was it her own voice to which 
 she listened. No ! it was very many times sweeter than her 
 own could be, she thought, though strangely like what her 
 own might have been, if 
 
 Her perceptions all returned to her now ; and her eye 
 glanced down down, over the wide, arid deserts of the past, 
 through the briny, bitter waters of the present, and away up 
 the vista of the future long indeed it seemed to be but a 
 brightness came down from the distance, lighting up nil the 
 way, and revealing a path which should be smoother and 
 smoother for the determined tread, and ever more and more 
 radiant, for it led up to the Throne of God !
 
 The Easter -offer ings. 299 
 
 The whole prospect stretched itself out before her mental 
 vision, and the words which Mrs. Maitland had repeated to 
 her, came to her thoughts, as if they were whispered now, 
 for the first time, in her ear : 
 
 " What thou knowest not now, thou shalt know hereafter !" 
 
 Three nights since, she had hoped that the waters of. 
 'Jordan, which were flowing over her, would wash away all 
 the leprosy ; but now she saw that she had been bowing in 
 the house of Bimmon, not daring to ask in words " Pardon 
 Thy servant in this thing !" for she knew that " the Lord 
 our God is a jealous God." 
 
 She had only whispered softly to her own heart : 
 
 " Is it not a little one ?" 
 
 But now, looking up and down that pathway, Brendice's 
 firm lips, as she knelt with the congregation in prayer, 
 murmured the words, very humbly : * ^ 
 
 " Master, I will follow Thee, whithersoever Thou goest !" 
 
 And then the kind, paternal voice of the rector was 
 saying : " The peace of God, which passeth all understand 
 ing, and the blessing of God Almighty," 
 
 A few moments after the Amen was uttered, very softly, 
 but very fervently. Brendice lifted her head, and drew the 
 child near her. The congregation were retiring. The 
 greater part had already left the church. 
 
 She called him " little Boss," now, and whispered to him 
 lovingly, but calmly and very firmly. 
 
 But the boy answered in tearful, pleading accents, reaching 
 up his arms and putting them about her neck : 
 
 "No, no, Brendice ! Nobody's little boy but Brendice's I" 
 he said.
 
 300 By the Sea. 
 
 The girl unwound the clinging arms, and held the little 
 soft hands in her own, and smiled upon him in such a way 
 that the pain passed slowly from the sweet face, though it 
 was still greatly sobered ; and then she led him out of the 
 pew, and up to Mr. Hall, who, with Mrs. Adams, was stand 
 ing a little apart. 
 
 The people had all retired now, with the exception of two 
 or three gentlemen who had followed the rector into the 
 robing room, and the strange lady, who had not yet risen 
 from her devotions. 
 
 The old man was gazing on Brendice and the child, with 
 eager, anxious eyes. 
 
 She did not observe his hurried, tremulous greeting, but 
 speaking quickly and determinedly, she said : 
 
 "Here is my Easter-offering, sir! To your keeping I 
 entrust it !" 
 
 And she placed the child's hand in that of the old gentle 
 man, and turned immediately away ; but he laid his fingers 
 on her arm and detained her. 
 
 "And you, Brendice!" he said, "what are you thinking 
 of ? What are you going to do, my dear child ? You will 
 certainly consent" 
 
 She interrupted him. 
 
 "I am thinking of what you said to me on Christmas 
 Eve, sir! and I am going to unearth my talents, that the 
 Lord may have His own, with the usury He requires, 
 when He calls for it!" 
 
 The look and the tone with which she spoke silenced 
 the old man, and he let go his hold on her sleeve. But 
 Mrs. Adams followed her, putting her hand within Bren-
 
 The Easter-offerings. 301 
 
 dice's arm, as she walked quickly out of the church, and 
 leading her to the carriage which was waiting at the door. 
 
 When Brendice was seated within it, she placed herself 
 beside her, whispering to Euth to jump out of the vehicle and 
 climb up into Mr. Hall's carriage, into which little Ross was 
 at that moment lifted, and go home with tho family, and 
 make the child happy, and be otherwise useful to the old 
 gentleman, till she was sent for to return to her own 
 home. 
 
 The ride back to The Sands was a silent one, though 
 Mrs. Adams, who had believed, for some time past, that 
 the poor, wounded heart beside her was hiding a secret 
 it was sensible it ought to ^reveal, was very glad, and very 
 sorry, too, for Brendice ; sorry for the present suffering, 
 and glad for the happiness in store for her. "When the girl 
 was leading the little boy, which all through the winter Mr. 
 Hall felt very sure was the child of his foster-daughter, 
 towards the old gentleman, he had whispered to Mrs. 
 Adams that Brendice, except at her own wish, should never 
 be separated from the child whom she loved and had cared 
 for so tenderly. 
 
 Henceforth she should be to him all that Eachel Eoss 
 had been. 
 
 But she would not repeat his words to her to-night. 
 
 She only said, as she took Brendice's hand, when she 
 reached her home, "Come to me in the morning, dear. I 
 have something very pleasant to tell you something that 
 will give you great happiness !" 
 
 She was a little sorry, however, after Brendice turned and
 
 302 
 
 By the Sea. 
 
 walked away over the ledge towards her own home, that she 
 did not tell her then what Mr. Hall had said ; the girl had 
 replied to her, in such a strangely calm tone : 
 
 " I will come some time, dear madam, and thank you for 
 all the kindness you have showed me."
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 UNDER THE EVEKGEEENS. 
 
 ] WILIGHT was fading when Brendice reached her 
 home, and without laying aside her hat and 
 shawl, for the evening was cool, she sat down by 
 her little window and looked up to the deepening blue, 
 where here and there came out a glimpse of the pathway 
 
 through the skies : 
 
 "The road 
 Which lies open to the abode " 
 
 of our God ! And she thought of the " Ladder set up on 
 the earth, and the top of it reached to heaven. And, behold, 
 the Lord stood above it!" 
 
 At its foot lay the weary wanderer on whom the sun had 
 set, and the stones were his pillow. 
 
 The steps of the wonderful Ladder which led up to God 
 had been made all glorious by the footprints of angels, but 
 each link in that chain of steps let down before her, had 
 been of burning, sharpened iron, which had scorched the 
 foot, and pierced the soul. 
 
 But safely passed now, Brendice was whispering to herself, 
 
 with thickly-gathering, but grateful tears : 
 
 (303)
 
 304 By the Sea. 
 
 " The Lord stood above it ! and every step is safely passed 
 now. There surely will never be another round for me to 
 cross !" 
 
 The moonbeams canie at length through the window. 
 They fell upon the pillow, where at that hour, a little curly 
 head had been wont to be laid at rest. Brendice was look 
 ing now at the couch. 
 
 Her eyes fell on something which had the appearance of a 
 folded white paper, and when with trembling fingers she had 
 lighted her lamp, for as she observed it closely in the bright 
 moonlight^ she saw that it was a letter, a sheet folded and 
 sealed, with her name upon it, in the handwriting of her 
 father, pale, almost fainting, she sat down to examine what 
 should have been discovered much earlier than this. 
 
 The letter should have been found on the morning after 
 her father's supposed death. 
 
 It was the folded paper which had rustled down on the 
 floor at her feet, on the night when she was first preparing 
 the couch for little Ross, and thrust by her into the pocket 
 of the old sea-coat. It was what Ives Dorn had removed 
 thence, and what Ruth Adams had that morning picked up 
 and laid upon the bed. 
 
 When the sheet was unfolded, and Brendice saw that the 
 date of the writing was the same night, only two hours after 
 her father's boat was beaten by the waves against the ledge 
 and hauled up by the fishermen over the rocks, and that the 
 opening words were : "My dear child!" she could read no 
 more until a swift prayer had gone up to Heaven, a prayer of 
 deepest thankfulness that the night was passed and the dawn 
 ing of a day of gladness had come for her, at last.
 
 Under the Evergreens. 3o5 
 
 Her father was living, and lie loved her ; and Luke Mait- 
 land was not a murderer ! 
 
 She had never, for one brief hour, really believed that he 
 could have been, intentionally, guilty of the crime imputed 
 to him ; but it was very blessed to be sure of the fact. 
 
 After lingering for a few moments over the opening words, 
 she read on : 
 
 " I shall write to you briefly ; most likely disconnectedly, 
 for I am still trembling from the grasp which death, itself, 
 seemed, but lately, to have fastened upon me ; and the words 
 must be written they could not be spoken before you give 
 up your patient watching, out in this furious storm where 
 you have so many times waited and watched, my poor child, 
 for your father's return. 
 
 " I should not have supposed that any pofwer on earth, or 
 in heaven, could have compelled me to write, even, the 
 words you are about to read ; but something down among 
 the deep waters which seemed so much like the cold hand of 
 the dark angel, rent away the thick clouds which have hung 
 before my eyes, ever since the form of your mother passed 
 from my sight. 
 
 " I see clearly now, and your future life shall be as happy 
 as your past has been comfortless. 
 
 " You well know why I have remained here in this wretch 
 ed place so long. Lately I have had good reason for sup 
 posing that the man at the island whom the people about 
 here call Mr. Aden is, as I half believed when I first carne to 
 The Sands, the man for whom I have been searching ; and 
 this noon-day I went over to The Eocks, to assure myself if 
 such were the fact.
 
 306 By the Sea. 
 
 " I heard that young Maitland was there ; and, half mad 
 dened by my disappointment, for the man I suppose must 
 have been the lighthouse keeper, and was not the one I 
 wished to find, I threw myself in Luke's way, to give him the 
 opportunity for speaking to me, which he has, I have known, 
 long been seeking. 
 
 " I wished to drive him from my sight, forever. 
 
 " He availed himself of the offered opportunity, and he 
 told me that he loved my daughter, and entreated my per 
 mission to ask her to become his wife. He spoke of his 
 hopes for the future, and how he had been striving, for years, 
 to qualify himself for a very different employment from his 
 present one ; and he mentioned the names of several most 
 
 respectable gentlemen at N , upon whose friendship and 
 
 assistance he could rely. 
 
 "I listened silently to all he wished to say; and then I re 
 plied to him. Any heart but mine would have bled at the 
 agony of the young man, when I had finished speaking ; for 
 the villany of his father, and all its consequences to myself 
 and to you, were told him in the bitterest words found in 
 the language he speaks ; and I a fiend must have possess 
 ed me I laughed at his woe ! 
 
 " It is no wonder that an hour later, when we met on the 
 water, in trying to aid me to escape from perils, he guided 
 his boat with such an unskilful hand that I was upset. He 
 leaped into the waves after me, to save my life. I was deter 
 mined to destroy his, and we sank together. But we drifted 
 apart in the water. 
 
 " When I rose again to the surface, he was at a distance, 
 clinging to his boat. He is doubtless saved, and, after a
 
 Under the Evergreens. 307 
 
 time has passed, he will come here and say to you what he 
 has said to ma. 
 
 "I saw the determination to do so in his face, all the time 
 it was so distorted with agony ; and when we were struggling 
 together in the water, it was that which nerved my fingers to 
 fasten themselves on his throat. 
 
 " Bat that is passed now. And when he comes, with that 
 question on his lips, to you, my child, whose heart I have 
 known longer than you, yourself, have known it, reply to him 
 as your feelings dictate. 
 
 " I am going back to my native land, that I may never again 
 resume my search after that man ; it came to me, while a 
 power which seemed beyond my own strength was urging 
 me through (he waves up towards the beach, that the God 
 whom, in my heart, I have tried to deny, but before whom I 
 now reverently bow, will be my Avenger. 
 
 " I shall leave this neighborhood immediately ; but am 
 not intending to embark for France for three weeks. 
 
