path: root/76233-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76233 ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

[Illustration: THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN.]



                         [Illustration]


                   WAITING FOR SAILING ORDERS.


                 FISHER-LIFE AT THE LAND'S END.


                              BY

                    MRS. GEORGE GLADSTONE

    AUTHOR OF "NORWEGIAN STORIES," "FIRESIDE STORIES," ETC.


                        [Illustration]


                THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
          56, PATERNOSTER ROW; 65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD;
                     AND 164, PICCADILLY.



                        [Illustration]

                           PREFACE.

                        [Illustration]

SOME weeks have elapsed since the author of this little story was
separated by death from a dear and honoured mother, to whom she
submitted all her literary work, on whose criticism she relied, and in
whose judgment she placed implicit confidence. "Waiting for Sailing
Orders" was the last story which passed under her aged mother's review;
the title had a special charm for the latter, who knew not how soon her
summons would come, but always kept her lamp trimmed, and was prepared
to meet her Lord, at whatever hour He sent His summons.

   Her children were standing round her death-bed, wondering if
consciousness yet remained, and how long the spirit would linger
ere it fled to the mansions of the blest, when she said, in such
clear and distinct tones that all in the room could hear, "I am
waiting,—waiting,—waiting, for my sailing orders to come."

   Three days later her sailing orders came, and the sweet smile which
lingered in death made those who were left behind rejoice in the midst
of tears, because it seemed to speak of the joy and bliss into which
the spirit entered when the "waiting" was over and a long eternity in
view.



                        [Illustration]

                          CONTENTS.

                        [Illustration]

CHAPTER

    I. MACKEREL FISHING

   II. THE GREAT SORROW

  III. THE OLD TAR

   IV. THE LAND'S END

    V. GRANDFATHER'S TALES

   VI. ST. MICHAEL'S MOUNT

  VII. WILLY'S BIRTHDAY

 VIII. MIDSUMMER EVE

   IX. PILCHARD FISHING

    X. THE STORM

   XI. SAILING ORDERS



                   WAITING FOR SAILING ORDERS.

                        [Illustration]

CHAPTER I.

MACKEREL FISHING.

[Illustration] THE fishing village of Newlyn, which stretches about a
mile along the west shore of Mount's Bay, in Cornwall, presented a busy
scene one morning in April of the year 1862. The mackerel season had
just begun, and some of the boats came in heavily laden.

"What's the take?" asked an old woman of a sailor.

"A thousand downwards," was the reply, which meant that the number of
mackerel in each boat varied from that number to one hundred, fifty,
twenty, ten, five or not one.

In Mount's Bay the boats are large, and among the safest and best craft
to be found on any fishing coast. They each carry a crew of seven men,
who share equally in the profits, after a certain portion has been set
aside for the use of the vessel and the nets.

The "Mary Ann," which brought in the thousand mackerel, belonged
to John Trevan. He was a man much respected in Newlyn, for all
his dealings were fair and upright. He had for partners six other
fishermen, of whom he was the captain, and who deferred to him at all
times, placing the most implicit confidence in his judgment.

As the ship's boat containing John Trevan and his mates came near the
shore, the agents of several London fish-dealers waded through the
water to bid for the finest mackerel. The bargain was soon concluded to
the satisfaction of all parties; then the fish were thrown into baskets
and carried on to the sands, where they were turned into a tub of
water, washed, packed neatly in the same baskets, and carried away in
carts to the railway. The hake, cod, conger eels, a few soles, and some
very small mackerel that remained, the crew divided with their captain.

Mrs. Trevan was awaiting the arrival of her husband with her basket.
Every Cornish woman owns a basket of some sort: those carried by the
fish-women are called "cowels," and are supported on the back by a band
passed round the forehead.

"We've had splendid sport, Philippa," said John Trevan to his wife,
"and there's a fine lot for home use. Let's have a conger pie for
to-morrow. I'll be in to dinner; but we must hang our nets to dry
first, and clean up a bit. The boat's off again at six. I can afford to
take my holiday to-morrow cheerfully, after my good fortune of to-day."

"Yes, John, and if only we can have fine weather like this, you'll
enjoy it," answered Mrs. Trevan.

"We must work hard all the afternoon, for the nets have got sadly
broken. Father will have more than he can do, a boat ran clean through
one of mine."

Philippa Trevan gathered up her share of fish, and placing it in her
basket, walked slowly up the narrow road from the sands, towards
Street-an-Nowan, or New Street, close to which she lived.

Newlyn is the principal fishing station in Mount's Bay. It is divided
into two parts, which can only communicate, the one with the other,
by the sands, unless you go far into the country, over the high hill
which leads to the church-town of Paul. In ordinary tides the sea comes
nearly up to the stepping-stones, but sometimes it dashes against the
cliff, and renders the shore too dangerous to be crossed, even in a
boat. The houses are irregularly built, and the streets are narrow,
ill-paved, and in many parts run along the top of the sea wall, with no
protection from the waves except what is afforded by a strong open iron
railing.

Mrs. Trevan turned up narrow Rag-stone pathway before she reached the
end of New Street, and mounted four steps which led into a comfortable
sitting-room in a whitewashed cottage. The small door to the right
opened into the best parlour, at the back were the kitchen and
grandfather's bedroom, and overhead three more rooms.

An old man, a very old man, with snowy hair, sat in his arm-chair
reading out of a large printed Bible; and in spite of the difference of
years, his features were so like Mrs. Trevan's, there was no difficulty
in recognising the relationship of father and daughter which existed
between the two.

"You're soon home, Philippa," he said; "have you good news?"

"Very good, father; John has taken a thousand mackerel, and sold them
well. He says there will be more work than you can do to mend the nets."

"I'll try my best, Philippa. We expect to mend them up every day. The
Lord Jesus isn't here with his disciples. I'd just read these words
when I heard your footstep: 'Simon Peter went up, and drew the net to
land full of great fishes, an hundred and fifty and three: and for all
there were so many, yet was not the net broken.'"

"No, He isn't walking in our midst as in those times, father," said
Mrs. Trevan, "but he's just as near to us in spirit as he was then. I
never see John start without commending him to God in Christ. I think
as I grow older my Saviour seems to come nearer. But for his living
presence in my heart, I could not go about my daily work as cheerfully
as I do. Remember my boy, my first-born, and the awful uncertainty
about him. Oh, father, I try hard to think of what my Saviour suffered
on the cross for me, so as to get strength to endure my own sorrow with
a lighter heart."

