"Poor Masther Christian," said Quilleash, "I remember him since he was a baby in his mother's arms--and a fine lady, too. And when he grew up it was, 'How are you, Billy Quilleash?' And when he came straight from Oxford College, and all the larning at him, and the fine English tongue, and all to that, it was, 'And how are you to-day, Billy?' 'I'm middlin' to-day, Masther Christian.' Aw, yes, yes, a tender heart at him anyhow, and no pride at all, at all." The old man's memories were not thrilling to narrate, but they brought the tears to his eyes, and he brushed them away with his sleeve. They were now drifting past Peel, two miles from the coast. It was Christmas Eve. Old Quilleash thought of this, and they talked of Christmas Eves gone by, and of what happy days there had been. This was too tender a chord, and they were soon silent once more. Then, while the waters lay cold and clear and still, and the sun was sinking in the west, there came floating to them from the land through the breathless air the sound of church-bells. It was the last drop in their cup. The rude men could bear up no longer. More than one dropped his head on to his knees and sobbed aloud. Then Quilleash, in a husky voice, and coarsely, as if ashamed of the impulse, said, "Some one pray, will you?" "Ay," said another. "Ay," said a third. But no one prayed. "You, Billy," said one. The old man had never known a prayer. "You, Davy." Davy shook his head. None could pray. All lay quiet as death around them. Only the faint sound of the bells was borne to them as a mellow whisper. Then Danny rose silently to his feet. No one had thought of asking him. With that longing look in his big eyes, he turned to the land and began to sing. He was thinking of Mona. All his soul was going out to her. She was his anchor, his hope, his prayer. The lad's voice, laden with tears, floated away over the great waters. This was what he sang: "Her brow is like the snaw-drift, Her neck is like the swan, Her face it is the fairest That e'er the sun shone on; That e'er the sun shone on. * * * * * "And she's a' the world to me; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doon and dee." The boy's eyes were bright with a radiant brightness, and glistening tears ran down his face in gracious drops like dew. The men hung their heads and were mute. All at once there came a breath of wind. At first it was as soft as an angel's whisper. Then it grew stronger and ruffled the sea. Every man lifted his eyes and looked at his mates. Each was struggling with a painful idea that perhaps he was the victim of a delusion of the sense. But the chill breath of the wind was indeed among them. "Isn't it beginning to puff up from the sou'-west?" asked one, in a hoarse whisper. At that Davy Cain jumped to his feet. The idea of the supernatural had already gone from him, at least. "Now for the sheets, and to make sail," he cried.