 "Should you prefer to return to your native land, leave a 
 letter for me at the post-office at N . 
 
 " But such will not be your choice. 
 
 "You will find this paper to-morrow morning, when you 
 are arranging my bed. Look in the pocket of the old coat 
 you will discover lying above it. 
 
 " The diamond I leave you, is a valuable one. 
 
 "After you are married, let your husband take it to some 
 lapLlary. Tae s:im it will bring will enable him you can 
 trasfc him in all thi.n^3, he is worthy of your confidence to 
 enter at once into the business for which the education he 
 has managed to obtain, even under the disadvantageous
 
 308 By the Sea. 
 
 circumstances in which he has been placed, well qualifies 
 him, and which he would have made an effort to engage in, 
 in a small way, some time since, only he could not bring 
 himself to leave The Sands. You heart will tell you why. 
 
 " Adieu, my child ! If I do not hear from you within two 
 weeks I say it not unkindly never seek your father! 
 Heaven preserve and bless you !" 
 
 n Bois." 
 
 Brendice read the letter through twice. 
 
 Once, it was perused very hurriedly, and very eagerly, 
 while every word, though the arm of the writer was suffering 
 so greatly, and would, sometimes, be so very weary, that, to 
 another eye, much might have been well nigh illegible, came 
 out plainly to her, as a printed page ; and the closing words 
 her father's name and his benediction, were bedewed by 
 her with grateful tears, and kissed by loving lips. 
 
 But the second reading had been slow and difficult. The 
 parallel lines were crossing each other, and the words were 
 dancing up and down before her eyes, chasing each other so 
 swiftly over the page, that it was a task for the reader to 
 arrest them, and settle them back in their places. And when 
 it was ended, and the paper was folded in its old seams, and 
 the wax was heated, and the piecea joined together again, 
 and it was laid on the table beside her, the dry, aching eyes 
 gazed hopelessly upon it, as if it had been the Book of Fate. 
 
 " One more round of the ladder is yet to be crossed ! and 
 then will life end with the struggle ?" 
 
 Brendice rose as she spoke, and opened the door of her 
 dwelling. The cool air was very grateful now to the uncov-
 
 Under the Evergreens. 309 
 
 ered brow, and she stepped out into it, looking mechanically 
 up the beach, along the row of fish-houses, and resting on 
 the most distant of them ; and then a thrill ran through her 
 frame. 
 
 She had, most likely, not been mistaken, the previous 
 evening, in thinking there was a light burning in the Mait- 
 land dwelling. At least now one was plainly enough visible 
 there. 
 
 For a moment a sense of weakness stole over the girl, and 
 she stepped back to the doorway, and leaned heavily against 
 it. But it passed from her, and she grew stronger and 
 stronger, as she saw a form coming down quickly over the 
 ledge, strengthened, it seemed, by the sound of the swift, 
 firm tread upon the rocks ; and she was quite herself, when 
 the young man drew near and paused abruptly, but a few 
 feet distant from her. 
 
 He seemed a little embarrassed at meeting her so suddenly 
 face to face, for his voice was slightly unsteady as he said, 
 simply : " Brendice !" 
 
 But she was very calm, outwardly, as she pronounced his^ 
 name : 
 
 " Luke !" and after a pause, which he seemed unable to 
 break, she added, quietly, coming directly to the point which 
 was uppermost, at the moment, in his mind : 
 
 " My father is in France ! He sailed for his native land, 
 early last autumn." 
 
 "Alive? thank Heaven!" exclaimed the young man, fer 
 vently and devoutly. 
 
 " I have just now, within the hour, learned the fact," she 
 continued, " from a letter which my father left for me ; and
 
 310 By the Sea. 
 
 which, through my carelessness, I failed to find until 
 to-night !" 
 
 " You hare not been thinking, all this time, while you sup 
 posed he was dead" he spoke quickly and earnestly now, 
 " you have not for a moment believed that I " 
 
 " No !" Brendice interrupted quietly, " never really be 
 lieved that you intended to injure him ! I did not know what 
 might have been done accidentally." 
 
 "I was sure you could not believe it!" he said, drawing a 
 step or two nearer to her, though she retreated from the 
 doorway till the same distance was again between them. 
 
 " The story in regard to my connection with your father's 
 disappearance was the fabrication of a foolish young fellow 
 who had taken a liking to the girl, living at The Rocks, 
 called Ives Dora. 
 
 " He fancied that my frequent visits at the islands, during 
 the few months previous to my departure from The Sands, 
 which were made for the sole purpose of learning something 
 about the lighthouse keeper, in whom from a child, though 
 I was far from suspecting who he was, I had felt a great in 
 terest, (which interest was much increased by some words I 
 last spring heard G-reyson muttering to himself), were to see 
 this young girl. He hoped to get me out of the neighbor 
 hood by starting this story, which he knew I could not 
 prove to be false ; his brother would have confirmed his 
 , words. 
 
 " He knew I had escaped drowning, but he would not 
 reveal the fact, lest it should reach the ears of the girl. 
 
 " I feared that the public trial of her son would kill my 
 mother, and when my boat was picked up the second day
 
 Under the Evergreens. 311 
 
 after it was supposed I was drowned, I passed for one of the 
 sailors belonging to the Essex, which was wrecked on the 
 Bar during that violent gale. 
 
 " I had the good fortune to save the life of the ship's cap 
 tain, and that of the child, whom, some months later, I 
 brought here to place in the care of my mother the child 
 you have cherished so tenderly and lovingly, Brendice !" 
 
 His voice was trembling a little now. 
 
 "I have just come down from Mr. Hall's, where I have 
 been sitting all day, beside beside him whose life you saved, 
 three nights since, over at the lighthouse ! 
 
 " You have had a noble revenge, Brendice ! Heaven itself 
 must have interfered to give you the power to execute it. In 
 his intervals of reason to-day, my father has told me all about 
 it. And Mr. Hall has informed me also of what you have 
 done for the little boy. If " 
 
 "You were speaking of yourself, Luke!" Brendice inter 
 rupted. "You saved the life of the ship's captain, Singleton. 
 Was he the husband of Mr. Hall's adopted daughter ? or did 
 Eachel Eoss marry Mr. Aden?" 
 
 She asked the question without feeling much concern in 
 the reply. She only wished to draw away his thoughts from 
 herself; and she was wondering what she would do when this 
 interview with the young man was ended. 
 
 He perceived her lack of interest in the subject, but he 
 went on : " She married Mr. Aden, my father's half-brother. 
 Little Koss is my cousin. When I brought him here, the 
 probability was, as I then said to you, for I knew, soon after 
 doing so, that it was in your arms I had placed the child, 
 that he was an orphan.
 
 312 By the Sea. 
 
 "Captain Singleton and the boy, with myself, were out 
 upon the sea for a day and a night. We could not manage 
 the boat, and we were too far from the land to attempt to 
 reach it by swimming. And, beside, he had received such 
 an injury at the time of the shipwreck, that it caused his 
 death a few months after. 
 
 " I was almost as much exhausted as he was, by my long 
 struggling s with the waves, and my abstinence from food. 
 
 " We did not expect to escape death ; the captain was very 
 sure that his days were numbered, and we began to tell each 
 other about ourselves. But when I mentioned my name, I 
 found that he knew more about my family than I did myself. 
 He -informed me of the marriage of my uncle with his, the 
 captain's cousin ; and that Mr. Aden, in part for his own 
 pleasure, in part at the earnest desire of his brother, had 
 given up his post at the lighthouse to my father. My uncle, 
 he told me, took his wife to Italy. 
 
 " Her delicate health was much improved by the change of 
 climate, and they were happy in each other ; but he had not 
 prospered in his pecuniary affairs. In fact their circumstances 
 were such that they finally gave up all thoughts of ever 
 returning to their native land, and Captain Singleton, just 
 before sailing on what proved to be his last voyage, sought 
 out their humble dwelling, as he had promised to do, to 
 receive my uncle's instructions relative to his affairs here. 
 He found the family in the utmost destitution and distress. 
 
 " Mr. Aden was, it was thought, dying of a most malignant 
 fever, which was raging in the neighborhood ; and his 
 distracted wife, who was scarcely more alive than her husband, 
 begged her cousin to take her only child with him to
 
 Under the Evergreens. 313 
 
 America. The captain, who had been married less than a 
 year, willingly took charge of the child, to whom his wife 
 soon became very much attached ; but that unfortunate lady, 
 with her own infant, only a few days old, was drowned when 
 the Essex was wrecked. 
 
 " The little boy was saved, and I promised Captain Single 
 ton, for I did not leave him for the few months he survived 
 the loss of his wife, that the child should be my very especial 
 charge. 
 
 "That child was little Boss. I brought him here to leave 
 him in the care of my mother, until the time should come 
 when I could return here openly, and ask somebody to be 
 my dear wife, and a mother to the sweet babe !" 
 
 He spoke the words softly, but suddenly ; and Brendice, 
 whose eyes were turned towards the eastern sky, where the 
 beacon lamps were burning brightly, and whose stern will 
 was beginning to answer the question what would she do 
 when this interview with Luke was ended ? knew that the 
 young man stood closely by the doorway, now, and that he 
 was watching, eagerly, in the bright moonlight, for some 
 change in the impassive expression of her features. 
 
 She did not move farther away. No matter what her heart 
 was doing ; not a muscle of her face could stir, not the 
 faintest flush could come into the cheek, which had been 
 strangely pale ever since that letter had been refolded and 
 sealed, except at her bidding ; and her words were firm and 
 cold as if they were issuing from lips of ice. 
 
 " When you brought the child here, the probability was, 
 you say, that he was an orphan. Have you learned, since, 
 that such was the fact ?" 
 
 14
 
 -By the Sea. 
 
 "No!" he replied, after a brief pause, while his hand 
 passed once or twice over his brow. 
 
 " It was Captain Singleton's wish that I should learn the fate 
 of his cousin and her husband. It was my own wish too. If 
 they were living, he desired me to place in their hands the 
 little property he bequeathed them ; and the next morning 
 after I brought the child here, I went as a sailor on board a 
 steamship bound for Italy, thinking, by the time I should be 
 able to return home, the young girl, Ives Dorn, and her 
 lover, would have settled the difficulty between them, and 
 the man could be persuaded to retract what he had said in 
 relation to me. 
 
 "I obtained my discharge as soon as the ship reached her 
 port ; but as they had changed their place of residence soon 
 after learning, as they did, from a foreign journal, of the loss 
 of Captain Singleton's ship, and the death of his wife and 
 the child, which they doubted not was their own, it was 
 some time before I found them. 
 
 " They were then in good health, and thanks to a noble 
 lady to whom both of them, my aunt thought, owed their 
 lives, my uncle was engaged in such a lucrative business that 
 they .were purposing, in a year or two, to return to their 
 native land. 
 
 "You should have seen their joy, Brendice, when I told 
 them that their child was alive, and heard their expressions 
 of gratitude for your care of him. 
 
 " Some papers from home had come to our ship's' officers, 
 
 and one of them, published at N , contained quite a 
 
 lengthened account, though an inaccurate one, of the finding 
 of a young child, wandering, at midnight, far down on the
 
 Under the Evergreens. 31 5 
 
 sea-shore, where it probably had been left to perish. Its 
 cries had been heard by a young girl, watching at the bed 
 side of a dead woman, it was said. 
 
 " The town authorities had decided to send the deserted 
 child to the almshouse, but the girl who discovered it and 
 rescued it from death, took it to her own destitute home, 
 and was bestowing on it the tenderest care and attention. 
 
 " I knew then to whom I had given the child, and I told 
 them of you, Brendice! "Words cannot express their 
 gratitude to you ; and my own thanks " 
 
 " No thanks are due me, from any one. I cared for the 
 child because I wished to. "We will not talk about it !" 
 
