Jim's face lighted as he spoke with a look that Pat was used to seeing there now, and which always filled him with a certain wonder and awe. Jim had been up and about again for some little time now. He had the sole charge of the three boats which were kept in the boathouse in the creek, and used by the people in the big house whenever they wanted a sail or a row. No more scrupulously clean and attentive boat-keeper had ever been known, and all who came to the house noticed Jim, and had a kind word for him. But it was already quite plain that the man would never be fit for hard work again. He had received an injury on the night of the storm which baffled the skill of all the clever doctors who had been called in to see him. They could "patch him up" for a little while; they could give him sufficient ease and strength to enable him to get about his light daily tasks with comfort and pleasure. He could sail a boat in the bay in fine weather, or gently scull the light little _Prince Rupert_ about with its young master as passenger. But that was about all he was fit for, and those who had heard the doctors' verdict knew that any winter he was liable to be carried suddenly off through the injury to the lung, which had so nearly caused his death whilst he lay in the lighthouse under the care of Eileen. Jim knew this himself as well as any one, but the thought gave him no trouble or anxiety. He was wonderfully happy and contented in his life; yet he was as ready as ever to go forth over the unknown sea if the Lord should hold out His hand and bid him come. "Do you miss _her_ very much?" asked Pat, after a pause, turning his eyes towards the sea in the direction of the Lone Rock, which in very clear weather could be distinguished from the garden wall. "You were fond of her, and knew her better than the rest of us. Do you think she misses you now that you're gone?" "Why, no, I hardly think she do," answered Jim, with a smile; "I'd got into the way of thinking and speaking of her as though she were alive--it seemed a bit of company when one was all alone. But when I wasn't alone any more, why, she didn't seem to be more than a big lamp then. I always look out for her of a night when the light shines over the sea, but I don't seem to want to be over there no more. It's wonderful how one grows to like the life one has to lead. I used to think I'd never be happy off Lone Rock, and now----" "I know you're happy here, Jim," said Pat, with a quick upward glance of loving admiration; "you always look so happy!" "I oughter to be ashamed of myself, if I wasn't," said Jim. "If I was a prince I couldn't be better took care of, and me able to do so little. It 'ud make me ashamed, it would, if our lady wasn't the sweetest mistress that ever drew breath. It does one good to see her face day by day. It's like a bit of God's sunshine come down on earth--that's what it is."