"Poor Philippa," answered the old man, tenderly. "Be of good courage.
God will hear our prayers. I'm on the mountain-top of my pilgrimage,
very soon I shall be running fast down the other side, entering into
the dark valley and shadow of death; but I believe I shall see the lad
before my sailing orders come."

"You've such strong faith, father. Mine is dimmed sometimes with
waiting and longing; but only dimmed for the moment, for through all
my bitterness of spirit, I remember that my Heavenly Father loves
and cares for my poor misguided son. But here come the children from
school."

Mrs. Trevan had just time to take up her basket and go hurriedly into
the kitchen, drying her tears, when Dorothy and Judith, her twin
daughters, entered, and coming up to their grandfather, kissed him
affectionately. The old man returned their caresses, for he loved these
girls next to, if not as well as his own daughter. He lived over past
days with them, for they never wearied of hearing of the perils by land
and sea, which had overtaken him during his long life.

Dorothy and Judith would complete their thirteenth year on the morrow.
They closely resembled one another in features, but were unlike in
disposition; for while Dorothy was high-spirited and quick-tempered,
Judith was mild, tractable, and quiet. Their figures were upright and
well-formed; they had bright jet black eyes, and long curling hair,
fresh complexions, and frank open faces. They wore the gipsy hats
made of beaver which are now out of date, short light-coloured print
dresses, dark-blue knitted stockings of their own making, and strong
leather boots.

"Have you done well at school this morning?" asked their grandfather.

"Yes, very well," answered Dorothy. "I did my sums so quickly that
teacher said she was pleased for me to have a holiday to-morrow. She
remembered that we spent our birthday at the Land's End last year
with great-uncle Thomas Nance. You know Judith is always good at her
lessons, grandfather."

"That's right, Dorothy," answered Captain Nance, for so the old man
was called. "Do try, there's a good girl, to deserve the praise you've
just bestowed on your sister. Let Judith be able to say of you, 'She is
always good at her lessons.'"

"I do try, grandfather, to be attentive, but I can't always be the
same. Judith hasn't such a nasty temper as I have to worry her."

"There's one cure for it; we may all go to the Great Physician, my
little girl. How you will enjoy yourself, Dorothy, when to-morrow
comes! I didn't think I should live to go with you again; I shall
be fourscore years and ten if God spares my life until the 9th of
November."

"That is a long, long time compared with our thirteen years," said
Dorothy.

"It is a long time to have lived, my dear. I shan't be much more tossed
on the billows, for the storm of life will soon be over, and my poor
old weather-beaten bark will be safely landed on that happy shore where
the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest."

"But, grandfather, what shall we do without you?" asked Judith, laying
her soft cheek on the old man's. "We are so happy together."

"So we are, dearie, but it's not the happiness of yonder world. Don't
want to keep me here, little one; you must try and be very glad when
the old tar has his sailing orders."

"Come, children," called their mother, "lay the table for dinner. I
have plenty to do to make ready for your birthday trip to-morrow."

Dorothy and Judith were soon busy in household matters, and we will
leave them so engaged while we give a short account of the family to
which we have introduced our reader.



CHAPTER II.

THE GREAT SORROW.

JOHN TREVAN was among the most prosperous inhabitants of Newlyn. He was
an industrious man; his wife was thrifty, and he had a small family to
support. It consisted of one son, who had wandered far away from his
father's house, eight years before our story commences, and the twin
daughters.

John Trevan married Philippa Nance, at the age of thirty-five. He
brought his wife, who was six years his junior, to the whitewashed
cottage we have described, where his parents had lived before him. Her
father came too, for he could not be separated from his only remaining
child. When Philippa consented to marry John Trevan she stipulated that
her well-beloved parent should share her future home.

"He will be no burden upon you, John, for he has enough to keep him,"
she said.

To which her future husband replied, "He would be welcome for your
sake, Philippa, were he penniless."

A boy was born to them at the end of two years. This event brought
great joy to the little circle; but as the lad grew in years, his
parents had many reasons for deep anguish regarding him. He was
named William, after his grandfather; and known to all in Newlyn as
"mischievous Willy." He was brought up carefully, and taught to fear
God; but he spurned the good, and clung to the evil; yet sometimes,
when his mother took him into her room, and knelt in prayer to God,
with him at her side, his tears would come, and he would say,—

"Mother, it is so hard not to be naughty."

And she answered him, "I know it, my darling boy; but do not trust
to yourself, pray to God, Willy, to make you a better lad. Ask your
Heavenly Father to give you His Spirit to help you, and change your
heart of stone to a heart of flesh. He will not refuse to hear your
prayer if you ask in Christ's name."

For one or two days after an outbreak Willy was more obedient, and then
he began to be tiresome again. He had no regard for truth, and played
truant so often that at last either his father or mother took him to
school every morning, and gave him into his teacher's charge, before
they went about their daily work.

When Willy reached his tenth year, his twin sisters were born, and for
a few weeks all went smoothly with him. He loved the little baby girls,
and felt very proud when his mother allowed him to hold one of them in
his arms, but this novel pleasure wore off, and he was again running
wild with unruly boys.

"I must send him to sea a year or two hence, under some wise captain,"
said John Trevan to his wife, many times. "I can't keep him at home if
he does not turn over a new leaf. He'll have to think when he has to go
before the mast, and be obliged to obey; and he'll be quite away from
his bad companions."

But the mother clung to her prodigal; her love for him grew all the
more because Willy's friends were so few, and because he was the child
of so many tears and prayers.

A hundred years ago smuggling was rife in Cornwall, and contraband
goods and spirits were netted instead of fish. Then Wesley and
Whitfield roused the people up to better things by their preaching, and
taught them to reverence God and believe in His Son. Willy had heard
many wonderful stories about these smugglers, and he thought it was
just the sort of life that would have suited him. He wished those old
times were not over, for he disliked the hard work of a fisherman's
life.