 Brendice said this, and something in her manner, added, 
 pleasantly enough, but firmly : 
 
 "We will not converse farther, on any subject, Luke 
 JUaitland ! Good-night !" 
 
 But the young man would not understand the implied 
 words. He had stepped close to her side, now, and was 
 leaning against the doorway ; and when he spoke again, it 
 was in such a low, moved tone, that she looked into his face. 
 
 " I came over to The Sands last night," he said, " and spent 
 some hours in the room where my mother died, near the 
 spot where I last saw her lying, as I then thought, in peaceful 
 sleep ; and when I went from there, it was to go over to the 
 hill-side, to the cluster of evergreens. 
 
 " Mr. Hall had told me where she was buried, and who 
 had selected the place ; and who, by the right she had 
 acquired, by, most likely, saving my mother's life on the 
 night when she was watching on the cliff for the return of 
 her boy ; by her loved companionship ever .after, and by her
 
 316 By the Sea. 
 
 kind, tender care, it has all been told me, Brendice, of the 
 feeble, deserted woman, had stood as chief mourner beside 
 her grave. It seemed to me, as I knelt there under the 
 evergreens, that the face of my mother was looking down 
 upon me from among the many bright eyes of heaven ; 
 and in the soft, plaintive sounds of the whispering trees, 
 that I could catch the tones of her low, gentle voice. 
 
 " It would not be in my power to put into words what the 
 face looked, or the loved voice uttered. But I must tell you 
 what I replied to her, Brendice ! 
 
 " I told her, on my bended knee, and audibly, that when 
 I forgot to make it the first business of my life to atone to 
 Brendice Du Bois for the injury done her family by my 
 father, when my tender care of her fell short of that she had 
 showed not only to my mother, and to the little child I had, 
 unwittingly, put into her arms ; but, in his hour of terrible 
 need, to him who had wronged her so greatly ; and when" 
 he took the hands she had clasped firmly over her heart, 
 and held them closely in his : 
 
 " When I suffered anything to weaken the strong love I 
 have cherished for her these years past " 
 
 Years past ! how they came up before Brendice's vision, 
 evoked by his presence ! so like the rolling of great, dark 
 billows over her, that everything about her now but that 
 voice, speaking softly in her ear, and those eyes, looking so 
 gratefully and lovingly in hers, went from her thoughts. 
 The gleam of those bright, dancing eyes was the one light 
 she had seen all through that dark past ; the sound of that 
 clear, assured voice was the one note of music she had heard. 
 
 " When I forget all this, then may Heaven forget "
 
 Under the Evergreens. 317 
 
 " Hush, Luke, hush ! Say no more 1" 
 
 She could not command her lips earlier to speak. But the 
 tightening hold upon her hands had not only given her 
 strength to withdraw them ; it had imparted power, too, to 
 speak quietly. 
 
 " Your reason tells you, you should not have uttered the 
 words ;" she said, " but since you have spoken, I must 
 reply : I do not need your kindness ; I will not accept your 
 love ! not accept it," she added, after a pause, and with deep 
 solemnity, " until my lost mother shall come up out of the 
 sea! Then" 
 
 For a moment they looked in each other's eyes, and there 
 was an expression on the features of both, such as the faces 
 might have worn, had they been bending over the suffering 
 and beloved dying ; the agony of grief for each other and for 
 themselves. And then a smile, as holy as it was beautiful, 
 for it was the smile of Faith, the firm trust in each other, 
 and the unwavering reliance on Heaven, passed over their 
 countenances. 
 
 The smile was enough ! There was no joining of hands, 
 and no words of farewell ! * 
 
 The young man turned away, and walked with the same 
 brisk, firm tread with which he had, half an hour before, 
 come down the beach ; perfecting the plans, now changed, 
 however, in one very essential particular, he had been very 
 busily forming while riding down from the Port, an hour 
 before. 
 
 That plan was, as soon as the crisis in the state of his 
 father's health had passed for his physician had, that after 
 noon, decided that Mr. Maitlaud would, in time, recover in
 
 318 By the Sea. 
 
 some degree the use of his limbs, to leave him in the care of 
 his friend Mr. Hall, the old gentleman being very desirous 
 that he should do so, and go back to Italy. He would 
 acquaint himself with his uncle's business, and then take it 
 off his hands, in order that Mr. Aden might return to his 
 native land, from which there now, no longer, existed a rea 
 son why he should absent himself. Her foster-father would 
 be very anxiously looking forward now to the time when 
 he could welcome Rachel Aden and her husband to his home. 
 
 When Luke went abroad, it would be with the intention 
 of remaining there. He had hoped that Brendice would be 
 come his wife, and go with him. 
 
 But that was over now. He would never see her again. 
 Tet she loved him ; she woivld never forget him ! 
 
 He must defer his journey now, until his father had so far 
 recovered the use of his limbs as to be able to travel ; for he 
 must leave the country, with his son. Du Bois was still 
 alive. Luke was very glad of that ; but if the Frenchman 
 ever returned to the neighborhood, Mr. Maitland must not 
 be there. 
 
 And Brendice* ? 
 
 Her eyes had not followed tlie young man as he moved 
 away. She stepped back quickly into her dwelling, and 
 wrote a few hasty lines, addressed to the editor of the morn 
 ing paper published at N -, and then walked over to Mr. 
 
 Brown's and gave her letter to one of his sons who she had 
 heard was going up to the Port that night. "When she re 
 turned to her home, she trimmed her lamp, and brought 
 out her easel, 011 which the unfinished painting was still 
 stretched.
 
 Under the Evergreens. 319 
 
 The countenances upon the canvas were very life-like ; 
 that painted from memory, even more so than was the sweet, 
 changeful countenance of little Ross. 
 
 The past night, with the pleasant burden of the child upon 
 her, and her own future to care for, her plan had been to 
 cultivate her taste for music and painting, assured that her 
 voice or her hand would secure for her a good income. Her 
 first work, she thought, after providing herself (by the sale 
 of some valuable articles left behind him, by her father) with 
 a comfortable lodging, should be the completion of this 
 painting. She would finish the youthful face after nature. 
 Its rare, sweet beauty could not be improved. The other, 
 she would try to make a copy of what her father had given 
 her for a study, the countenance of a St. Joseph. 
 
 But now her own future she had alone to care for. 
 
 Her father most likely would never seek her again. He 
 had left no clue which might lead her to him, and, besides, 
 he had particularly requested that she would never search for 
 him. Hard as it was to do so she would obey him. 
 
 She had conceived and perfected in her mind a new plan 
 for her future, while standing in the doorway and listening 
 to the voice of Luke Maitland, and looking away to the 
 islands. 
 
 When she was presenting her Easter-offering, she- was, in 
 her heart, promising heaven to follow the great Master; and 
 His footsteps had marked out, for his disciples, the pathway 
 of mercy alone. 
 
 After carefully removing the canvas from the easel, she 
 rolled it up, and laid it away, and then sat down to read the 
 Evening Lesson for the holy Easter-day.
 
 320 By the Sea. 
 
 " The gate of everlasting life." 
 
 Who will complain of the roughness of the way, if that 
 shall oe found open at the termination of the journey? 
 
 She had expected to have a fierce conflict with herself, 
 but a Voice had spoken to the billows, rising up before her, 
 in the distance : "Peace, be still!" 
 
 And the smooth waters, suddenly all bright and glorious 
 with fehe reflection of the divine Presence, and echoing and 
 re-echoing in their deep swelling cadences their eternal 
 Amen, were flowing gently beneath her feet, lifting her up 
 higher and higher towards heaven ; and with firm lip and 
 trusting heart, Brendice knelt and prayed : 
 
 " We humbly beseech Thee, that, as by Thy special grace 
 preventing us, Thou dost put into our minds good desires, so 
 by Thy continual help we may bring the same to good 
 effect."
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 EASTER-FLOWERS. 
 
 lACHEL'S child!" 
 
 Mr. Hall, not quite satisfied with himself for 
 having taken little Eoss from Brendice Du Bois, 
 but feeling sure that Mrs. Adams would tell her it was by no 
 means his intention to separate the child from her, and 
 thinking he would send for her very early the next morning 
 and ask her to become an honored inmate of his house, was 
 whispering the words to himself, "Kachel's child!" over and 
 over, as his carriage rolled away from the church. 
 
 His moistened eyes rested on the little face, which, not 
 withstanding Euth's best endeavor to call back the sweet 
 smile, would turn very often with an eager, anxious look, 
 and quivering lip, towards the road the carriage had passed 
 over. 
 
 " Rachel's child, and George Aden is his father !" 
 Mrs. Adams had whispered her suspicions to him as soon 
 as the services of the church were ended ; but Mr. Hall had 
 been told, hours earlier, by Luke Maitland, that it was not 
 
 her cousin, whom Eachel Eoss had married, but the young 
 
 14* (321)
 
 322 By the Sea. 
 
 man's uncle, Mr. Aden, and that her child was in the neigh 
 borhood. He, himself, months before, had left the boy in 
 the care of a female, whom he afterwards ascertained to be 
 Brendice Du Bois. 
 
 All through the winter the old gentleman had suspected 
 the little boy to be the child of his foster-daughter, and that 
 Brendice knew more in relation to him than she appeared 
 to. He had seen the look which passed over her face when 
 he repeated the words whispered in his ear on Christmas 
 Eve. But the girl took such loving, unselfish care of him, 
 that he determined not to trouble her with questions which 
 she might not choose to answer ; compelling himself to be 
 silent in regard to the child, and satisfying himself with the 
 hope that when the weather and his health would suffer him 
 to open his house, she would be persuaded to become a 
 member of his family ; and that by his kindness to herself 
 and the little boy, he would be able, at length, to win her 
 confidence. 
 
 Strangely enough, Luke Maitland had returned to The 
 Sands on the very day that his father was taken to the house 
 of Mr. Hall. He had sought him at The Bocks, and was 
 informed by Greyson, who was there in charge of the lights, 
 where he might be found. 
 
 " Poor George !" Mr. Hall said to himself, as his carriage 
 was rolling back towards his home, "he should not have 
 deceived me so ; but, remembering the past, he could not 
 ask me for Rachel. I should not have given her to him, if 
 he had. I should only have told him that he was seeking 
 my wealth then in a no less dishonorable way than that in 
 which he had sought it once before ; and that would have
 
 Easter-flowers. 3^23 
 
 been wronging him, greatly, for it was only tier, I see, that 
 he wanted. 
 
 "But I had not forgiven him, then, his youthful crimes!" 
 
 He was forgiven now, freely forgiven, the old gentleman 
 thought, with deepening emotion, and he prayed that he 
 might have strength for the surprises which had come to 
 him within the two past days, and especially the anxiety 
 which he felt in regard to Mr. Maitland, had greatly shaken 
 his feeble frame that he might have strength sufficient to 
 send the words of forgiveness to George Aden, and of 
 tenderest love to his foster-daughter, and to ask them to 
 return to him, and bless his last days with their presence. 
 
 Some hours before, he had told Mr. Maitland what he 
 would write to George Aden, and Philip had made such a 
 strange reply that Mr. Hall feared his reason had quite left 
 him ; but as the old gentleman approached his dwelling, he 
 met the physician just coming out from a visit to his patient ; 
 and to his anxious inquiry, the doctor replied that the 
 paralyzed man was now in full possession of his reason, and 
 could speak quite intelligibly ; and, without doubt, he would 
 soon have the partial use of his limbs. The same opinion 
 had just been expressed to Mr. Maitland, and he had told his 
 son to draw the curtains more closely over the windows, 
 and leave the chamber ; he wished to be alone. 
 
