At that cottage, about the same time, a great change had taken place in Jeff Benson--spiritually, not physically, though even in the latter respect he was at all events not worse than usual. Having gone from bad to worse in his rebellion, he had at last reached that lowest depth wherein he not only despaired of the doctor's power to cure him, and his own power of constitution, but began silently, and in his own mind, to charge his Maker with having made a complete failure in his creation. "Life is a muddle, auntie, altogether!" he exclaimed when he reached this point. It was the lowest ebb--hopeless despair alike of himself and his God. "A muddle, Jeff?" said the little woman, raising her eyebrows slightly. "How can that be possible in the work of a Perfect Creator, and a Perfect Saviour who redeems from all evil--your supposed `muddle' included?" Our young coastguardsman was silent. It was probably the great turning-point when the Holy Spirit opened his eyes to see Jesus, and all things in relation to Him. For a long time he did not speak. The lips of his nurse were also silent, but her heart was not so. At last Jeff spoke-- "It _must_ be so. Perfection is bound to work out perfection. This apparent evil _must_ be for good. `He doeth all things well.' Surely I have read that somewhere!" In a low clear voice his nurse said-- "`He doeth all things well,' We say it now with tears; But we shall sing it with those we love Through bright eternal years." "I think the light is dawning, auntie." "I am _sure_ it is, Jeff." Again they were silent, and thus they remained while the natural light faded, until the western sky and sea were dyed in crimson. The first thing that diverted their thoughts was a quick step outside, then a thunderous knock at the door, and next moment the captain stood before them, beaming with excitement, panting heavily, and quite unable for some minutes to talk coherently. "Sister," said he at last, "sit down an' listen. Jeff, open your ears." He drew a crumpled letter from his pocket, spread it on his knee, put on his glasses, and read as follows:-- "`My DEAR CAPTAIN MILLET,-- "`You will, I know, be grieved, though not surprised, to hear that your old friend Nibsworth is dead. Poor fellow! his end came much as you and I had anticipated when we last parted. He followed his dear Clara about two months after her death. I suppose you know that she died three days after you left their house. "`My object in writing just now, however, is to convey to you a piece of good news; namely, that Nibsworth has left you the whole of his property, which, altogether, cannot amount to less, I should think, than eighty thousand pounds.'" At this point the captain paused and looked over his glasses at his sister, who, with wide-open eyes, exclaimed-- "Brother! he must be joking!"