“Yes, ma’am,” Mrs. May answered. “And if those in the other world know aught about what’s done in this—and why shouldn’t they?—I wonder how those men feel who neglected to keep down those sands, because they wanted to build a big steeple instead of doing their duty? On wild nights here, when we’re almost certain poor souls are going down by the score, I never can help thinking o’ those others. It must be mighty bad for them surely. And yet maybe they didn’t know what they were doing was so bad—or didn’t think! I’d not make them out worse than most of us, and we all need God our Saviour. Maybe God lets ’em receive the poor drowned souls, and comfort ’em and care for ’em.” “But is it true that the sands became dangerous through neglect?” asked Lucy. “I have heard the story, but I have heard that geology has a different word to say.” Mrs. May shook her head slightly. “I don’t know, ma’am,” she said. “I’m speaking as if the story be true. And certain it is that men and money have been able to do a good bit to lessen the risks of the Sands as they are, and it is a pity that they did not do it sooner. And maybe they might do a great deal more yet. I wish gentlemen in power would think over such things instead of wanting to spend money on guns to kill poor folks in far-off countries. It’s wonderful what has been left for private folk to do before the others stir. I daresay you’ve never heard of one Powell, of Deal, living nigh two hundred years ago?” “No,” answered Lucy reflecting, and unable to recall any Powell of popular memory, save Mary, the wilful wife of the poet Milton. “Well, ma’am,” said Mrs. May, with a slight drawing-up of her neat figure. “That Powell of Deal (my mother was of the family, though, of course, generations later), he seemed to be one of the first to think of saving people off the wrecks on the Sands. There were no lifeboats in his time, you know.” “I know,” Lucy assented. “There were no lifeboats till nearly a hundred years after that, and very few until about seventy years ago.” “Well, that Powell was Mayor of Deal in those days, and pretty well off for just a shopkeeper in the town—a tailor and outfitter he was. And there came a great storm one November night—it was such a storm as never was. It was the night the Eddystone Lighthouse was destroyed along with the man that built it, and people were killed in their beds, even in grand houses, and the loss of life and property was tremendous. We can guess what it was on the Goodwins, ma’am. There were thirteen men-of-war wrecked, and hundreds of men—more than a thousand—were drowned. Then the people who were watching from the shore saw that some had got on the Goodwins, and there they were sure to be washed away.” Mrs. May paused and looked at Lucy with emphatic eyes.