 Luke understood, very well, why that spasm of pain 
 passed over his father's face as the physician spoke ; yet 
 unable to utter a hopeful or encouraging word, not venturing 
 even to seek the averted eye, he quitted the room to meet 
 those just returning from church, and to catch his little 
 cousin in his arms.
 
 324 -By the Sea. 
 
 The child seemed not quite to have forgotten him, though 
 it had been months since anything had happened to recal the 
 remembrance of him ; and very soon, encouraged by Luke's 
 caresses, he began, almost sobbingly, to whisper the story of 
 his great grief in the attentive ear : 
 
 He could not find his dear Brendice ! 
 
 But the reply which was given in the same tone, brought 
 back its sweetest smiles to the little face, and the arms were 
 reached up slowly and half timidly, to be clasped around the 
 young man's neck. 
 
 And then Luke began to speak to him of his mother, whose 
 portrait, painted in her early youth, the housekeeper was 
 directed to bring from Mr. Hall's private sitting-room, that 
 the little boy might see it. 
 
 Brendice had a nice picture too, the child was trying to 
 say to his new-found friend, who listened with a thrill of 
 surprise and pleasure, " a nice picture ; little Boss and " 
 he looked into Luke's face, very undecidedly for a moment, 
 " and this man !" 
 
 Through the partially open door, Mr. Maitland heard the 
 pleasant blending of voices. His ear was yet too dull to 
 distinguish the words, but he knew they were cheerfully 
 spoken. 
 
 The remark of the physician in relation to himself, had 
 perhaps caused the altered tone, and he tried to draw the 
 bed-covering over his head to shut out the sound ; and 
 endeavored to forget, or to disbelieve, what the doctor had 
 said. 
 
 Life was not desired by him, now, as he lay there. 
 
 Death had seemed very terrible when he was lying, help-
 
 Easter-flowers. 326 
 
 less, far up the stairway at the lighthouse, expecting mo 
 mentarily to commence that fearful descent ; and at the 
 intervals when consciousness had returned, he felt very 
 grateful that the end had not come to him in that frightful 
 way. At his lucid moments since, he had promised himself 
 and Heaven that the remnant of his life should be spent in 
 undoing, so far as possible, his former evil work. 
 
 For two days and two nights his intervals of consciousness 
 had been few and brief. He had waked for the first time 
 from his death-like swoon, to find himself in the spot where 
 Brendice Du Bois had left him ; his broken arm and wearied 
 head placed carefully upon cushions, and to hear feet, which 
 proved to be those of young Jones and a physician, coming 
 up to him over the stairs. Hours after, he was conscious 
 that he was carried from the island, to be conveyed to the 
 house of Mr. Hall. 
 
 His wandering thoughts were next called back by a sound 
 he had not heard for many years : " Father !" and as he 
 lifted his feeble glance upward, thinking that he must be 
 dreaming, the face of his son, which he had supposed months 
 ago to have turned, in dying agony, its last look towards 
 Heaven, as another face, he thought of it at that moment of 
 returning reason, for he could never shut out those features 
 from his gaze, had looked up, long time ago. 
 
 And then the young man bent over him, and as if that 
 weary lapse of years had not corne between them, had touched 
 his lips to his father's brow ; and began to talk to him quietly 
 and pleasantly, answering the questions which the tongue 
 could not ask, where he had been, why he had gone from 
 The Sands, and how the report which iiad connected his
 
 326 By the Sea. 
 
 disappearance with that of Monsieur Dn Bois, would be 
 likely, now, to be contradicted by its foolish originator. 
 
 "When Mr. Maitland was at length assured that it was no 
 pleasant fancy, but a living reality which was before him, an 
 expression of gratitude rose to his lips that the sin of the 
 father had not been visited on the son, and that, in addition 
 to being spared long enough to restore to Brendice Du Bois 
 the wealth which had belonged to her parents, and to 
 undeceive his kind friend, Mr. Hall, in relation to himself 
 and his brother, before his eyes were closed forever, they 
 were permitted to look on this loved face. 
 
 The letter which had been written for Mr. Hall's perusal 
 on the previous Wednesday, containing the humble confes 
 sion of his own crimes against the benefactor of his youth, 
 and the entire exculpation of his brother, he was sure had 
 not yet reached the old gentleman, and he was very glad of 
 it. It would be time enough to make that confession, when 
 he was certain his last moment was drawing near. 
 
 He would then send for the proprietor of the Ocean House, 
 and tell him of the treasure concealed in the wall of one of 
 his chambers, and to whom that treasure belonged. He 
 would confess to Mr. Hall that his brother, George Aden, 
 had always been most worthy, and he, himself, most undeserv 
 ing of the kindness the old gentleman had ever been disposed 
 to show them. He would say to his son that it was no want 
 of love for his mother, nor lack of paternal affection for him, 
 which had induced his father to leave his family alone, and 
 in destitute circumstances, a fatal error, committed in a 
 moment of great excitement, and sincerely repented of, ever
 
 Easter -flowers. 32} 
 
 after, having been the sole cause of their desertion, and of 
 his voluntary exclusion from all society. 
 
 But to live on after these confessions had been made, with 
 a shattered body, and perhaps enfeebled mind, to meet the 
 watchful, pitying glance of his old friend, as he had seen it 
 turn on his wronged brother ; to receive his support from the 
 young man whose gentle mother had been so injured by him, 
 and on whom he had brought such disgrace ! The gloss he 
 might throw over his deeds would soon be worn away ; and 
 why might not Du Bois have escaped death as well as Luke 
 again, perhaps, to be hunted by the Frenchman, who, if Mr. 
 Maitland had confessed the robbery, would use that confes 
 sion as a proof of his commission of that other fearfully 
 greater crime. 
 
 Live ! Yes, his mental agony, sharpening his perceptions, 
 convinced him that life was surely, and not very slowly 
 returning to him ; and a wild wish crossed his mind a wish 
 that its full strength would come back, for a moment, to that 
 palsied right arm, that his fingers could fasten one strong 
 hold on that sharp knife accidentally left on the table by his 
 side. 
 
 But nothing, save that feeble gaze, could be extended 
 towards it ; and a deeper mist seemed rising before his eye. 
 
 His thoughts began again to wander. 
 
 " What mean ye by this Service ?" 
 
 The voices below stairs were reading the Evening Lesson, 
 and the words arrested his scattering senses. 
 
 "It is the sacrifice of the Lord's Passover, when He passed 
 over the houses of the " 
 
 And Mr. Maitland knew that the day which now drew
 
 328 By the Sea. 
 
 to a close, for a bright sunbeam found its way quite athwart 
 his chamber, was the joyful Easter-day, and the bells he had 
 listened to awhile since, were the merry Easter-bells ; and he 
 thought of an Easter evening, many years ago, when he was 
 in a foreign land. It was the evening of his nineteenth 
 birth-day, but it was not a joyous occasion to him. 
 
 He had been for some weeks suffering from a painful illness, 
 and during all the time, he had scarcely seen a face at his 
 bedside, besides that of his careful but unsympathizing 
 attendant. But as the sunlight of that Easter-day was fading, 
 the sound of little pattering feet was heard near his door ; a 
 sweet, musical voice said something in a strange language, 
 and then a pair of bright black eyes peered into the room, 
 and a white hand held up before his gaze a bunch of beautiful 
 flowers. "Easter-flowers" they were. 
 
 The child had carried them to the church, but she had 
 received them again from the hand of the priest, to be taken 
 to the young man who was sick in the neighborhood. 
 
 The flowers were bound together by a white ribbon on 
 which the skilful little fingers had wrought some sacred em 
 blems, one encircling her own name. 
 
 He had seen the child before, as she was a distant relative 
 of his employer, and when she drew near his pillow, and laid 
 her sweet gift upon it, she pointed to the name " Marie," 
 and to the slip of paper also twisted about the flowers, and 
 on which was written : 
 
 "'In Adam all die; in Christ shall all be made alive.' 
 Pray for the donor, that the life in Christ may be given to 
 her ! She is praying that the earthly life may be restored to 
 thee!"
 
 Easter -flowers. 329 
 
 He had never afterwards seen the child, for she was only a 
 visitor at the city. Her home was in another land. But 
 he had not forgotten her, and the bit of ribbon was in his 
 possession still, always kept about his person, as his wife's 
 miniature had been. 
 
 He had looked at it many times on Easter-evenings, 
 especially during those long years he had passed at The 
 Bocks, and wondered what had been the fate of the sweet 
 child, and if she was living still. 
 
 He was thinking of her now, so busily, that he had for 
 gotten himself, and was quite regardless of the light footsteps 
 within his chamber, and his lips began to move audibly. 
 Many times, as he had thought of that beautiful child, had 
 he wished that human existence and all the blessings it may 
 afford, might long be hers. Of the life she had asked him 
 to pray might be given her, he had not cared to think. 
 
 But now, as he lay there, the contemplation of the com 
 mission of a deed more fearful than any of which he had 
 been guilty, and the cursing of the physical weakness which 
 prevented its execution, yet scarcely passed away from his 
 mind, his lipe were murmuring the words audibly, but with 
 feeble voice and impaired memory the thought of the past, 
 long years quite gone from his mind, and the faith his mo 
 ther had taught him in his early youth, returning to him 
 with all its strength and holy beauty. 
 
 " Heaven bless the sweet child, little Marie, on this joy 
 ous Easter-day, with that great gift she desires the 'Life in 
 Christ,' as she is praying for my earthly life !" 
 
 The eye closed then. He thought, as the lid was droop 
 ing, that a vision of beautiful forms, and soft, rainbow hues
 
 330 By the Sea. 
 
 was presenting itself to his failing sight, and that the air was 
 filled with a pure sweet perfume ; but his reason must be 
 leaving him, he believed, with the closing of the eye, and the 
 dulling of the ear, for a low sound seemed to be mingling 
 with that odorous air, reminding him of the voice he had 
 listened to so long ago, he perceived now, again, the inter 
 val of time, and he fancied that the eyes which had been 
 following him, ever since those fearful moments when he 
 stood on the deck of the burning ship, were resting on him, 
 looking out from those fair shapes and soft hues. And then 
 the thoroughly-exhausted nature sank into a quiet sleep. 
 
 When he awoke again, several hours had passed. It was 
 near midnight now. 
 
 His son was sitting beside him, and on the table where 
 that object towards which his eye had so wistfully turned, 
 had been lying, was now a beautiful boquet of Easter-flowers. 
 
 A lady had brought them to the sick-room while he was 
 sleeping. She was a stranger in the city, and was boarding 
 at one of the hotels, Mr. Hall's housekeeper said. 
 
 She had been attending the church services for the past 
 two days, and at the Easter-festival the lady had sent a great 
 profusion of flowers to St. Mary's, which she afterwards, ac 
 companied by the sister of the rector, assisted in distributing 
 among the sick of the parish. 
 
 Luke said this, as he gently lifted his father's head from 
 the bed, and gave him some drops of nourishment. Mr. 
 Maitland did not notice the remarks, particularly, for that 
 dream had not yet passed away from his mind. It certainly 
 must have been a dream. 
 
 He had fancied that some one was praying for the resto-
 
 - Easter-flowers. 331 
 
 ration of his physical powers, and the healing of his wounded 
 soul ; and as his head, with much of its terrible pain gone, 
 rested again on the smoothed pillows, and his eyes turned to 
 wards those sweet flowers, he seemed to be drawing fro in 
 their pure, fresh breath, health for the body, and strength 
 for the mind. 
 
 There were no rare and costly exotics among the sweet 
 flowers, though the lady had sent many choice clusters, very 
 artistically arranged, to the church that day. 
 
