'Were the _Jenny Wren_ a strong man-o'-war pinnace,' said one old sailor, 'or the sturdiest herring-boat that ever turned head to wind, there could be but small chance for her in the teeth of the gale that is now beginning to rage.' To young Blake the whole affair was too frightful to contemplate. To have tried not to think of it would have been an act of cowardice, and to hope against hope seemed folly. Never till now had he known how his little companion had, with her innocence and winsome ways, wound herself round his heart, entwined herself into his affections. Strong he was, it is true, but in character most gentle and loving. He almost cursed the day now on which he had ordered the new boat. The old one that he had been so awkward as to sink was less safe in reality. Yet Lotty knew it, and would not have dared so much in it. In about half an hour after the first fierce squall the darkness lifted just a little; then with his best telescope anxiously did Antony sweep the sea, while Biffins with his did the same. Not a speck of anything was to be seen. 'She has gone down,' raved the gipsy Lee; 'boat and all has sunk. And Lotty was the best property of the show. I am ruined! I am ruined!' Antony was looking at the man hard and angrily. 'It is only the show you think of, Mr Lee. Have you neither love nor pity for the lost child--your daughter?' It was with difficulty Antony could utter the last two words. 'True, true,' Biffins replied; 'it is a pity about the lass; it is a pity all ways of it, and--I'll never get another like Lotty.' Blake walked away. He felt that had he waited another minute he would have been tempted to fell the man on the beach where he stood. He met Mary. Poor fat soul! she was wringing her hands in the anguish of really womanly grief. 'Oh, my bonny bairn!' she was crying. 'Oh, Mr Blake, you loved her, but will never see the lassie mair.' 'Cheer up, Mrs Pendlebury; cheer up, we may still hope.' 'Hope, sir; hope? Na, na; there are few ships on that dark sea at this time of the year. Oh, the cruel winds and the cruel, cruel waves!' Chops was huddled up beside the great caravan, silent, dumb with the great sorrow that had overtaken him. Having no word of comfort to utter, Antony entered the 'Gipsy Queen' and lit his lamps. Wallace was on the sofa. He whined and cried when Antony came in. Well did he know his mistress was gone. The young man sat down beside him and took his great head in his lap; but the dog refused consolation, and at every outside sound lifted his head, holding it a little to one side as he listened and watched the door. All this was more than Antony could endure, and he formed a sudden resolve. He would go right away out into the night, and, if he could but find his way through the upland woods, pay a visit to Crona in her lonely cottage. Battling with the wind would help to assuage his grief. 'Yes, Wallace, you may come. We are going to the house of Crona, dear boy.'