Involuntarily her glance wandered to a framed photograph which stood on the mantelshelf, showing the likeness of a white-haired man standing among a group of full-flowering roses, with a smile upon his wrinkled face,--a smile expressing the quaintest and most complete satisfaction, as though he sought to illustrate the fact that though he was old, he was still a part of the youthful blossoming of the earth in summer-time. "What would you have done, father dear, if you had been here to-night?"--she queried, addressing the portrait--"Ah, I need not ask! I know! You would have brought your suffering brother home, to share all you had;--you would have said to him 'Rest, and be thankful!' For you never turned the needy from your door, my dear old dad!--never!--no matter how much you were in need yourself!" She wafted a kiss to the venerable face among the roses,--and then turning, extinguished the lamp on the table. The dying glow of the fire shone upon her for a moment, setting a red sparkle in her hair, and a silvery one on the silky head of the little dog she carried, and outlining her fine profile so that it gleamed with a pure soft pallor against the surrounding darkness,--and with one final look round to see that all was clear for the night, she went away noiselessly like a lovely ghost and disappeared, her step making no sound on the short wooden stairs that led to the upper room which she had hastily arranged for her own accommodation, in place of the one now occupied by the homeless wayfarer she had rescued. There was no return of the storm. The heavens, with their mighty burden of stars, remained clear and tranquil,--the raging voice of ocean was gradually sinking into a gentle crooning song of sweet content,--and within the little cottage complete silence reigned, unbroken save for the dash of the stream outside, rushing down through the "coombe" to the sea. CHAPTER XIII