“It can’t be possible, Fluffy, that every one has been drowned! It couldn’t be, God would take Captain Clark and his wife, with all the crew, leaving only you an’ me here! Why, Fluff! If the man told us the truth, what’ll become of us? We’re alone in the world, do you understand that? Nobody who’ll help us anywhere! What’ll become of you, my poor little man, and she loved you so dearly!” As if in reply the dog licked the boy’s face, and this evidence of affection appeared but to render more heavy the grief, for, throwing himself upon the floor, holding his dumb companion yet more closely, the poor lad gave way to the sorrow which had come with such cruel suddenness upon him. He was yet in this position when the keeper and two of the crew entered the building an hour later. In the boat-house, covered with flags, were the bodies of the captain and his wife, and near by lay three of the crew, all in the awful silence and stillness of death. Keeper Downey laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder to attract his attention, and the dog, mistaking this friendly touch for an attack, sprang up, barking furiously, until it seemed as if the volume of sound must shatter the tiny body. Sam Hardy took it upon himself to make friends with the little animal, and since the keeper no longer attempted to touch the sorrowing lad, Fluff ceased his shrill yelps. “Listen to me, lad,” the keeper said, throwing a coat over the half-clad form. “It’s cruel sorrow that has come upon you; but remember that there are others in this world who have been as cruelly afflicted,--that you are not alone in your grief. Somewhere are wives and children waiting for the return of the poor fellows who went down with the ship, and you must not be selfish in your sorrow.” The boy looked up with swollen eyes, inquiringly. “Yes, my boy, you are selfish to give way to all that’s in your heart when it is possible you can be of service to others.” “What do you mean, sir?” “Sad as the news will be to many, it is necessary they should learn of what happened last night, and you are the only one who can tell the story. I must make a report on the wreck, and am looking to you for the information. There is yet something to be done--the last in this world--by friends and relatives for such of the bodies as come ashore, and if you give way to selfish sorrow, the word cannot be sent out from here.” The lad was on his feet in an instant, and, choking back the sobs as best he might, while the dog nestled contentedly in his arms, he asked: “Tell me what you want, sir.” “First, the name of the ship.” “She was the _Amazonia_, from Calcutta to Boston, David Clark, master.” “Do you know how much of a crew she carried?” “Twenty-five, all told.” “Any other women except the captain’s wife?” “No, sir.” “What is your name?” “Benjamin H. Foster; but Mrs. Clark always called me ‘Benny,’” the lad replied, and at mention of the woman’s name his grief overwhelmed him once more.