"Why, he's better, sir, he's better," replied the man; "I think the fright did him good, for he heard all about his little brother that he's so fond of, and he couldn't budge out to help him himself, poor fellow. Won't the ladies come in? I'm sure my wife will be very glad to see them. There's nothing catching about the child's illness. It's only that the pot of hot tar fell down off the fire over his feet and burned him badly." Lady Tyrrell and Mrs. Effingham very willingly agreed to go into the cottage, for they were both tired; and here new thanks awaited Charles Tyrrell; for the mother, having recovered from the first overpowering emotions of the moment, was now voluble, and even eloquent, in her gratitude. Lady Tyrrell was pleased and affected, as well as Mrs. Effingham, and Lucy turned to the window and looked out upon the sea, which for some reason looked dull and indistinct to her eyes. Charles, however, was overpowered, and would willingly have escaped; but he was relieved, as well as the whole party, in some degree, by the good father, John Hailes, cutting across his wife, as if he suddenly recollected something, and planting himself abruptly before Charles, with the words, "I'll thank you, sir, to tell me what's your name." This speech caused a general smile, and the fisherman proceeded to comment upon it in explanation, saying, "You see, sir, the reason why I ask is, that I had forgotten it, and so had my wife, when you were here before, and I was afraid that we should both forget it again, and you should go away without our knowing who it was that saved our poor boy from the worst luck that can happen to any one, being turned adrift in an empty boat." "My name is Tyrrell," replied Charles; "and I am the son of your neighbour here, Sir Francis Tyrrell; but you really owe me nothing, my good friend, for no one could see a child in such a situation without helping him." "That don't matter, sir," replied Hailes; "the man that did it's the man for me; so I am very much obliged to you; and if ever it should be that even you should want a helping hand in your turn, why, here's John Hailes." While this conversation had been going on, the poor boy that was sick had been looking up in Charles Tyrrell's face with a pair of large, intelligent, dark eyes, as if he sought to catch his every look. He was apparently about ten years old, and a good-looking boy, but very pale from what he had suffered; and Charles, to put an end to all farther expressions of gratitude, went up and spoke to him about the accident he had met with. The boy answered sensibly and clearly; but when he had done, he added, in a low voice, "Thank you, sir, for saving poor little Johnny. I am sure I should have died if he'd gone out to sea and nobody with him."