“Here, Margaret,” said she to a young woman, who, pale with terror and with face streaming in tears, rushed towards her,--“here 's your little fellow, all safe and sound; I 'd not have put back but for his sake.” And with this she placed in his mother's arms a little boy of about three years of age, sound asleep. “He must wait for better weather if he wants to see his grandmother. And,” added she, laughing, “I scarcely think you 'll catch me going to sea again with so precious a cargo. Poor little man!” and she patted his ruddy cheeks; “he behaved so well, like a stout fisherman's son as he is,--never showed fear for a moment.” A murmur of delighted hearts ran through the crowd; some thinking of the child, but many more in warm admiration of the brave and beautiful young girl before them. “Loony,” said she to her boatman, “when you 've got the tackle to rights, come up to the house for your breakfast.” And with that, and a few words of grateful recognition as she passed, she clambered up the rock and hastened homeward. As for her uncle, no sooner had he heard of her safe arrival on shore than he hurried back, anxious to reach the house before her. For a considerable time back Martin had schooled himself into an apparent indifference about his niece's perils. Lady Dorothea had probably given the initiative to this feeling by constantly asserting that the young lady would incur few risks when they ceased to create alarm. It was a somewhat ungracious theory, and excited in Martin's mind, when he first heard it, a sensation the very reverse of agreeable. Without accepting its truth, however, it made a deep impression upon him, and at last, by way of policy, he resolved to feign a degree of callous indifference very foreign to his nature; and, by dint of mere habit, he at length acquired a semblance of calm under circumstances that sorely tested his powers of self-control. “Has the heroine arrived safe on shore?” asked Lady Dorothea in her own languid drawl. And Martin almost started at the question, and seemed for a moment as if the indignation it excited could not be repressed; then smiling superciliously at the impassive air of her features, he said,-- “Yes, and by rare good luck, too! The sea is a terrific one this morning!” “Is it ever anything else in this heavenly climate?” said she, sighing. “I have counted two fine days since the 8th of June; and, indeed, it rained a little on one of them.” Martin winced impatiently under the remark, but never lifted his eyes from the newspaper. “I had hoped your niece was making arrangements for our return to Cro' Martin,” said she, querulously, “instead of planning marine excursions. I told her yesterday, or the day before,--I forget which; but who could remember time in such a place?--that I was bored to death here. The observation seems to amuse you, Mr. Martin; but it is a simple fact.”