So time passed on until Willy reached his fifteenth year. On the
morning of his birthday, he quarrelled with his father, and refused to
help him dry his net. John Trevan grew angry, and high words passed
between the two. The end of it was, that the boy packed on his clothes,
and when his father went out fishing and the rest were asleep, crept
to the old teapot where his mother kept her money, and having robbed
her of two sovereigns, stole away from his home, and took the road
towards Plymouth. He walked some miles before he ventured to get a lift
in a waggon, lest he should be recognised and taken back to Newlyn. At
Plymouth, he engaged himself to a captain who commanded a large ship
bound to Lagos, in Africa; but a bad unprincipled man. Thus far he had
been traced, and eight years had passed away without bringing him home
again, or a message or letter being received from him.

Mrs. Trevan was bowed down with grief when she found her son had left
his home without bidding her farewell. So soon as she discovered that
her little store of money was gone too, and thought of her first-born
as a common thief, she moaned out in the bitterness of her sorrow, "My
heart will break. Oh, Willy, Willy! What have I done that you should
treat me so cruelly?"

John Trevan was indignant. "Let him go," he said; "I do not own a thief
as my son."

But when year after year ran on, he forgot Willy's faults, and only
yearned to clasp him in his arms once more. No family prayer ever
closed without remembering him. His mother felt she could give him up
if only she knew what fate had befallen him, and that he had turned to
God.

The little girls retained a vivid remembrance of their brother; they
hushed their voices when his birthday came, it was so differently kept
to their own; there was no holiday-making. Their mother looked sad, and
always went out alone before breakfast, up the hill behind Newlyn, into
the fields, to a point which commanded a view of the broad ocean. Her
birthday prayer for Willy was that he might come home, not as he left
her, but with a new heart and a right spirit.

The little circle at Newlyn would have known but few cares had Willy
been with them, a steady well behaved boy.

"It's doing us good," John said to his wife, when they reverted to
their great sorrow. "Perhaps we should have grown away from God if our
boy had given us no trouble; but now He's chastening us, and teaching
us the value of having a Father in heaven, to whom we can tell out all
our troubles. I am like your father, Philippa, I believe God will help
Willy, as He has helped us, and bring him home again."

The mother sighed when her husband spoke thus, and answered, "God grant
it may be so."

                               ————————



CHAPTER III.

THE OLD TAR.

"GRANDFATHER, make haste," said Dorothy and Judith, tapping at the old
man's door, next morning. "It's past seven, and breakfast is ready.
We're to go away at ten o'clock. Father has ordered the cart to come
punctually."

"Many happy returns of the day to both of you," answered Captain Nance,
opening his door. "Come in, my dears, and let me say my birthday wishes
here. I believe I was up the first in the house this morning, and see
I've got on my best rigging. It's only on such gala days as these that
I dress up my old weather-beaten hulk so grandly; and I've put on all
my medals, too, in your honour."

"You look fine, grandfather," exclaimed the little girls. "You must
tell us some old stories about them to-day."

"So I will, little ones; I'll try and make your day cheery. I've done
nothing but think about you since I opened my eyes this morning. I've
been talking to the Lord about you: I've asked Him to give you a good
passage through life."

"Thank you, grandfather," said Dorothy, throwing her arms round the
old man's neck and kissing him. "But now you must come, for father
and mother will be waiting. After breakfast we will go into the best
parlour, and you shall tell us all about yourself."

"Oh, yes, do, grandfather!" added Judith. "But now come with us."

Each of the little girls took possession of a hand, and led the old man
into the everyday sitting-room.

Captain Nance was quite accustomed to be so escorted, and he was just
as submissive after the morning meal was ended. He allowed himself
to be guided into the best parlour and seated in an arm-chair, while
Dorothy and Judith placed themselves at his feet to hear some passages
of his eventful history. They knew it well; certain parts of it they
could repeat from memory, but still they liked to listen, for their
grandfather invariably added some detail which gave fresh charm to the
story.

"We've a whole hour before us," said Dorothy; "so begin directly,
please, grandfather. Just say off quickly what happened to you, and
then let us ask questions."

Captain Nance cleared his throat, and began, in these words:

"I have borne the battle and the breezes of a life on the sea for more
than fifty years. I have been in four quarters of the world, and have
been four times shipwrecked. I have crossed the Atlantic thirty times;
I have lost four sons at sea; I have been in four battles at sea; I
have saved two men from drowning. I have been a standard-bearer in the
temperance army for more than forty years, and I have belonged to the
Band of Hope for nigh upon a quarter of a century. Now I have coiled
up my ropes, and am safely moored in a sailor's cot with those whom I
love, and am patiently waiting for my sailing orders, bound on a long,
long voyage, from whence there is no return—for ever and for ever.
Amen."

"Now, Dorothy, which part do you want to hear about?" asked Judith,
breaking the silence which fell over the little party after the "Amen."

"I know," replied Dorothy, whispering into her sister's ear first, and
then repeating the same words aloud: "Grandfather, tell me about my
uncles who were lost at sea, if it won't make you very sad."

"No, no, child: I ought not to be sad, an old tar should be a brave
man. Thank God, your grandmother didn't live to see those days. I
buried her in the churchyard yonder, at Paul, long before the sea
swallowed up my sons. They were fine young fellows, and God-fearing
men; they prospered and rose rapidly in the service, until they
became master mariners. Three were lost within a few weeks of one
another. They were outward bound to foreign parts. I can't tell you
how they died: no one on this earth knows what they suffered, for
ships, captains, officers, passengers, and crews, went down. But
though they didn't reach the harbour of refuge here, Christ, the great
Harbour-Master, came alongside and welcomed them into glory. Ah! My
children, I'm proud to think of your uncles as honest Christian men,
and as now safe with Christ.

"I blessed the name of the Lord even when my heart was bowed down with
grief," said Captain Nance, reverently, after a pause. "Learn to thank
God, my dear grandchildren, when He gives and when He takes away."

"And what of my fourth uncle, grandfather?" questioned Dorothy.

"My fourth boy, my Benjamin, yet remained to gladden my life. He was in
America when the news of his brothers' death reached him. I expected
him to return home in a few months' time, so I wrote and told him how I
longed to see him, for he was my only son. He sent me a letter filled
with words of comfort, and directed me to lean on the Rock of Ages
in time of storm. He said he would be homeward bound earlier than he
expected, and that a few days after his letter reached me, he would
probably set sail.

