He knew the power of music to soothe her, when these strange moods of sadness and fear came upon her. They went to the organ together, and before half-an-hour had passed Monica was her own calm, serene self again. “Monica,” said Randolph, “can you sing something to me now—now that we are quite alone together? Do you remember that little sad, sweet song you sang the night before I went away to Scotland? Will you sing it to me now? I have so often wanted to hear it again.” Monica gave him one quick glance, and struck the preliminary chords softly and dreamily. Wonderfully rich and sweet her voice sounded; but low-toned and deep, with a subtle searching sweetness that spoke straight to the heart: “‘And if thou wilt, remember— And if thou wilt, forget.’” There was the least little quiver in her voice as it died into silence. Randolph bent over her and kissed her on the lips. “Thank you,” he said. “It is a haunting little song in its sad sweetness. Somehow, it seems like you, Monica.” But she made no answer, for at that moment a sound reached their ears that made them both start, listening intently. Monica’s face grew white to the lips. The sound was repeated with greater distinctness. “A gun!” said Randolph. “A ship in distress!” whispered Monica. A ship in distress upon that cruel, iron-bound coast—a pitch-dark night and a rising gale! Randolph looked grave and resolute. “We must see what can be done,” he said. Monica’s face was very pale, but as resolute as her husband’s. “I will go with you!” she said. He glanced at, her, but he did not say her nay. In the hall servants were gathering in visible excitement. Lord Haddon was there, and Beatrice. The distressing signals from the doomed vessel were urging their imperative message upon every heart. Faces were flushed with excitement. Every eye was turned upon the master of the house. “Haddon,” he said, “there is not a man on the place that can ride like you, and you know every inch of the country by this time. Will you do this?—take the fastest, surest horse in the stable, and gallop to the nearest life-boat station. You know where it is?—Good! Give the alarm there, and get all in readiness. If the ship is past our help, and drifts with the wind, they may be able to save her crew still.” Haddon stayed to ask no more. He was off for the stables almost before the words had left Randolph’s lips. Monica was wrapping herself up in her warm ulster; Beatrice followed her example; the one was flushed, the other pale, but both were bent on the same object—they must go down to the shore to see what was done. They could not rest with the sound of those terrible guns ringing in their ears. The night was pitchy black, the sky was obscured by a thick bank of cloud. The wind blew fierce and strong, what sailors would call “half a gale.” It was a wild, “dirty” night, but not nearly so bad a one as they often knew upon that coast.