 They were all wild-wood flowers, grouped simply and na 
 turally ; little, modest, pale-hued things, but their pure 
 breath seemed voiceful with the wo'rds of faith and hope, 
 and Mr. Maitland lay quiet and silent, listening to their ut 
 terance, and thinking of years long gone by, when his heart 
 and his hands were unstained by crimes. 
 
 The happy, sinless childhood had passed away like the 
 fleeting bloom of the early spring flowers; but Nature brought 
 back beauty and perfume to the long- withered plants : and 
 Grace could purify the soul, and impart to it even a nobler 
 element than it contained when the great Creator had 
 breathed into man the breath of life. The sweetest of all 
 songs which will ascend to the ear of our God, shall be 
 that which the redeemed shall sing. 
 
 After a while Mr. Maitland turned his eyes towards his 
 son, whose face was partially averted ; but he could see, even 
 in the subdued light which fell upon it, that a change had 
 come over the young man's countenance since he left his 
 side, just before sunset. 
 
 The joyousness in the eyes, and the smile about the lips, 
 were gone, and the face seemed to have grown older and
 
 33 2 By the Sea. 
 
 more thoughtful. Once, as the father gazed, a troubled, 
 uncertain look came over the features, which, in a woman, 
 would have been resolved into tears ; but it passed away 
 with the lifting of the bowed head, and the firmer pressure 
 of the closed lips, and then the young man's eyes turned to 
 meet his father's. 
 
 For a moment longer the silence was unbroken, though 
 Mr. Maitland seemed striving to give utterance to some 
 dreaded word ; and then Luke dropped on one knee close 
 beside the bed. 
 
 "Father," he said, looking so quietly in his face, that his 
 listener grew calmer, " father, you wish to say something ; 
 but there is nothing to confess to your son, or to any one 
 else. Those who have any right to know them are fully 
 aware of all the miserable facts which we will never refer to 
 after to-night. Mr. Hall received a few hours since the 
 letter you wrote him shortly before this calamity befel 3 T ou. 
 He feels most kindly towards you. The remembrance of his 
 own injustice makes him very lenient toward others. 
 
 " And that other affair, Monsieur Du Bois told me about 
 it long ago. But I have just heard he is still alive. He has 
 returned to France. He may never come back. If he does, 
 he will not find us here. 
 
 " "When I return to Italy, you must accompany me. I will 
 make a pleasant home there for you and me. 
 
 " We will restore to Du Bois the wealth which has not 
 been spent, and, some time, the whole amount shall be re 
 turned to him. And we will be happy together yet, dear 
 father, notwithstanding all that has happened you and I 
 there will be only two of us ; but we will be happy, remem-
 
 Easter -flowers. 333 
 
 bering the past only to urge us to ever increasing effort to 
 do good to our fellow-beings. 
 
 " If there were no sin in the world, father, our great Pass 
 over would have been sacrificed in vain !" 
 
 " And she who saved my life ?" said Mr. Maitland, after a 
 pause, and falteringly, " the poor, wronged girl?" 
 
 Luke was silent, and he continued : 
 
 " Jerry Greyson has told me that you and Brendice Du 
 Bois loved each other. Leave me here, and take her to the 
 happy home, heaven grant, you may find in a spot where 
 your father's name will never be heard. By your love and 
 care you will make her forget the sorrows of her past life, 
 and him whose crimes brought them upon her." 
 
 " You do not know her, father," Luke said, in a changed 
 tone. " I did not, myself, and so I went down to The Sands 
 to-night, and asked her, as I have purposed to do for years 
 past, to be my wife." 
 
 He did not say anything more it was not necessary that 
 he should ; and Mr. Maitland knew now what that shadow 
 was which had fallen on his son's life. 
 
 When the young man, as he ceased speaking, rose to his 
 feet and walked across the room, to draw aside the window 
 curtain, and look up for a moment to the calm, moon-lighted 
 sky, and then returned to his seat at the bedside, with that 
 expression of composure on his face, the wretched fathe 
 believed that all of the punishment which he had merited 
 had now fallen upon him.
 
 CHAPTER XXIY. 
 
 OUT OF THE SEA. 
 
 |VES DOEN and her young brother, Erie, were sit 
 ting idly on the rocks near which stood their rude 
 cabin, looking away over the water and watching 
 the Usmug-boats, whose white sails were fast disappearing 
 in the morning mists, catching now and then a fragment of 
 some rude nautical song, which, usually, their strong and 
 clear, though untrained voices, would have caught up and 
 rung out far above the waves. 
 
 But they were quite silent now, not even addressing each 
 other. The boy appeared very sullen ; and his sister, though 
 there was a look of determined purpose on her countenance, 
 seemed angry and perplexed. 
 
 At a short distance from them was their boat, with the 
 fishing-tackle within it, drawn up upon the sand. 
 
 The gM was not looking at it, however. 
 
 After some time, a woman of fifty years, with her two half- 
 grown boys, it was an older brother of these lads, who had 
 been some months before the lover of Ives Dorn, and whose 
 
 attentions, to the great vexation of his mother, she had re- 
 (334)
 
 Out of the Sea. 335 
 
 fused in her very decided manner to receive came down the 
 shore. 
 
 The boys were talking to each other, in a low tone, but 
 loud enough for the Dorns to hear, and with most emphatic 
 gestures, and their mother joined in their boisterous 
 laughter. 
 
 "Will you lend us your boat, this morning, my young 
 lady?" asked the old woman, drawing near to Ives, and 
 dropping a low curtesy, while the boys gave an upward twist 
 to their long, uncovered elf-locks, and bowed, almost to the 
 ground,, before little Erie. 
 
 " And wish us good luck with our fishing ; wont you ?" 
 
 And the woman and her sons, with a fresh burst of laughter 
 at their extreme wit, turned away, without expecting a reply, 
 and began to push Ives' boat off into the water. 
 
 The girl's face turned very red before she was addressed, 
 but it was now as white as its brown tint would suffer it to 
 be, and her long ragged nails cut deep into her calloused 
 palms ; but she called out after them, in her loudest tones, as 
 they pushed off from the shore : 
 
 " That boat is old Mother Hub's and her cubs ; and I hope 
 she will have good luck to-day and catch the " 
 
 She did not finish the sentence, for at that moment the 
 sound of oars, coming from an opposite direction, fell on her 
 ear ; and looking behind her, she perceived a boat rounding 
 the high rock on which she and Erie were sitting, and a 
 sweet, clear voice, so pleasant and cheerful that Ives scarcely 
 recognized it, said : 
 
 " It will be a fine day for fishing, and I am going down to 
 the 'lower grounds,' Come with me you too ! I intend tc
 
 336 By the Sea. 
 
 fish there this season, and you must go with me, for I have 
 never " 
 
 But the boy interrupted the speaker to say that he and 
 Ives had no boat ; they could not go. 
 
 His sullenness was all gone, now ; and between the sobs 
 which he could not choke down, though he felt somewhat 
 ashamed of them, he began alternately io reproach his sister, 
 and to utter complaints against her to the new comer, who, 
 though she could not well understand his words, compre 
 hended, at length, the cause of his grief. 
 
 It was the loss of their boat, their only means of procuring 
 a subsistence. 
 
 Ives was looking askance at Brendice Du Bois, and wonder 
 ing how she would decide between Erie and herself whether 
 she had done right in confessing to Mother Hobart that it 
 was herself who had set the boat adrift, and then given the 
 woman her own for that she had lost, or kept her boat, 
 everything which her father had left for his children besides 
 their little miserable cabin for the use of herself and her 
 brother, who might starve now, the boy thought, since it 
 was gone ; while the old fish-woman could have bought 
 another boat, and never felt it. 
 
 Brendice determined this to the poor, orphaned brother 
 and sister very important point in casuistry, quickly. 
 
 " "Well, I am glad you let the woman have the boat !" she 
 said, " because I am not going out in my boat, alone, any 
 more ; it is too large for one to handle well ; and now I can 
 coax you to fish with me, this season !" 
 
 Ives rose to her feet, and walked down to the waters' edge. 
 She could not believe what was said to her.
 
 Out of the Sea. 337 
 
 " And besides," Brendice continued, " ' the lower grounds' 
 are too far distant from The Sands, for me, and I wish to 
 come over here and live with you. You remember you invited 
 me to come, a few evenings since ; and, see ! I have brought 
 some of my things over. I could not take them all, because 
 I was obliged to row a part of the way. But if we have good 
 luck to-day, we will go over to The Sands, and get the re 
 mainder, to-morrow morning. 
 
 " Do you wish me to go on shore ?" 
 
 The brother and sister manifested their wishes that she 
 should do so, in 'very different ways. 
 
 The boy hastened down to the boat's side by a series of 
 summersaults through the water, shouting at the top of his 
 voice every time that his head came uppermost ; while Ives, 
 striving in vain to check the tears, which seldom, except in 
 the moments of her fiercest anger, came to her eyes, kissed 
 the narrow gold circlet upon her finger it had been her 
 mother's wedding ring smoothed with her nails her tangled 
 hair, and tried to put into a little better order her untidy 
 garments. 
 
 The contents of the boat, all but the fishing-tackle, were 
 soon stored away in the Dorns' cabin, and a few moments 
 after, with the trio on board, Brendice's boat was gliding 
 over the water, down towards the lower fishing-grounds, on 
 which her father had spent so many weary days and nights, 
 but where she had never yet been ; and the boy, Erie Dorn, 
 very proud and happy, in being allowed to steer, was describ 
 ing the waters to her, as another lad might have described 
 the features of a very varied landscape. 
 
 But Ives sat, very still and thoughtful, replying only in 
 
 15
 
 338 By the Sea. 
 
 monosyllables to Brendice, who frequently addressed her 
 with some pleasant remark. 
 
 Now she was looking down into the placid sea, whose dark 
 waters were here and there flecked with light, from the fleecy 
 clouds, tipped with sunbeams, that floated far away through 
 the zenith ; as, in the web of her dark thoughts, were woven 
 many a soft and silvery thread ; and now, when she supposed 
 the eyes of her companion were averted, she was glancing 
 furtively up into Brendice's face, and observing how nicely 
 the hair was arranged under the narrow-brimmed hat, and 
 how neatly the coarse, but clean fishing-dress fitted to her 
 person. 
 
 Ives had noticed, when she last saw her, that there had 
 been a change in Brendice's personal appearance. 
 
 Now she saw that there was something new in her face, 
 too ; and she was wondering, with an undefined, but un 
 comfortable feeling, what had happened to the girl, who 
 when she had come over to The Rocks the past summer, 
 Ives thought, was just like one of the islanders. 
 
 "How long have you been trying to be so wonderful 
 good ?" she asked, at length, in an abrupt, sarcastic tone. 
 
 "Oh, not long!" said Brendice, softly ; "only since that 
 night when you told me about your mother, and how she 
 sang the sweet, holy songs on Good Friday to you and your 
 brother. How nice it is that you can remember about it 
 and that she used to pray you might be good when you grew 
 up! 
 
 " Do you know I was only three months old when my 
 mother died, and never had a brother or sister to talk with 
 me about being good ?"
 
 Out of the Sea. 339 
 
 "No !" said Ives, more kindly ; "well, then." glancing up 
 into the thoughtful, pleasant face, "how did you find out the 
 way ? or," seeing that there was a trace of sadness in the 
 countenance, for Ives was a pretty good physiognomist, " are 
 you not very good yet ?" 
 
 " Not very good yet," Brendice replied. " Only trying to 
 be! And you will tell me, and help me about it, will you 
 not? You have told me something already." 
 