"I counted how long it would take him to reach Plymouth if the weather
were in his favour. I made allowance for contrary winds, and decided
when I might expect him here. A week before it was possible for him to
come, a great storm arose, and the Master was not in the ship to say,
'Peace, be still.' But He was watching; he hadn't forgotten my brave
boy; he had prepared a mansion for him, and his Heavenly Father wanted
him to fill it. The ship went down, and only two of the crew were
saved; my boy, and all on board besides, perished; they told me he was
praying when they last saw him. I could only murmur in the first days
of this new sorrow: 'If I be bereaved of my children I am bereaved.'

"My fifth child was spared to me. Your mother, my dear Philippa, yet
lives to cheer my last days, and God has given me your love. I thank
him for these mercies."

The old man's tears were falling fast as he said these words. He did
not often weep, but on this birthday morning, the past came up before
him, and while thinking of his grandchildren, he had pictured to
himself what his sons would have been to him in his old age had they
lived.

"Grandfather, I'm so sorry: I ought not to have asked you to tell me
about my dead uncles. Please forgive me," said Dorothy.

"I've nothing to forgive, dearie. Though my tears fall I do not fret,
for I know my Heavenly Father has ordered all things for the best. I
shall soon be with my lost ones. I'll not start sheet nor anchor until
I get a clear meridian observation of Canaan, then I will furl sails
and 'lay to' until my Saviour calls me to himself, and allows my old
weather-beaten barque to enter the harbour."

There was a pause of some minutes, and then Judith said, "It's my turn
now, grand father, and I'm going to ask you how you won your medals."

"And I'm going to ask you to get ready," called out John Trevan,
opening the door. "Fetch your cloaks and hats, children, while I wrap
your grandfather up in his warm coat, for the wind is cold, and we
can't afford to let him run any risks."

All was now busy preparation; and in less than half an hour, the party
were on their way to the Land's End. Captain Nance, Dorothy, and her
father, sat on the front seat, and Philippa, with her daughter Judith,
and a large basket of provisions between them, were packed in behind.

                               ————————



CHAPTER IV.

THE LAND'S END.

THE first part of the road from Newlyn to the Land's End runs through
charming scenery. The hedges are rich in ferns, foxglove, and wild
flowers, and the trees are well-grown. But as you near the most
westerly point of England, the few trees that rise up here and there
are stunted and poor, while the hedges disappear and are replaced by
fences formed of blocks of granite standing on end.

It took John Trevan two full hours to drive to the cottage where
great-uncle Thomas and his wife lived during the spring, summer, and
autumn. In winter they were glad to go and stay with their daughter,
who resided at Sennen, a little village one mile distant.

The cart was left at the Land's End Inn, and its occupants walked
towards the cottage which was a few hundred yards off. It was a simple
building, and stood quite alone on a grassy slope facing the sea,
no habitation but the small hotel being in sight. A board nailed on
the outside wall announced "the first and last refreshment-room in
England," kept by Thomas and Molly Nance. The old couple gathered
many shillings during the season by providing accommodation for those
visitors who preferred bringing their own provisions and being supplied
with crockery, or who required boiling water for a tea-drinking. A case
of minerals stood outside the door, and the sale of them was another
source of income.

They were awaiting the arrival of their relations. Dorothy and Judith
bounded on in front for the first kisses: Captain Nance, with his
son-in-law and daughter, came more slowly.

Seldom have two finer old men been seen than were William Nance and his
brother Thomas. The latter was in his eighty-eighth year.

"Welcome here once more, William," said Thomas Nance. "Thank God for
sparing us to meet again."

"Yes, brother, I do thank God with you, for his tender mercies. He's
upheld us through the battles and breezes of life for the greater part
of a century."

They entered the cottage, which only consisted of two rooms. One
of them was usually kept for visitors, but no strangers were to be
admitted that day, and it being early in the season, there was little
fear of any excursionist wishing to disturb the family gathering.

The morning was exquisitely fine and clear, but the wind was high, and
the waves were scattering their white foam over the cliffs.

"Shall we go on to the Land's End at once to sing our hymn?" asked
Thomas Nance.

"Yes," replied his brother, "we must keep to the old rule."

[Illustration: THE LAND'S END.]

It is said that when Wesley stood on the Land's End for the first time,
he was deeply impressed with the sublimity of the scene, and exclaimed:

   "Lo! on a narrow neck of land,
    'Twixt two unbounded seas I stand,
        Secure, insensible:
    A point of time, a moment's space,
    Removes me to that heavenly place,
        Or shuts me up in hell."

It was the hymn which contains these words the brothers sang at their
annual meeting.

"Come, children, we will go first," said John Trevan.

They took the narrow path leading over the cliff to the granite rocks
that form the Land's End promontory, and rise up out of the sea some
sixty feet high; and standing close together on the point known as
"Wesley's spot," sang the beautiful hymn which commences thus: "Thou
God of glorious majesty."

When the last notes died away, the brothers walked together in silence
towards the cottage; Mrs. Trevan followed with Aunt Molly, but John and
his children lingered behind to admire and enjoy the magnificent scene.
Judith clung close to her father, she was afraid of looking down into
the deep sea or scrambling over the rocks without holding him firmly by
the hand. Dorothy had no such fear, but watched the dashing waves with
delight, and made her way alone through the narrow opening which leads
to the extreme point of the Land's End.

They found a seat on a flat stone sheltered from the wind by a high
rock; here they sat down and looked out on the broad Atlantic. The line
of coast ends with Cape Cornwall, Longship's Lighthouse rises from a
cluster of rocks about a mile from the shore, while about eight miles
distant a dangerous rock of green-stone, called the Wolf, stands boldly
up. A lighthouse has been built upon it within the last few years; but
in the days of which we write, it had no such beacon to mark it, yet
it was viewed with such alarm by mariners that many contrivances were
thought of. One of them was to fix the figure of an enormous wolf on
the rock, which was to be hollow inside, ad that the wind would make a
loud noise in passing through, and ring the bells that were attached to
it; but the tides were so strong, and the waves dashed over the rock
with such violence, that this proposal was never carried out.

The rock on which Longship's Lighthouse is built is called Carn-Brâs.
Including the rock, it is about one hundred and twenty-seven feet high.
The walls are four feet thick at the base, and two feet seven inches
at the top. During winter, when the weather is stormy, the tide rushes
furiously against the rock, and renders landing so difficult, that the
men in charge have to keep a large stock of provisions by them in case
of a gale blowing for some days.

