“So she’s gone without stopping to see whether I lived or died!” muttered Mr. Waddy. “I’m glad of it. Infernal bore! to have to thank her and pay compliments to some namby-pamby plough-girl. Let’s see what I can give her--a six-inch cameo--a copy of Tennyson’s poems--an annuity of ten bushels of tracts? She won’t like money--I know these Yankee girls. This Miranda is another style. By curry!” asseverated he rapturously, “she is as grand as a lioness. Singularly like Hawkins’s partner in the schooner. Ah, those poor fellows! Not one of them left, I’m afraid.” His reverie was interrupted by the entry of old Dempster, accompanied by his wife and Dan’l. “Wal, sir,” began the former, with brisk heartiness, “I’m glad to see you doin’ better. Here’s some money we found in your belt--three hundred an’ fifty dollars. Count it, if you please.” “Never mind the money,” said Waddy. “I would give that and much more to have news of the vessel I was wrecked in. Have you heard anything about her? She was a Down East schooner named the _Billy Blue Nose_.” “What might the name of her owner be?” asked Mr. Dempster. “One of my boys has been buyin’ a schooner up to Halifax.” “Hawkins was the name; but he had a partner, a very fine young fellow, who told me he lived on this coast. He lashed me to the spar and stayed by me till she struck. His name was Dempster--William Dempster.” “Mother,” said the old man, very solemnly, after a moment, “it’s our boy Willum. He is lost.” For another moment they were silent, as men are when fatal words have been spoken; then the women’s sobs burst forth. “There’s no time to cry--not fer us men, at least,” added the father. “I’ve said my prayers, mother, an’ you kin pray while we’re gone. Dan’l, you go down to Brother Jake’s an’ tell him it was Willum’s schooner that this man was in. He’d better take the boys an’ go along the rocks west o’ the beach. You come after me down to our P’int--no--you go with Brother Jake--I want t’ be alone.” He walked away heavily, as one carrying a great burden. He could have no hope, but that worst assurance of death--the sight of death, of his son lying crushed and drowned on the rocks. Mrs. Dempster went to the bed and, stooping over, kissed Mr. Waddy softly. The poor fellow, weakened by his hurts, struck to the heart by the sorrow he had brought to this family, burst into tears. And to mother and sister, also, came the agonising relief of bitter tears. Mr. Waddy was left alone and, overwearied, he slept. And while he slept, life was busy with his frame, renewing it again, rebuilding all its shrines of saintly images, and all its cells where lonely thoughts dwelt sadly. When he awakes, his manfulness will avail that he may again take up the old burdens, which he had, in his dream, laid down.