 " O yes ! I know all about being good, and I will help 
 you !" said Ives, confidently, " only it is pretty hard work, 
 and you will find it so. I have tried to be good ever so 
 many times ; but in a little while I am bad again, worse 
 than I was before ! 
 
 "I have got an old book which my mother used to read," 
 she resumed, after a pause, and in a still softer tone, " that 
 tells all about these things, only I can't read much. 
 
 " We have a school here, two or three months in the year, 
 out we never go to it. We are too busy for that, and, be 
 sides, I, and most of the other large girls, do not like to go 
 to the school, the teacher who comes down from the Port is 
 so unlike ourselves. Erie and I have forgotten most all that 
 our mother taught us. I wish we could read, though !" 
 
 " Well, I can read, and will teach you," said Brendice, " if 
 you will help me " 
 
 " Do you hear that, Erie ?" inquired Ives, interrupting 
 her, " and what do you think of it ?" 
 
 The boy had heard, and he uttered a loud and prolonged 
 shout of joy, much more, probably, to express his satisfaction 
 with the state of things in general, than with the simple fact 
 of having an opportunity of learning to read.
 
 34 By the Sea. 
 
 But Ives was very much in earnest ; and eacb time that 
 Brendice began to speak on another subject, she would refer 
 to that, and it was settled between them before they reached 
 their point of destination, that the reading should commence 
 the ensiling evening, after their labors were finished, and 
 that one or two girls of Ives' age should be invited into the 
 Dorns' cabin, to be taught too ; Ives reiterating her promise 
 that she would help Brendice to become good, and silently 
 wondering if she had not, herself, better make one more effort 
 in that direction. 
 
 As Brendice threw her line out into the sea, how much 
 had happened to her since she had last seen the lead sinking 
 into the water, she tried to forget her dull heartache, and to 
 fix her thoughts on Him, who, as His form was about to pass 
 away forever from human sight, had said, on the day of 
 which this was commemorative Monday in Easter-week 
 o, I am with you alway )' and prayed that the work she 
 was about, humbly, to undertake, might have the Divine 
 approval, and be followed by the Divine blessing ; prayed, 
 too, that she might so skilfully employ her talents, that when 
 the Lord should call for His own, she would be able to 
 return to Him those entrusted to her keeping, polished 
 bright in the using, and with them the usury He would 
 strictly require. 
 
 While Brendice's boat was gliding over the water, and 
 she and Ives were chatting pleasantly with each other, Mr. 
 Hall, whose carriage was ready to go down to The Sands for 
 the purpose of bringing her up to his house, was busily 
 engaged in writing the kind letter of invitation, which was 
 not destined to be delivered to her.
 
 Out of the Sea. 341 
 
 Luke Maitland, whom the old gentleman had made ac 
 quainted with his intentions in relation to Brendice, not 
 only excused himself from driving down to The Sands after 
 her, but tried to dissuade Mr. Hall from his purpose. The 
 reasons he offered, by no means the most important ones 
 which occurred to himself, were, however, not at all satisfac 
 tory to the old gentleman. 
 
 He was determined, both for the sake of little Boss, and 
 her who had so tenderly cared for him, that they should not 
 be separated from each other until his parents should claim 
 the child ; and when they returned, the poor girl, who, he 
 said, should never know want again, would find, in Rachel 
 and her husband, a most loving father and mother. 
 
 Luke knew, for a certainty, that the invitation would not 
 be accepted by Brendice ; no connection of his, he said to 
 himself, as he left Mr. Hall, and returned to the bedside of 
 his father, would ever be regarded by Brendice Du Bois in 
 the light of a friend. 
 
 She could show kindness, but never receive it. 
 
 He had, a moment before, been looking over the morning 
 paper, and his eye fell on a notice conspicuously inserted. 
 It was to the effect that the report in circulation the preced 
 ing autumn in regard to the disappearance of Mr. Stephen 
 Du Bois, who had been, for the last fifteen years, a resident 
 
 of H , was entirely without foundation ; he having 
 
 returned, after a brief stay in New York, to his native land. 
 
 Brendice, he doubted not, had sent the notice to the 
 publishing office, just as soon as her father's letter had been 
 found by her, lest the story in relation to himself should be 
 revived.
 
 34 2 By the Sea. 
 
 Mr. Maitland was just waking, when his son re-entered his 
 chamber. 
 
 After his brief conversation with Luke, he had been 
 unable to sleep at all during the remainder of the night, and 
 his bitter reflections had so much exhausted him, that the 
 half hour's slumber in the morning had refreshed him but a 
 little. 
 
 He was lying in a heavy stupor when Euth Adams came 
 into the room, and whispered to Luke. 
 
 A lady had called to see Mr. Maitiand. She had sent up 
 her card. 
 
 The young man glanced at it. It bore but one word, 
 "Marie." 
 
 " She is the lady who brought the Easter-flowers to him 
 yesterday," Ruth said. "Mrs. Smith sent me up herewith 
 her. She is a stranger in the city, the housekeeper says, but 
 I think she knows your father, there was such a look on her 
 face when she stood by his bed. 
 
 " And when he said something, I did not notice what it 
 was, he was talking in his sleep, I suppose, his eyes were 
 closed, the lady knelt by his bed and prayed very earnestly, I 
 thought, but in another language." 
 
 Luke partially succeeded in arousing his father, and tried 
 to make him understand that some one wished to see him. 
 
 The woman had sent up the name Marie ! She was the 
 same who had brought him the Easter-flowers the preceding 
 evening. 
 
 " Yes, I thought it was little Marie who came to me !" he 
 said, dreamily, and then his thoughts began to wander. 
 
 " She was a little French girl, but she had relatives in Italy.
 
 Out of the Sea. 343 
 
 It was there I saw her. She was visiting an uncle. He was 
 my employer. He was very wealthy, and she was to be his 
 heir, and take his name. She will be now, if her uncle is not 
 living, Maria di Leuca. Little Marie ! Yes, tell her to come 
 to me, Luke ! I would like to see the sweet child." 
 
 Maria di Luca ! Luke remembered that name. 
 
 He had many times heard it spoken with words of earnest 
 blessing by his uncle and aunt in Italy ; and he hastened 
 from the apartment, preceded, down the stairway, by little 
 Ruth, to conduct the stranger to his father's bedside. The 
 lady's back was towards him as he drew near her, and her 
 veil had fallen over her face. 
 
 " My father Mr. Maitland will be pleased to see you !" 
 he said, " and, madam, if you are the lady he supposes you 
 to be, permit me to express the deep gratitude we owe you 
 for the disinterested kindness you showed to our nearest 
 friends George and Rachel Aden, in the hour of their great 
 need. He calls you Signora di_Leuca!" 
 
 " That is the name I have lately borne," said the lady, in a 
 sweet, musical voice, and it struck the young man that there 
 was something familiar in the tone ; but when she raised her 
 veil, and turned her face towards him, he was sure he had 
 never seen those features before. He had never looked on 
 anything half as lovely as was that countenance. 
 
 Brendice Du Bois was very beautiful ; but this face, how 
 strange it was, he thought, that he should be comparing the 
 two countenances, this face, now in its full maturity, had 
 something in its expression, far transcending, in loveliness, 
 its really wonderful beauty a sweetness and joy was there, 
 such as one might almost believe the angels wear.
 
 344 - 
 
 " You have spoken the name I have been called by," the 
 lady said, " but within the hour I have taken another name 
 that of my husband !" and she put a paper into the young 
 man's hand, and pointed to a particular paragraph. 
 
 " Just married !" Luke thought. 
 
 Rachel Aden had told him that the lady had no husband, 
 and as he was conducting her to his father's presence, he 
 hoped that the lovely woman might find as much happiness 
 in the life before her, as in this hour of her deep joy she was 
 looking forward to. 
 
 He did not glance at the paper she had given him, until 
 after he had returned to the sick chamber, the door of which 
 the lady closed behind her, as soon as she was within the 
 room ; but as she drew near the bedside, he sought the lines 
 she had pointed out, that he might mention her new name 
 to his father. 
 
 Her eyes rested on the pale, worn face of the sufferer, so 
 earnestly, that she did not notice the sudden emotion of the 
 Aoung man ; but Mr. Maitland, stupefied as were his senses, 
 heard the fervent "Thank God!" which his son uttered ; and 
 looking up, he saw Luke in the attitude of prayer, while tears 
 were dropping from his eyes. He was not sufficiently aroused, 
 however, to wonder at the cause of such deep feeling. 
 
 He was trying to lift his eyes to the female figure beside 
 him, but the heavy lids drooped again. 
 
 " Little Marie," he said, feebly, " the sweet, child face 
 which, so long ago, looked pityingly on the sick, sad stranger, 
 has never been forgotten by me. I have remembered it as 
 the face of an angel. Has the hjly, blcssad Life you desired, 
 been given to you ?
 
 Out of the Sea. 346 
 
 " The earthly existence you prayed might be mine, has been 
 a curse to nie and to those it should have rendered happy ! 
 that life has been continued in crime and sorrow ; its end 
 must be despair !" 
 
 " Father dear father !" Luke exclaimed, coming forward, 
 and bending over him, " look up, and try to comprehend the 
 great joy this lady's presence brings to us ! 
 
 "The past is not the dark night you think it is. The 
 future will be all brightness to you, and to me. 
 
 " Look up, dear father ! The terrible crime you believed 
 yourself guilty of, was not commited, for " 
 
 His utterance was almost choked, but Mr. Maitland was ' 
 fully aroused now. 
 
 "This lady is Madame Du Bois, the mother of Brendice !" 
 
 The sick man's eyes fastened on the face which he had 
 believed, the evening previous, he only fancied was bending 
 over him. He would have thought, at the present moment, 
 that his reason was gone, but the lady's fingers were resting 
 on his hand, the right hand, which seemed, long ago, to 
 have her life in its hold, and whose hold was loosened ! the 
 hand so palsied now that it had lain, for days, apparently 
 lifeless at his side ; and a thrill, as if it had been an electric 
 touch, ran through his whole frame. 
 
 " Yesterday, at this hour," the lady said, " I believed my 
 self, as I have long done, childless, and a widow, and you, I 
 thought, had bereaved me ; and my anguished life has been 
 spent in alternately striving to be resigned to the loss of 
 what seemed to me all my earthly good, and in seeking to 
 find the author of my misery. 
 
 "I knew who you were, Philip Maitland, when we stood 
 
 15*
 
 346 By the Sea. 
 
 beside each other on the deck of that ill-fated ship. I re 
 collected the face I had seen ten years previous, and the 
 name of the one to whom my uncle sent me with flowers, on 
 Easter-day ; and when I stood, not many months since, at 
 the sick-bed of your brother though this I did not then 
 know the sound of your name, whispered at a moment 
 when his reason was quite gone, reached my ear. 
 
 "He coupled your name with that of his child, and his 
 wife had told me to what place her babe had been sent. 
 
 " I prayed Heaven that the distance which separated you 
 and me might never be lessened ; but in spite of my best 
 endeavor, rather guided by an All-merciful hand, I found 
 myself near you at last. Your name and the account of the 
 calamity which had befallen you, were the first words which 
 reached me on my arrival in this city ; and I thought that 
 He who, alone, could understand how I had striven against 
 my evil thoughts, had become my Avenger ! and yesterday, 
 at the children's pleasant festival, I tried to thank Him that 
 finally I was delivered from temptation ; and thought that, 
 to-day, I would prepare for a return to my native land, and 
 strive to forget the past ; and while offering up a thanks 
 giving that the struggle with myself was, as I trusted, over, 
 I heard a name spoken the name of my child ! and when 
 the assembly had left the church, for my heart was too . full 
 of hope and fear for an immediate departure from it, I sought 
 the rector to make inquiries respecting her whose name I 
 had listened to. 
 