"How many people are there at Longship's, father, to take care of it?"
asked Dorothy.

"Three, my dear. For a long time there were only two; but once a poor
fellow in charge was cleaning some fish and fell over a rock. He was
dead before his companion discovered him, probably he was killed on the
spot. The living man managed to drag the body within shelter of the
lighthouse, and then he showed a signal of distress; but though the
people at St. Just saw it, they couldn't send help, for a sudden wind
sprang up and a heavy storm raged for several days. Since this terrible
event the change has been made."

"How dreadful for the poor man to be shut away from everybody, with
only his dead friend near," said Judith, drawing closer to her father.
"I hope he loved God, so that he could talk to him. How glad I am you
don't take care of a lighthouse! I shouldn't like you to live nearly
alone on a rock, and only come home sometimes."

"If we might be with father, I should like it very much," exclaimed
Dorothy, "I'm so fond of seeing the waves beat up high; and if we lived
at Longship's, Judith, we should see the seals asleep on the rocks."

"Not many of them, my dear," said John Trevan, laughing. "You must have
picked that up in a school-book. It's a rare thing to see even one seal
in our day. I remember coming across one on this coast, it was about
six feet long, and had short bristly hair. It used to be said that
seals defended themselves by throwing stones backwards at any one who
came near them."

"That isn't true, father," said Dorothy.

"No, my dear, I never heard of seals having hands, though they have
five toes on each paw. It's a Cornish story. We deal in all kinds of
wonders here. Remember Jack the Giant-killer was born near to the
Land's End."

"Oh, do let us hear about him, father. We are in the very best place to
listen to stories of giants and fairies," pleaded Dorothy.

"Not to-day, for it's time to go in to dinner; but I will promise to
take you to St. Michael's Mount soon, And then young Dick Nelson will
amuse you, for he knows the history of every giant in Cornwall."

"That will be better than your telling us, father, for we shall get
another holiday," cried Dorothy, clapping her hands with delight. "I do
so like to go in a boat. We shall row across to the Mount, Judith."

"But you'll be sure to choose a fine day, father," said Judith; "I like
being on the water very well if it's smooth, but I'm so frightened if
the boat is tossed about."

"You may trust me, little one. But a fisherman's daughter should not
fear even if the wind blows and the waves beat high. Now let us be
moving, for I do not wish your mother or either of the old folks to
have the trouble of coming to call us in."

Dinner was just ready when Mr. Trevan and his daughters entered the
cottage, and the little party were very soon cosily sitting at the
round table eating heartily, for the long drive and cold wind had given
them good appetites. The conger pie was pronounced excellent, so were
the pasties and other delicacies provided by Mrs. Trevan.

Some time after dinner was spent in talking over old times. Each of the
elders of the party had much to say of God's merciful kindness. Then
Aunt Molly proposed a walk to the Armed Knight and the Giant's Rock.
The children were glad to accompany Aunt Molly, and their father and
mother joined them, but the brothers remained in the cottage.

The Armed Knight is a fine rock which resembles a man in armour. The
face is seen in profile, and the granite is joined so regularly as
to look like a coat of mail. The Giant's Rock is a little farther
inland, and consists of enormous stone boulders eighteen feet long.
On the top of it are three rock basins. One is said to have been the
giant's chair; a smaller stone near goes by the name of his ladle; and
another is called his bed. Fable says that a gigantic race of men once
inhabited Cornwall, who were supposed to amuse themselves by playing
with great boulders of granite. They were said to laugh so loud as
to shake the cliffs asunder; and, if they quarrelled, they fought so
fiercely that the ground was strewn with the rocks they hurled at one
another.

Of course these old stories and legends gave Dorothy and Judith great
pleasure, and Aunt Molly was so full of anecdote about the giants that
Mr. Trevan was obliged to remind his children that his day's work was
only beginning when he reached home.

The farewell between the brothers was a touching one. Uncle Thomas
never journeyed so far as Newlyn, and Captain Nance only visited the
Land's End once a year; so that when they took leave of each other,
they felt it might be the last parting on earth.

"Good-bye," said Thomas Nance; "may God keep you, brother William."

                               ————————



CHAPTER V.

GRANDFATHER'S TALES.

NOTWITHSTANDING Dorothy's efforts to be good-tempered and industrious,
she did not always succeed. Sometimes she grieved her mother by her
idleness and misbehaviour. The day after the delightful trip, described
in our last chapter, was one of her bad times. Everything seemed to go
wrong at school: her copy was smeared, her sums wouldn't come right,
and after being kept in for some hours by the teacher as a punishment,
she returned home in disgrace.

When she had been led to see and confess her fault, she said in a
pitiful tone, "Oh, dear! How hard it is to be good. I mean to do
better, but I often get tired of trying, and then I give it up. What
shall I do?"

"Pray to God," replied her mother, "He will help you."

"Yes," added Captain Nance, "but you must set yourself to work to
overcome your difficulty as well. You must both pray and strive. No one
knows what they can do till they set about it with all their heart. Did
you ever hear of Daniel Gumb, whom the Cornish people call the Mountain
Philosopher?"

The children said that they had heard something about him, but begged
their grandfather to tell them his history. This he proceeded to do.

[Illustration: GRANDFATHER'S TALES.]

"In the church-town of Lezant, during the early part of the last
century, there lived a poor stone-cutter, of the name of Gumb. He was
a married man, with a large family of children. The eldest, a boy,
was named Daniel, who from a very early age showed great fondness for
study; and though he followed his father's trade, he was delighted when
the day's work was done, so that he might eagerly study such books as
came within his reach. As he grew older, he directed his studies to
mathematics and astronomy. When Daniel Gumb grew into man's estate, he
married, and settled in a little cottage not far from his father; and
now it was necessary for him to work diligently in order to maintain
his wife. He was very industrious, only sometimes mapping stars on the
granite which he was cutting, instead of hewing the big blocks into
shape for building.

"He made but little progress in his studies, as his family cares
increased, for he had several young ones to feed and clothe, thus
he had no spare time to devote to working out problems. He began
stone-cutting early in the morning, and did not leave off until late at
night; but yet he earned barely enough to keep his wife and children in
the same degree of comfort that his fellow-workmen kept their wives and
children. One thought oppressed him, which may be stated in these words:

"'I am wasting my time and energies on stone-cutting, when I am
desirous to learn. How can I alter this state of things, and make more
leisure to pursue my studies?'

