It was a lovely morning when I woke once more. The sun was flashing back from the sea, which was still tossing, but no longer furiously, only as if it wanted to turn itself every way to flash the sunlight about. The madness of the night was over and gone; the light was abroad, and the world was rejoicing. When I reached the drawing-room, which afforded the best outlook over the shore, there was the schooner lying dry on the sands, her two cables and anchors stretching out yards behind her; but half way between the two sides of the bay rose a mass of something shapeless, drifted over with sand. It was all that remained together of the great ship that had the day before swept over the waters like a live thing with wings--of all the works of man’s hands the nearest to the shape and sign of life. The wind had ceased altogether, only now and then a little breeze arose which murmured “I am very sorry,” and lay down again. And I knew that in the houses on the shore dead men and women were lying. I went down to the dining-room. The three children were busy at their breakfast, but neither wife, daughter, nor visitor had yet appeared. I made a hurried meal, and was just rising to go and inquire further into the events of the night, when the door opened, and in walked Percivale, looking very solemn, but in perfect health and well-being. I grasped his hand warmly. “Thank God,” I said, “that you are returned to us, Percivale.” “I doubt if that is much to give thanks for,” he said. “We are the judges of that,” I rejoined. “Tell me all about it.” While he was narrating the events I have already communicated, Wynnie entered. She started, turned pale and then very red, and for a moment hesitated in the doorway. “Here is another to rejoice at your safety, Percivale,” I said. Thereupon he stepped forward to meet her, and she gave him her hand with an emotion so evident that I felt a little distressed--why, I could not easily have told, for she looked most charming in the act,--more lovely than I had ever seen her. Her beauty was unconsciously praising God, and her heart would soon praise him too. But Percivale was a modest man, and I think attributed her emotion to the fact that he had been in danger in the way of duty,--a fact sufficient to move the heart of any good woman. She sat down and began to busy herself with the teapot. Her hand trembled. I requested Percivale to begin his story once more; and he evidently enjoyed recounting to her the adventures of the night. I asked him to sit down and have a second breakfast while I went into the village, whereto he seemed nothing loth. As I crossed the floor of the old mill to see how Joe was, the head of the sexton appeared emerging from it. He looked full of weighty solemn business. Bidding me good-morning, he turned to the corner where his tools lay, and proceeded to shoulder spade and pickaxe. “Ah, Coombes! you’ll want them,” I said.