 " He told me what he had heard of Brendice Du Bois, from 
 an old gentleman who had known her for some months past, 
 and he showed me a valuable diamond which the child
 
 Out of the Sea. 347 
 
 who had been in her care had presented for an Easter-offer 
 ing. . 
 
 " The diamond was my own. The broken chasing still 
 bore the initials of my husband and myself. 
 
 " The gentleman was certain its value could not have been 
 known by the real donor ; but it was a simple thank-offering 
 to be returned for the great joy which had come to me in 
 that church. 
 
 " There was a wish in my heart, then, to look on your face, 
 Philip Maitland! 
 
 " I would see one of the shadows I had thought resting so 
 heavily upon you, fallen away ; and when I stood here last 
 evening, and heard you, half insanely, whisper my childhood's 
 name, and murmur a prayer for me, I called the past, dead, 
 and drew a heavy shroud over it, and laid the sweet Easter- 
 flowers above its bier ! 
 
 " To-day a new joy has come to me. My husband, too, is 
 living ! and " her fingers fastened themselves closely to the 
 cold hand, " may Heaven forgive your intended crime, freely 
 as I forgive you for all you have caused me to suffer !" 
 
 Brendice's boat came in early that night. 
 
 She and the Dorns had had very good success for the time 
 they had been out, and Ives and her brother, singing their 
 choicest songs in the cheeriest of voices, steered the boat up 
 between the jutting rocks, where their own had always come 
 in before, and laughed at the surprise of Mother Hobart, who 
 really had intended to use Ives' boat only for the day, just 
 to punish her. 
 
 The old fish-woman had a heart once, and it was not quite
 
 348 By the Sea. 
 
 dead yet ; and after giving scarcely more than half the avails 
 of her day's labor in charge of one of her boys, she was 
 trying to run the boat into its accustomed place, when Ives 
 and Erie, with merry laughter, and an "Off with you, old 
 sea-gull !" shot past her into the little inlet. 
 
 The care of the fish was left to the boy, and Ives and 
 Brendice prepared the simple evening repast, and tried to 
 make the rude cabin, scarcely more uncomfortable and untidy 
 than that of Brendice had formerly been, a little more 
 orderly and neat, while they amused themselves with planning 
 what they would shortly do for its improvement. 
 
 After the labors of the toilet, which comprised only the 
 good scrubbing of a really pleasant face, and the combing, 
 though that was rather a serious affair, of the thick, curling 
 hair, had been performed by Ives, the girl ran out to find her 
 young companions, and tell them about Brendice that she 
 was nothing but a fish-girl like themselves, only she knew ever 
 so much, and could be coaxed, Ives knew, not only to teach 
 them to read much better than they could, at present, but to 
 tell them about many other things and to invite them over 
 to her cabin that evening. 
 
 She was absent some time, for the girls, willing to return 
 with her to see the stranger, as soon as their labors were 
 ended, were obliged, the most of them, first to bathe and 
 comb their hair ; and Brendice, with the fish-dress laid aside, 
 and attired now very simply, but neatly, had gone down to 
 the edge of the water, and was sitting on a high boulder, 
 looking away over the peaceful waves, into the crimsoning 
 west, waiting for the coming of the young girls and Erie 
 Dorn.
 
 Out of the Sea. 349 
 
 Many dark and painful thoughts were striving to enter her 
 mind, as she sat there, but she resolutely put them from her, 
 and turned to the Lesson for the evening ; and her lips 
 murmured the words again and again : 
 
 " Abide with us, for it is toward evening ; and the day is 
 far spent!" 
 
 And a promise had been made, long ago, by Him whose 
 word is forever unfailing : 
 
 " At evening-time it shall be light !" 
 
 The few fond hopes she had ever dared to cherish, were all 
 dead now. The life of- the dearest had been crushed out by 
 her own hand, but its destruction was none the less agonizing 
 to her for that. All dead now ! 
 
 They had passed away like the dreams of her early child 
 hood, when she had stood on that topmost height of the 
 ledge, and looked away into the sen, and waited for her 
 beautiful mother to come up out of its depths. 
 
 The fishing-boats were coming in slowly. 
 
 One or two were running down from the Port, where the 
 red beacon-light was just faintly seen, mingling with the last 
 rays of the sinking sun. 
 
 And now the Convoy sent out its clear, white light. 
 
 Jerry Greyson was at the lighthouse, as keeper, for the 
 time, and Brendice had been told by Mrs. Adams, the pre 
 ceding evening, that most likely he would remain there ; as 
 letters, strongly recommending him for the post, had 
 already been mailed for Washington ; and then Sally Jones 
 would have another offer of marriage, which, this time, she 
 would accept. 
 
 Brendice had said this to Miss Jones that very morning,
 
 3$o By the Sea. 
 
 for the woman liad come into her cabin, just as she was 
 quitting it to go over to The Kocks, and Sally, though she 
 had tossed her head scornfully, blushed like a young girl. 
 
 Brendice was thinking of this now, with pleasure, for the 
 woman was her firm friend. Notwithstanding her un 
 interesting exterior, she had a fund of sound sense, and the 
 girl would have a good coadjutor in the work she con 
 templated, and of which she had spoken to Miss Jones, 
 briefly but very earnestly. 
 
 Her words had surprised her auditor much ; but after a 
 thoughtful pause, Sally had taken her hand, and said, huskily, 
 that Brendice might rely on her ready assistance whenever 
 she needed it. 
 
 There was another boat coming over, apparently from The 
 Sands. She did not gaze at it particularly, though it was 
 quite near. Probably, she thought, its occupants were going 
 to the Convoy to see Greyson ; and not wishing to be re 
 cognized by them, for the boat seemed likely to pass very 
 noar the island, at the point where she was sitting, Bren 
 dice turned away, and was looking up the path Ives had 
 taken in search of her young companions. 
 
 The girls were not yet within sight, and her eyes again fell 
 upon the book lying in her lap. 
 
 "Abide with us!" 
 
 How long it might be, ere the lengthened day before her 
 was " far spent "! and yet every one of its hours would be 
 given by the Lord, for the earnest working, and the patient 
 waiting. 
 
 But, at length, the night must come ! 
 
 Her thoughts rested there, at the termination of the day
 
 Out of the Sea. 361 
 
 of life ; when the once strong hand should feebly end its 
 allotted tasks, when the tired ear should listen only to 
 blending sounds, and the curtain thicken before the eyes ; 
 when human companionship should depart, and the stranger 
 come in to tarry : and then her lips began to move in simple 
 rhymes : 
 
 " Be patient, my soul, there's another sphere, 
 
 For the earnest, unwearying toiler here ; 
 
 The deafening ear, and the dimming eyes 
 
 Shall ope at the gate of Paradise. 
 
 ' ' So wait I, and watch, while sitting alone, 
 And the echoes are coming in deepening tone ; 
 For the welcome roll of the mightier sea, 
 Which shall bear me away to Eternity." 
 
 A footfall upon the rocks attracted her attention, and a 
 moment after, some one spoke; but a sudden surprise, almost 
 fear, seemed so to deaden her senses, that when she turned 
 and lifted her eyes, she hardly knew whether it was Luke 
 Maitland, or not, who was bending over her, and she only 
 caught his closing words, so softly, but eagerly uttered : 
 
 " up, out of the sea, Brendice !" 
 
 And then her eyes rested on another face, the face of 
 a beautiful woman ; and the woman said : 
 
 "My child!" and laid her hand on the bewildered head, 
 and murmured some words of deep thankfulness. 
 
 Her thoughts came then, and Brendice knew that it was 
 her mother who had sat down by her side, whose arms were 
 folding themselves about her, her mother, on whose breast 
 her head was resting, into whose face, so long waited for, she 
 was at length gazing. 
 
 She was speaking the dear word over and over ; it seemed
 
 352 By the Sea. 
 
 to her expressive of all she wished to say, and she felt 
 herself more a child than she had ever been before. 
 
 " Mother ! come up, at length, out of the sea !" 
 
 That was what Luke had just said ; and then other 
 thoughts presented themselves to her, and she turned her 
 eyes towards the young man. 
 
 He had withdrawn to a little distance, and was now slowly 
 walking up and down the short stretch of sandy beach, with 
 varied, conflicting emotions, which Brendice readily enough 
 understood, described on his fair, open countenance. 
 
 Her mother followed the direction of her eyes, and she 
 drew her daughter more closely to her, and whispered a 
 question. It was one in which the lady felt the deepest in 
 terest, though it was very quietly spoken. 
 
 Brendice lifted her head, and looked into her mother's 
 face for a moment, and then she spoke in French, very 
 briefly, but very eloquently, it seemed, by the expression 
 which came over the features of the elder lady. 
 
 When she ceased, she drew a letter from her bosom, her 
 father's letter, which she had carefully re-sealed the preced 
 ing evening, after its second perusal, and put it into her 
 mother's hand. She had thought that seal would never 
 again be broken ; at least not until years had passed away 
 would she trust herself to read those pages, though the 
 precious words must always be near her. The lady opened 
 it, and her eyes rested on the writing, but it was some 
 moments before she could think of anything except that it 
 was only a few months since those lines were penned by the 
 husband, whose supposed death she had been mourning over 
 for so many long years.
 
 O^tt of the Sea. 363 
 
 After her escape from death, which seemed to her almost 
 miraculous, she had uot returned to her former home in 
 France, nor, for months, to her uncle in Italy. She and a 
 young sailor, to whom she owed the immediate preserva 
 tion of her life, were found clinging to a spar, some hours 
 after the burning of the ship, and were picked up by a 
 passing vessel, bound to an English port. 
 
 In the published detail of the loss of the ship, the name of 
 her husband did not appear in the list of the rescued ; on 
 'the contrary, the account Mr. Maitland had given his wife 
 of the finding of the lifeless and charred body, supposed to 
 be that of Du Bois, floating upon the water, had met her eye. 
 
 Her own escape, and that of the young sailor, from death, 
 was told by the newspapers, simply as, " Two persons 
 saved /" Her marriage had taken place without the knowl 
 edge of her uncle, who had other views for her ; and it was 
 not until some time after she had returned to him, that she in 
 formed him of the sad episode in her life. She had, how 
 ever, never mentioned to him or to any other parson, the 
 name of Mr. Maitland. Her uncle had wished that the 
 image of her husband should drop out from her memory, 
 and for that reason he had dissuaded her from holding 
 intercourse with her friends in France ; and he never made 
 reference to her married life, or called her by her husband's 
 name ; and in gratitude for his love and kindness, she had 
 tried to bury her grief in her heart, and answered to the 
 name he gave her. 
 
 "When Madame Du Bois had read the letter and returned it 
 to her daughter, she spoke only of the diamond to which 
 reference had been made. Was it that which the little boy,
 
 3.54 By the Sea. 
 
 latsly tinder her care, had taken to St. Mary's for an 
 Easter-offering ? Brendice supposed that it must be, though 
 she had not, at the time he took it to the church, any idea of 
 its value. She had not, in fact, seen it. 
 
 It must have fallen among his playthings, accidentally ; 
 and she had supposed, when his young friend was so anxious 
 he should carry it to church for an offering, that it was 
 nothing but a shining pebble. 
 
 If her mother was willing, however, she would be very 
 glad that the offering should be, indeed, made to the Lord. 
 
 Madame Du Bois said that it was her own wish, only her 
 daughter must specify for what religious purpose its avails 
 should be employed. 
 
 Brendice expressed her deep thanks. 
 
 She had couie over to the islands, she said, to make bar 
 home there, and to endeavor, in a quiet, unobtrusive way, to 
 do good to the young people who would be her associates; 
 and especially to one poor girl, motherless, as she had 
 supposed herself to be. 
 