"At last he devised a plan. It cost money to maintain his present
position, why should he not seek for some cave where he might live rent
free, and have no taxes to pay?

"Not very far from Lezant stands Cheesewring, so called, it is
supposed, because it resembles a cheese-press."

"Do you mean that it's small at the bottom and large at the top, like a
wring they use when they make cider?" interrupted Dorothy.

"Yes, my dear. The rocks which form Cheesewring are seven in number,
and stand one on the top the other. The lowest three are only six feet
in diameter, while the upper four vary from ten to twelve feet; and
they look so carelessly heaped up, that when I walked underneath them,
I had a sort of fear lest the top boulders would fall and crush me."

"Please, before you go on, tell me what is the meaning of the word
diameter," said Judith.

"The width of anything, right through its centre. You will better
understand the shape of Cheesewring if you think of the enormous
top-heavy toadstool we found in the fields a few mornings ago. It had
a slender stalk, and such a large thick umbrella-shaped top, that we
wondered how it was held up by what appeared a thread in proportion. I
was quite a boy when I first saw Cheesewring, and I thought the great
rocks at the top could be pushed over easily. But children, they've
stood for hundreds of years; those heavy boulders, which look ready to
fall, are so evenly balanced on the small ones below, that many sticks,
nay, iron crowbars, and an army of men would be needed to turn over the
tons and tons of stone."

"How came they to be so queerly put up?" asked Judith.

"Some say the old Druids had a hand in it, and that they used to
worship them. I don't know how far this is true; but one thing is
certain, Cornwall has no more remarkable objects than Cheesewring and
the Hurlers, which lie near to the former. But to continue my story:
Daniel Gumb decided that the hill on which Cheesewring stands, was
the place where he was most likely to find his future home. Masses of
granite were heaped up irregularly in every direction, and he felt sure
he would soon be able to fix on a spot which would serve his purpose.
At last he found several rocks which were clustered so close together
as to form a rough kind of cavern, and this he determined to make fit
for habitation. First, he widened the opening, then he enlarged the
inside, and propped up an enormous slab, which formed the roof. When
this was completed, he made a bedroom for himself out of a rock that
was situated a little above; it was by no means a large room, in fact,
only sufficiently spacious for him to squeeze his body into. On this
rock he scratched the date of the year 1735.

"So soon as he had completed his work, he returned to Lezant to bring
his wife and family to their new home. We have but little record of
Mrs. Gumb, beyond knowing that she followed her husband's fortunes, and
removed to the cave with her family, where she remained until her death.

"Daniel became a much happier man after this, for he had no longer to
keep pace with his fellow-workmen. He only wanted just money enough
to maintain his wife and children from actual want. The roughest
clothes sufficed; the furniture might wear out and break, it would
need no replacing; the landlord would not come for his rent, nor the
tax-gatherer for his taxes; there were no glass windows to smash; there
was nothing in this half-savage rough life which required him to devote
every hour of the day to stone-cutting, in order to make money. He
could shorten his hours of work, and lengthen his hours of study.

"Society fled from him. His former friends deemed him mad, and his
relations avoided him. Strangers only visited the recluse and his
family, in order to assure themselves that the story their landlady
had told them about Daniel Gumb was no fiction. But what cared the
mountain philosopher for the world's opinion, or his relations, or his
friends. He could map out the stars, and solve difficult problems at
will; he was his own master, and beyond the pale of society. Just try
and realise the facts of this strange history for yourselves, my dears.
Here was the love of study absorbing every other thought, and making a
man throw up an honest position among his fellow-countrymen, in order
to store his mind with knowledge."

"But it was not quite right," exclaimed Judith. "I think it was selfish
of him to take his poor wife and children away from their home, and
make them live in a cave."

Captain Nance looked up and smiled at his little granddaughter. "You've
hit the right nail in that remark of yours, Judith," he said. "I agree
with you; there is something very selfish in Daniel Gumb's conduct.
Only picture his poor wife exposed to the storm and cold of winter,
with her young children, and only granite blocks to screen them. I
remember that when I was young I thought him quite a hero and martyr,
but not now. I've lived beyond that. He would have fulfilled God's
purpose in creating him, so far as I can judge, if he had conquered his
longing for study, because he had dear ones who depended on him for
support. He need not have given up all his learning, but he might have
carried it on as recreation. I think he must have had many sad thoughts
and many misgivings, when his children fell ill and had so few comforts
around them. What availed his problems, or his star-mapping then? Could
they furnish meat and drink for his sick and suffering little ones?"

"Did any of his children die in the cave?" asked Dorothy.

"Yes," replied the old man. "Some were born, and two died there. Don't
mistake my meaning, children, when I speak thus. I honour Daniel Gumb
in one sense; I condemn him in another."

"You said something about Hurlers," remarked Dorothy, "I can't think
what they are, and yet I've a sort of remembrance you told us a story
about them. Please tell it again."

"Dorothy, Dorothy, you're always after old traditions," said John
Trevan. "Certainly that which relates to the Hurlers is as strange as
any in our county. They are said to have been Cornish men who came out
one Sunday, and amused themselves by hurling balls about, and because
they broke God's day they were changed into pillars of stone."

"That tradition teaches us a good lesson," replied Captain Nance. "We
all need to value our Sabbath privileges more than we do; but, alas,
how many people there are in our world who are not thankful for the
rest to the body and refreshment to the soul that the one day in seven
brings."

"Very true," answered John Trevan, rising from his chair. "I must be
off now, for my spare time is gone. I've just a few more words to
say to Dorothy. You will not easily forget the sorrow you've brought
on yourself, and all of us to-day, my darling, by your naughtiness;
and now I am going to prove how entirely I forgive you, by taking my
little girl and her sister to St. Michael's Mount to-morrow, if the sun
shines. The day after to-morrow you can show you are in earnest about
wishing to do better, by being very attentive at school."

"Oh, thank you, thank you, father, I will, indeed, I will try hard to
have my lesson right the first time."

"Very well, I believe you. Now, children, you may come with me down to
the boat if you like."

Dorothy and Judith gladly accompanied their father, and waited on the
shore until he rowed out to the "Mary Ann," which was anchored in the
bay. They left the sands then, and walked into New Street, where they
watched him until the sails were set, and he was some distance off.

