"I be ninety-four year old come next Lady-day," he commenced in his high quaking voice, "and I’ve seen many a good friend pass away. The old wife she’s gone, and the two little ones that God took with the whooping cough when they were but babes. My brothers are all gone, and my three sisters, and the fine comrades I started with on life’s journey. We went together down to the sea in ships, and not one on ’em’s outside the harbour now, except my old worthless self. They’re all gone, all my good true friends, all gone but three. And them three, I think on them by day, and I dream on them by night, the only three on ’em that’s left. Like as not you’ll smile when I tell you their names. They be right strange friends even for an old man like me." "Tell me who they are?" said his visitor, for Timothy had ceased speaking and was gazing absently into the fire. He hesitated a moment. "Well," he said at length, "I’ll tell you. One on ’em’s Death, and another be the Tide, but the third be the best One of all." "What do you mean?" asked Madelaine, for the old man had paused, as if his thoughts had wandered back again to long past days. "How do you count them your friends?" "This here little house was my father’s before me," continued Timothy, as if talking to himself, "and man and boy I’ve never lived elsewhere, though when I was a little lad there were two fine fields between us and the cliff. I was always a running to the edge to watch the tide, it fair bewitched me to see it come creeping up and then backing away, day in, day out, like some mighty living thing with a living breathing heart. And when I got a bit older, that there sea made a fisher of me. Summer and winter it gave me my daily bread; it never failed me yet. The sea’s been a rare good friend to me from the one end of life to t’other; a rare good friend it’s been. It’ll not go back on me now, it won’t. ’Twould be a mean trick to play on me, it would, if it took the old place from under my feet, after four and ninety years of good fellowship! I’m not afraid of the Tide." Mrs. Power knew not what to say. No arguments rose to her lips, though she vainly longed to remonstrate. "Well, Timothy," she said at last, "I can’t say that I’m as well acquainted with the ways of the tide as you are, but the other of your friends that you seem so sure of, I have often heard mentioned as the great Enemy." Timothy’s face lit up with a triumphant smile as he raised one hand and pointed upwards. "And why?--I reckon it’s because they don’t understand. I thought that once myself, but I see clearer now. The Tide’s a good friend, but Death’s better." "How did you find that out, Timothy?" questioned Mrs. Power.