 She had thought that, in a few days, she would go up to 
 the Port, and call on the Rector of St. Mary's, and tell him 
 that the diamond had been the gift of her father to her, and 
 that she was thankful it had been an Easter-offering, and ask 
 him if the sum, or a part of it, which would be realized by its 
 sale, might be employed for the benefit of the people at The 
 Eocks. 
 
 "I have been planning a great deal," she interrupted 
 herself, with a smile, " but it will not cost much besides labor 
 to do all I wish. They will help themselves, when once they 
 have become interested."
 
 Out of the Sea. 355 
 
 "What you wish shall be done!" her mother replied, "but 
 there is no work here for you, my child ! Your business in 
 life, henceforth, is to make your parents and this young 
 man, who has told me that he loves you, happy !" 
 
 The lady turned towards Luke Maitland. 
 
 His eager glance read her decision in relation to himself, 
 in her face, and he drew near the:n, and held Brendice's 
 hand in his for a moment, and then walked quickly down to 
 the boat, to prepare for an immediate return to the main 
 land. 
 
 The daylight was fading now, and the evening air, though 
 very mild for the season, was becoming uncomfortably cool 
 for one less hardy than those young fishers. 
 
 Ives Dorn had, some moments previous, appeared in sight, 
 with half a dozen of her youthful companions. 
 
 They had come bounding down over the rocks, like a 
 troop of young kids; bat halted very suddenly and timidly, 
 when they obssrved the strangers. They had seen Brendice 
 before, but her appearance had wonderfully changed since 
 she had come over to The Bocks the previous summer ; and 
 Ives, seeing the lady's arms around her, and the happy smiles 
 on Brendice's face, began to feel very ill at ease, very envious, 
 though she did not know why, and very angry. But when 
 Brendice went to her side and told her, with the tears which 
 now, for the first tima, began to flaw, of the great happiness 
 which had just coma to her, Ives forgot herself, and softly 
 wept with her, and said how glad she was that Brendice had 
 somebody to tell her how to be good ; and she aud the girls 
 would run up to the cabin, and fetch down all of the things 
 brought over from The Sands that morning, and get the boat
 
 356 By the Sea. 
 
 ready for her ; and did she not want some of the fish they 
 had caught? 
 
 No, Brendice did not want the fish, or the boat, or any of 
 the things it had brought over. They were all for Ives and 
 Erie. The boat was already her own for helping Brendice 
 row it over to The Sands on the morning of Good Friday, 
 when she was so tired. 
 
 Ives and her young companions seemed disposed to 
 participate in her joy, was made still more happy by being 
 told that her friend was coming over to The Rocks in a very 
 few days, to talk with her and the other girls about some 
 thing in which she knew they would be interested; and when 
 Luke's boat was again gliding over the water, in the soft 
 moonlight, a chorus of young voices rose up from the high 
 rocks that jutted out into the sea, in an old, quaint melody. 
 
 The occupants of the boat, silent in their deep happiness, 
 listened to the music, which became sweeter and sweeter as 
 the distance widened, and more and more plaintive, till it 
 was lost in the roll of the ocean, and the soft whispering of 
 the evening air.
 
 CHAPTER XXY. 
 
 AFTER TWO YEARS. 
 
 WO years had passed since the cold, blustering 
 night when Mr. Hall had called the people whose 
 houses were at, or near The Sands, aroxind the 
 Christmas-tree; and the same company, with few losses and 
 many additions, were gathered again at what had then been 
 called the Ocean House. 
 
 The dwelling was now a private residence, though 
 probably, in the future, it would be occupied only during the 
 warm season. 
 
 Its present owner was Luke Maitland. 
 
 It had been purchased, a year and a half before, by Madame 
 Du Bois ; and though Mr. and Mrs. Adams contiuued to 
 occupy the house for some months subsequent to its sale, its 
 purchaser had some alterations early made within it. 
 
 Among them was the removal of the partition between two 
 of the chambers, ostensibly for the better accommodation of 
 the lady and her daughter, who were boarders in the house. 
 
 Luke Maitland had suggested this alteration, and had 
 
 superintended the slight job; and no one but himself and his 
 
 (357)
 
 358 By the Sea. 
 
 father knew what was found within the wall ; but Monsieur 
 Da BoiSj in the second letter received from his wife, for she 
 knew to what part of his native land he must have returned, 
 was informed that the greater part of their wealth, which 
 she had supposed forever lost to them, was now in her 
 possession. 
 
 This Christmas Eve was a very mild and pleasant one, so 
 mild and pleasant that Mr. Hall had come down from his 
 home, to take part in the festivities. 
 
 He was not the host, this evening, however, only the guest, 
 greatly loved and honored by all who were there. 
 
 Brendice, the bride of two days, and Luke Maitland, her 
 husband, received the company, a very beautiful and charm 
 ing hostess, and a very well satisfied host ; for the seemingly 
 incongruous elements which Brendice had brought together, 
 were harmonizing wonderfully well. 
 
 The addition to the party were a score or more of people 
 
 from N , highly educated and refined, recently-formed 
 
 acquaintances of the fair bride ; and a bevy of young girls, 
 quite as much cared for, and honored by her, as were any of 
 the party. 
 
 These latter were shy, timid things. They might have been 
 thought bashful and awkward, but for the interest their 
 hostess took in them, and the good management of Mrs. 
 Jerry Grey son, formerly Miss Sally Jones, who was always 
 perfectly self-possessed. 
 
 These girls were from The Rocks. 
 
 William Jones had brought them and his aunt, who con 
 sidered herself their chaperone, over to the Christmas fes 
 tival ; and from the furtive glances which were exchanged
 
 After two Years. 369 
 
 between the young man and the prettiest of these girls 
 Ives Dorn one might have supposed he had quite forgotten 
 the preference he formerly felt for Brendice Du Bois. 
 
 It was very pleasant to observe the affection which existed 
 between Brendice and these young girls ; particularly so, to 
 Mr. Hall. 
 
 Madame Du Bois had told her daughter it must be only by 
 the expenditure of a sum of money, employed, however, as 
 she saw fit, that she could carry out her wish in relation to 
 these young islanders ; but when she saw how happy it would 
 make Brendice to follow, in part, her original design, she 
 suffered her to do as she pleased. Consequently, on every 
 Saturday afternoon of the lady's first summer at The Sands, 
 when the weather was favorable, Brendice took a light boat 
 and went over to The Rocks ; sometimes alone with two 
 young fisher-lads, and sometimes accompanied by Ruth 
 Adams. The night would be spent with Mrs. Greyson, and 
 the next day with the girls, who, one after another, willingly 
 relinquished, and were allowed by their parents to do so, 
 their accustomed amusements and labors, on the Sabbath. 
 
 The past summer she had only made an occasional week 
 day visit to them ; for Mrs. Greyson, and the good, sensible 
 young woman employed as school-teacher, managed the 
 Sunday-school ; and religious services were held, once in two 
 weeks, in the little church, large enough, however, for the 
 accommodation of the islanders, which had been built by the 
 Easter-offering of Ross Aden. 
 
 Mr. Hall had been the purchaser of the diamond ; and on 
 this Christmas Eve he had presented it to the young bride, 
 nicely re-set, for a wedding gift.
 
 360 By the Sea. 
 
 Aside from its intrinsic value, it would be to Brendice, 
 al ways, a most highly prized treasure ; not only for the sake 
 of the donor, whose words, uttered two years before, had 
 forced her thoughts into a channel from which she had always 
 striven to hold them back, but because it was through this 
 Easter-offering that all her present joy had found its way to 
 her her father, her mother, and her husband ; and, by its 
 agency, their happiness had been effected. 
 
 Brendice, and her father, who on the receipt of his wife's 
 letters was obliged to go to Italy to attend to some affairs 
 connected with the estate recently inherited by her, and had 
 
 quite lately returned to H , were looking at the jewel, and 
 
 walking slowly through one of the least crowded of the rooms. 
 
 Though Brendice knew where she was leading him, he, in 
 listening to her words, did not observe whom they were 
 approaching, till she withdrew her arm from his, and hastened 
 away to meet the little fellow who had slipped from the fond 
 arm that encircled him, to whisper to her that though he was 
 "Papa's son, and mother's own darling," he was "nobody's 
 little boy but Brendice's !" 
 
 And then Du Bois found himself beside Philip Maitland, 
 who, leaning heavily upon a cane, stood looking, attentively, 
 at a painting on the wall. 
 
 It was a moonlight scene which was before him. 
 
 In the foreground, on alow couch, lay a woman, whose 
 arms were peacefully folded upon her breast, and whose 
 mart le- like brow, and closed, white lips, seemed to have been 
 just touched by the holy chrism ; and at the foot of the bed 
 were the faint, dim outlines of a female figure, kneeling upon 
 the floor.
 
 After two Years. 361 
 
 Outside the open window and leaning against the sill, was 
 a young man, holding a child tenderly in his arms. The 
 ocean was beyond, and the dark line in the distance was The 
 Rocks. 
 
 Mr. Maitland was looking only at the dead. 
 
 That face, he thought, was more beautiful than ever, in its 
 last repose. 
 
 " Heaven bless the noble and gifted girl!" he said. "She 
 completed this painting for me, George !" 
 
 He turned his head as he spoke. It was not his brother 
 who stood beside him, but Du Bois. 
 
 The two men had not met before since the Frenchman's 
 return ; and for a moment, each looked silently into the 
 other's face. 
 
 The voice of Mr. Hall came through the open door. He 
 was talking to the young people gathered around the 
 Christmas-tree, and they were listening attentively, for his 
 words were always very pleasant, even to them. 
 
 He was telling them about the Vineyard of the Lord ; and 
 when some old people, attracted by his remarks, drew near, 
 he began to say how readily the Master accepted service, at 
 whatever time in the day it was offered ; and how surely the 
 promised wages would be paid to all who wrought faithfully, 
 even though they came at the eleventh hour. 
 
 " But it never has been said by our Lord," added the old 
 gentleman, solemnly, "that he shall receive a reward who 
 has not labored at all in the Vineyard!" 
 
 These words, uttered in a somewhat louder tone, reached 
 the ears of the two men ; and Du Bois, remembering how 
 much had been forgiven him, how lovingly his daughter had 
 
 16
 
 362 By the Sea. 
 
 met "him on bis return, how kindly she had avoided his every 
 allusion to the painful past, took up the old gentleman's 
 idea. 
 
 " And we can never truly enter into the Vineyard of the 
 Lord," he said, " until we are ready to pray in sincerity 
 'And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who 
 trespass against us !' " 
 
 And he took the still feeble hand of Mr. Maitland, and 
 held it, for a full minute, in his firm clasp. 
 
 Both Brendice and Luke saw and heard what passed 
 between the two men ; and to hide the emotion called up 
 by her now unalloyed happiness, Brendice turned to the win 
 dow, and drawing aside the curtain, looked out into the night, 
 away up to the neighboring hills, where the bright moon 
 light was stealing through the dark branches of the cluster 
 ing evergreens, and falling upon a white stone, against 
 which, while her knee was benty and the name of the gentle 
 slumberer there was upon her lips, her head had many times 
 most reverently rested. 
 
 She was thinking now of the hour when that voice, that 
 was then so soon to be silenced by death, had gently, but 
 confidently murmured the words : 
 
 " Something, sometime, will bind us together." 
 
 Luke came and stood by her side, and took her hand. He 
 knew to what point her eyes had turned. 
 
 " If she were only with us !" he said. 
 
 "Perhaps she is," Brendice softly whispered. "Who 
 knows ?"
 
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