"Judith, how happy I am," said Dorothy, as they returned home; "I will
pray to be good if you will help me."

"Yes, indeed I will, Dorothy," answered her sister, affectionately,
"we will help one another, for I want help from you just as much as
you want help from me; and we both need to be helped by our Father in
Heaven."

Captain Nance had just lighted his pipe when his grandchildren entered
the room.

"Grandfather," said Dorothy, "let us talk together; there is some time
before we go to bed."

"What shall we talk about?" asked the old man.

"Anything you like. Or will you tell us of something that happened when
you were a boy; or about any of your friends; or what is the very best
of all, a grand story of a shipwreck, that you saw?"

"Then you can bear a sad one, for I'm not much inclined to make you
laugh this evening. It's curious that I've been thinking while you have
been away of that shipwreck which happened off the Brisons nine years
ago. You can't understand, now, my little girls, how an old man lives
in the past; young folks dream of the future, and build their castles;
old folks build no castles, but turn over and over again in their mind
the events which befell them long ago, perhaps in the prime of youth,
or it may be in early manhood. Yet I'm wrong when I say old folks build
no castles, for I dream of one; a beautiful and stately mansion which
hath a sure foundation, its builder and maker is God. I am not afraid
that it will crumble and decay, for—

   "'I know whom I have believed, and am persuaded that He is able to keep
that which I have committed unto Him against that day.'

"It's plain sailing, Dorothy, to that mansion. Yes, plain sailing so
far as God has revealed His will to us in His holy word, and by the
teaching of His Spirit. It's we who are to blame when we think we know
better than our Almighty Friend, Father, and King."

Captain Nance continued to puff the smoke from his pipe, but he made
no further remark, and some minutes elapsed before Dorothy ventured to
say,—

"Please, grandfather, tell us about the shipwreck."

"Yes, that I will. I'm glad you brought me back again, for my thoughts
were far away. When I was captain, I steered as directly as I could to
the harbour I had to reach; and now I'm steering just as straight for
Heaven; that's my point, the harbour of refuge in the land of Canaan.
But I mustn't ramble from one thing to another, I'll try and keep to my
subject and tell you about the shipwreck:—

"In the second week of January, 1851, business took me to your
great-uncle Thomas at Sennen. On the following day he accompanied me
to St. Just on the same business. Eleven years ago I could manage the
journey to the Land's End without much difficulty, but now, as you
know, I soon get weary, and when I bid farewell to my brother, I think
sailing orders will come for him or for me before we meet again. You
have seen Cape Cornwall from the Land's End, and know that it is only
one mile from St. Just. To the left of the Cape lie the Great and
Little Brisons, or Sisters: they are very dangerous rocks, some sixty
or seventy feet high.

"It was on the morning of the 11th of January that brother Thomas and
I went to St. Just; it had been blowing a strong sou'wester all night,
and the waves dashed on to the shore mountains high. At daybreak a brig
from Liverpool, which was bound to the Spanish Main, struck upon a
reef of rocks between the Great and Little Brisons, and was dashed in
pieces. The crew, which consisted of nine men, and one woman, succeeded
in scrambling on to a ledge, where they would have probably been in
safety had the tide been going out; but it was coming in, and every
moment their position was more terrible. Ah! Children, we on land,
and clear of danger, talk about being prepared; but face to face with
eternity, words are tested, and we are proved as to whether our faith
be firmly anchored in Christ.

"They stood huddled closely together, trembling and waiting, knowing
the tide came nearer every moment, and that the first strong wave would
cover them. It came only too soon, and ten living people were swept
into deep water. Seven sank to rise no more, and three were brought to
land. But how? First, I will tell you of the one whose life I had no
hand in preserving, and then pass on to the two whom I helped to save.
He was a mulatto, a dark skinned man, who was a good swimmer, and he
managed to grasp a part of the floating wreck on which he scrambled,
and by using a bit of canvas for a sail, and a plank as a paddle, kept
himself floating on the water until he was rescued by fishermen from
Sennen.

"Brother Thomas and I reached it just when the excitement was at its
highest. The people were standing about in knots talking. We soon
learned the reason.

"I at once said to my brother, 'I am off to the coast-guard station; it
is an old tar's proper place.'

"By the aid of the glass I saw a man and woman, who turned out to be
the master mariner and his wife, standing on the Little Brison. They
had been washed on to this rock and managed to keep their footing, for
they had crawled high enough to be out of the reach of the waves.

"'Can we save them?' 'Can a boat live in such a storm as this?' 'Who
will venture out?' 'It's madness to try!' were some of the remarks we
exchanged, as we stood with the crowd which gathered to watch the two
figures on the Little Brison.

"We had just decided to man a boat, when we saw the 'Sylvia,' one of
Her Majesty's cutters, ploughing her way round the Land's End. At last
she lowered her boat, and made a desperate attempt to reach the husband
and wife. Again, and again, and yet again, the brave fellows tried to
near the Little Brison, but they failed, the sea was too tremendous for
their efforts to be successful.

"Thus the afternoon closed, and as daylight faded, we saw the outline
of the two forms standing motionless—for so they appeared to us—on the
rock. It was a terrible picture. Brother Thomas had gone home. As soon
as he had transacted his business, he came to me to ask what I intended
to do.

"'I cannot leave this spot,' I answered.

"So I remained at the coast-guard station, for the men there were not
strangers to me, and even if they had been, we were drawn together by a
common sympathy. I should have been untrue to my sailor's colours had I
returned without trying to help these poor creatures.

"'I am ready to go in the first boat that is sent off,' I said to the
superintendent.

"I spent the hours of the night in prayer. I cried to my Lord to
interpose and save them. My heart went out in supplication on their
behalf. The Apostle Peter did not cry out more earnestly, 'Save, Lord,
or I perish,' than I did for the lives of those two strangers.

"When daylight broke, I strained my eyes through the glass, and by
degrees recognised the two forms; but no longer standing upright. They
had cowered down, and but for an uplifted hand every now and then they
gave no signs of life.

"'Help us to save them, Lord,' I cried, when I caught sight of them
first. 'We cannot stem the fierceness of the storm; we cannot make the
waves obey by saying, "Peace, be still!" but Thou canst be merciful to
us all, and come and save.'

