“But he isn’t dead! It’s all a false alarm. I’ll get my boat and row over to the island myself. Very likely he had gone to sleep among the bushes and that prevented your seeing him.” There was a bare possibility of this, but Ben Bence had little faith in it. “Go, if you like,” he said. “If you find him, it will lift a great weight from your conscience.” John Trafton dashed to the shore, flung himself into his boat, and, with feverish haste, began to row toward the island. He bitterly repented now the act which had involved him in such grave responsibility. He was perfectly sober, for his credit at the tavern was temporarily exhausted. Of course those who remained behind in the cabin had no hope of Robert being found. They were forced to believe that the raft had gone to pieces and the poor boy, in his efforts to reach the shore, had been swept back into the ocean by the treacherous undertow and was now lying stiff and stark at the bottom of the sea. “What shall I ever do without Robert?” said Mrs. Trafton, her defiant mood changing, at her husband’s departure, to an outburst of grief. “He was all I had to live for.” “You have your husband,” suggested Ben Bence doubtfully. “My husband!” she repeated drearily. “You know how little company he is for me and how little he does to make me comfortable and happy. I will never forgive him for this day’s work.” Ben Bence, who was a just man, ventured to represent that Trafton did not foresee the result of his action; but, in the sharpness of her bereavement, Mrs. Trafton would find no excuse for him. Herbert, too, looked pale and distressed. He had a genuine attachment for Robert, whose good qualities he was able to recognize and appreciate, even if he was a fisherman’s nephew. He, too, thought sorrowfully of his poor friend, snatched from life and swept by the cruel and remorseless sea to an ocean grave. He, too, had his object of resentment. But for George Randolph, he reflected, Robert would now be alive and well, and he resolved to visit George with his severest reproaches. While all were plunged in a similar grief a strange thing happened. The door of the cabin was closed by John Trafton as he went out. Suddenly there was heard a scratching at the door, and a sound was heard as of a dog trying to excite attention. “It must be my dog Dash,” said Herbert. “I wonder how he found me out?” He advanced to the door and opened it. Before him stood a dog, but it was not Dash. It was a large black dog, with an expression of intelligence almost human. He had in his mouth what appeared to be a scrap of writing paper. This he dropped on the ground when he saw that he had attracted Herbert’s attention. “What does this mean?” thought Herbert in great surprise, “and where does this dog come from?”