When, at a late hour next morning, the boy and the dog came down-stairs, the former appearing bewildered, and the latter hanging his tail as if doubtful of the reception he might meet with, only Keeper Downey and Surfman Sam Hardy were to be seen. The other members of the crew were engaged outside in the effort to save such wreckage as the yet angry waters rolled in toward the shore. A bright-looking little fellow was this survivor of the terrible disaster, although not seen at his best while clad only in his undergarments, and shivering in the frosty air despite the volumes of heat sent out by the glowing stove. The mercury in the thermometer had fallen below the zero mark, and the wind found every crevice and crack in the building, situated as it was on the open shore where nothing in the way of a shelter broke the force of the northeast gales. “Well, lad, you’re looking bright this morning,” the keeper cried in a cheery tone. “Hungry?” “I can take my share of breakfast when it’s ready, and I guess Fluff won’t turn up his nose at warm coffee.” “A dog drinking coffee!” Sam Hardy cried, with a laugh that had in it a note of the tempest. “Yes, sir; Mrs. Clark always gave him a little out of her own cup. Has she come ashore yet?” “No, lad,” the keeper replied gravely. “None save you and the dog lived through last night.” “They can’t be dead!” the boy cried in alarm, and as the full meaning of the words dawned upon him, the tears came. “Surely some of the men would have looked out for Mrs. Clark! She was coming ashore the same way I did.” “Had they lashed her to a spar before you were set adrift?” “The captain had everything ready: but I was tied on first, ’cause she wanted to be certain Fluff would be tucked inside my coat properly. Surely she’ll come soon?” “You may as well know the truth at once, lad; I’m not a man who believes in keeping back bad tidings, because they must be told at some time. Even if Mrs. Clark was set adrift on a spar, she couldn’t have lived through the night. You are the only survivor of the wreck.” “Where is the ship?” “The waves have knocked her to pieces long before this, and our crew are out looking after the wreckage as it comes ashore.” While one might have counted ten the lad stood looking at the keeper searchingly, and then, gathering the dog in his arms, he gave vent to the grief that had so suddenly come into his heart. “We’ll leave him alone for a spell, Sam,” the keeper whispered. “It’ll do him good to have a good cry, and seeing’s we’ve got little chance of sending in a report till after the storm clears up, there’s no sense in bothering him with questions.” Then the two kind-hearted men tiptoed softly out of the station, lest the sound of their footsteps might add to the grief in the boy’s heart, and the dog, pricking up his ears as if understanding every word spoken, apparently listened to the first outpouring of sorrow and utter desolation.