Wesley rose from the hollow where he had made his seat and walked slowly down the sloping path toward the village. But long before they had reached the place of his sojourning, he became aware of a scene of excitement in the distance. The double row of straggling cottages that constituted the village of Porthawn they had left in the morning standing far beyond the long and steep ridge of shingle, at the base of which the wrack of high water lay, was now close to the water's edge. The little wharf alongside of which the fishing boats were accustomed to lie had been hauled up practically to the very doors of the houses. Scores of men and women were engaged in the work of hauling them still higher, not by the machinery of the capstans--the capstans were apparently submerged--but by hawsers. The sound of the sailors' “Heave ho!” came to the ear of Wesley and his companion a few seconds after they had seen the bending to the haul of all the people who were clinging to the hawsers as flies upon a thread. The shore was dark with men running with gear-tackles with blocks, while others were labouring along under the weight of spars and masts that had been hastily outstepped. Mr. Hartwell was speechless with astonishment. “It is indeed a day of wonder!” exclaimed Wes--ley. “A high tide? Ay; but who could have believed such an one possible? Should we not be doing well to lend them a hand in their emergency?” He had to repeat his question before the other had recovered from his astonishment sufficiently to be able to reply. “Such a tide! Such a tide!” he muttered. “What can it mean? Lend a hand? Surely--surely! Every hand is needed there.” They were compelled to make a detour landward in order to reach the people, for the ordinary path was submerged, but they were soon in the midst of them, and bending to the work of hauling, until the drops fell from their faces, when the heavy boat at which they laboured had her bowsprit well-nigh touching the window of the nearest house. Wesley dropped upon a stone and wiped his forehead, and some of the fishermen did the same, while others were loosing the tackles, in readiness to bind them on the next boat. Nelly Polwhele was kneeling beside him in an instant--her hair had become unfastened, for she had been working hard with the other women, and fell in strands down her back and over her shoulders. Her face was wet. “Oh, sir; this is overmuch for you!” she cried. “Far overmuch, after all that you have gone through since morning. Pray rest you in the shade. There is a jug of cider cooling in a pail of water fresh drawn from the well. You need refreshment.” He took her hand, smiling. “I am refreshed, dear child,” he said. “I am refreshed.”