He had been roused long before daylight from his slumbers, by the parson, Ella's father, and at his request had gone for a physician, for Ella was very ill. And all that night, after the leech was summoned, he walked or ran along the beach, waiting with an impatience so fierce that one could not call it childish, for day to come. His garments were soaked with rain, but he knew it not, neither was he conscious of fatigue, or cold, or faintness, but incessantly, as he went to and fro, wild prayers burst from his lips. In the gloom, and storm, and darkness, he harbored but one thought, one hope, the rescue of Ella's golden cross from the waters. The moment he heard that she was ill, he said to himself, _she will die_, and his fiery soul, recalling her mild, reproachful look as she watched his sudden motion, and her gently-expressed regret when the cross was lost, began to torture him. The act of passion became a thousand times exaggerated, and the recollection maddened him. All day he walked along that stormy beach, and when night came, it was not till thick darkness began to gather over land and flood, that he arose to go back to his mother's house. Mrs. Waldron had but just come in from the parsonage--she was going back again for the night, for Ella was very ill--and this good woman was noted as an efficient nurse. "How is she, mother?" was his abrupt salutation, as he closed the door behind him, and walked up to the table where she sat at work for him. "Who?" asked the mother, forgetting her neighborly, in her maternal anxiety, as she looked upon the pale and haggard face of her boy. "The girl at the parsonage. I went for the doctor for her last night, you know." "Oh--she is very ill indeed, very ill; I'm going to watch there to-night." "It will tire you. You're not well yourself." "Oh, well, son, when a _neighbor's_ sick, and wants my help, I hope I shall always be ready to give it--even if I _don't_ feel over and above smart myself." "Neighbor!" he repeated, furiously. "If it was _you_ they talked of visiting, or helping, they'd say, _it is a poor woman that lives near us_--they wouldn't call you 'neighbor,' mother--they've a different way of talking." "Oh, son! son! how awful proud you are. You're hard on 'em. I'm feared you haven't the right sort of spirit in you. It's not the mood to take into the world--if you knock people down you'll have to pay for it; the best way is just to ask leave to go by, and if they won't make room, apologize for pushing on." "Mother," he said, abruptly interrupting her, "did you see El--the sick girl, to-day?" "Why, yes! I staid in the room all the time. Poor child, I don't think she quite knew what she was talking about. She was wild-like--running on about the storm, and the night, and a cross, which was give to her by her mother--and it's lost, they say. You never see folks so done up as the minister and his wife. When sorrow comes to us we're all alike. But _they are_ knocked up complete."