“I found one old sailor kneeling upon the bench, looking intently through his telescope at some object at sea. My eyes followed the direction of the glass, and I saw distinctly, about two miles beyond the east cliff, a vessel lying dismasted upon the reef, with the sea breaking continually over her. “‘What vessel is that, Ned Jones?’ said I. “‘It’s the _Nancy_,’ he replied, without taking his eye from the glass. ‘I know her by the white stripe along her black hull. She’s a perfect wreck, and both the brave lads are drowned.’ “‘When did this happen?’ I shrieked, shaking him frantically by the arm. “‘She struck upon the reef at half-past one this morning. Our lads got the boat off, but too late to save the crew.’ “‘Good God!’ I cried, reeling back, as if struck with a bolt of ice; and the same deadly cold shiver ran through me. ‘It was his ghost, then, I saw.’[B] [B] I have told this story exactly as it was told to me by Flora’s nurse. The reader must judge how far the young girl’s imagination may have deceived her. Whether as a dream, or a reality, I have no doubt of the truth of her tale. “I don’t know how I got back to Mrs. Arthur. I never knew. Or, whether it was from me she learned the terrible tidings of the death of her sons. I fell into a brain fever, and when I recovered my senses, Mrs. Arthur had been in her grave for some weeks. “In thinking over the events of that fearful night, the recollection which pained me most was, that David’s last thought had been for his mother,—that during his death-struggle, she was dearer to him than me. It haunted me for years. At times it haunts me still. Whenever the wind blows a gale, and the moon shines clear and cold, I fancy I can see him standing below my window, in his dripping garments, and that sad pale face turned towards his mother’s casement; and I hear him call out, in the rich, mellow voice I loved so well,—‘Mother, dearest mother, I have come home to you. Open the door and let me in!’” “It was a dream, Nurse,” said Flora. “But supposing, Mrs. Lyndsay, that it was a dream. Is it less strange that such a dream should occur at the very moment, perhaps, that he was drowned; and that his mother should fancy she heard him speak as well as I?” “True,” said Flora, “the mystery remains the same, and, for my own part, I never could get rid of a startling reality; because some people choose to call it a mere coincidence. My faith embraces the spirit of the fact, and disclaims the coincidence, though after all, the coincidence is the best proof of the fact.”