"The violence of the sea was gradually abating; and I thought it grew
even quieter after my prayer. Directly it was sufficiently light for
us to dare to venture, the superintendent of the station ordered a
boat to be manned, and carrying several rockets with him, he was rowed
out, accompanied by two other boats. I suppose you know that rockets
are used to throw a line, and that they are generally sent off from
the shore; but this was a peculiar case. I went in the second boat.
We could not get within a hundred yards of the Little Brison, and
from this point the first rocket was fired; it failed to reach the
rock-bound prisoners. A second was fired with the same result, but the
third brought the cord close to the man.

"We watched him breathlessly as he tied the cord round the woman's
waist, but just as she plunged into the water, a terrific swell obliged
us to look to ourselves. The line was secure, and in a few minutes
the poor woman was drawn into the superintendent's boat. She still
breathed, though only for a little while. Whilst in the boat, her
spirit fled to another world. Yes, ere the second line was drawn in,
which guided her husband to the boat in which I was, her sailing orders
had come.

"It was a dreadful moment for all of us; it has left a deep mark
behind. Come what will, that scene will never pass from my memory; but
it will ever stand out vividly. Even now, as I talk, my pulse almost
stands still, and I grow quite cold.

"We reached the shore with the living and the dead. The poor man was
tended carefully, and gradually returned to consciousness and life; he
mourned deeply for his wife; they had not been separated since their
wedding day. She had borne the trials of a sailor's life, with her
husband, and he felt so lonely without his dear one at his side to
cheer him. For twenty years she had been his faithful partner."

"Did she love Jesus, grandfather?"

"Yes, Judith, she had served her Saviour from childhood; and what made
the tie so strong between the husband and wife was that he owed his
conversion, under God, to her. He told me that he was a scoffer when he
married, but that her example had taught him to pray.

"The captain told us that as they stood in those terrible hours on the
rock, she encouraged and comforted him by repeating these words many
times:

   "'Fear not, for I have redeemed thee; I have called thee by thy name;
thou art Mine . . . I am the Lord thy God, the Holy One of Israel, thy
Saviour . . . Since thou wast precious in My sight, thou hast been
honourable, and I have loved thee.'

"'These promises stand as fast now as when they were written,' she
cried; 'He loves us as we stand here helpless and defenceless. Do not
let us forget that, but believe that though He appears to hold out no
hand to save, He does not leave us nor forsake us.'

"It was astonishing, he said, to see the calm manner in which she
spoke. Both grew quiet and trustful at last, and seemed to hear a still
small voice speaking out of the storm, and saying, 'Peace, be still!'

"I could have told him that I, too, had heard that voice when I was
passing through deep waters; but it wasn't the right time for me to
speak of my sorrows; it would have been selfish, children, to intrude
them on him when he was smarting so bitterly under his own heavy cross."

Dorothy and Judith had listened to this story which was filled with so
much sadness several times before: their grandfather had not told it to
them so often as many others, for their mother was too pained to hear
it; it seemed in her own mind to be connected with Willy; he might have
been shipwrecked with no one near to save! But Mrs. Trevan had walked
to Penzance directly after her husband left home, and now returned with
a well-filled basket.

"What is the matter?" she asked, noticing the serious faces of the
three.

"It's nothing of consequence, Philippa," answered Captain Nance. "I've
been telling them something of the past, that's all, and I'm in a
serious mood to-night, so I've been speaking of sad things. Let us
forget them and hear what you've been doing; if I may judge from the
number of parcels in your basket, you have been spending your money
freely, and marketing for the week."

"You are right, father," answered Mrs. Trevan. "Tea, sugar, pepper,
salt, and many other small articles were wanted. Come, children, and
help me to put them away in their proper places."

                               ————————



CHAPTER VI.

ST. MICHAEL'S MOUNT.

EARLY next morning Dorothy and Judith were down on the sands awaiting
the arrival of their father. The boats were coming in fast, and before
long the "Mary Ann" anchored in the bay, and the crew rowed to land
with a large supply of mackerel.

"I shall be ready to start for St. Michael's directly I've looked to
the nets," said John Trevan to his little girls.

It is curious to see with what method the Newlyn fishermen put their
nets out to dry. They pile them upon one of their comrades' shoulders
until the wonder is he can walk at all under such a heavy load. The
burden being taken off with the same precision as it is put on, the
nets come off in perfect order and hang over the iron railing, or lie
along the sands and shingle.

"Dorothy," said Judith, as they stood watching the process, "I'm glad
we live by the sea, and that father is a fisherman."

"Why?" asked Dorothy.

"Because I seem to feel the life that the Lord Jesus lived with his
disciples so real. We read in the New Testament so much about nets and
fishermen, and they did just the same in those days as now."

"So they did. I never thought of that before."

"I have many times. I like to picture to myself the Lord Jesus standing
on the shore, or sitting in a boat preaching; and how surprised Simon,
and Andrew, and James, and John must have been when they were called by
him and told they must be fishers of men. They were doing exactly what
father does; two were casting their nets into the sea, and two were
mending their nets."

"I'm just ready, children," called John Trevan. "Run to the boat. I
shall follow you in a moment."

St. Michael's is the principal feature of Mount's Bay. As seen from the
shore it appears like a lofty island rock rising up out of the sea,
with a large castle on its summit. When the tide is at its lowest,
the island is connected with the mainland by a causeway of rocks four
hundred yards long, by which means you reach the old town of Marazion;
the rest of the day it can only be approached by boat.

It boasts great antiquity. Here it is said the Phoenicians came to buy
tin three thousand years ago, when it was inhabited by traders who
were glad to give this metal in exchange for salt, bronze vessels,
earthenware, and other commodities. In the beginning of the Christian
era, the dwellers on St. Michael's Mount are described by Roman
historians as being civilised people who traded largely with foreign
countries. In later times a Benedictine monastery was reared on the
Mount, and the fame of St. Michael the Archangel, who is described in
an old legend as appearing to some hermits upon one of its crags, drew
many pilgrims from all parts of Britain. Nuns, monks, and soldiers,
occupied the island at intervals until the seventeenth century, when
the monastery was turned into a castle, and Charles I. sojourned there
for a brief space to encourage the sturdy miners of Cornwall to aid him
in the fight against Cromwell. About the year 1660 the island was sold
to the St. Aubyns, and remains in the possession of that family to the
present day.

[Illustration: ST. MICHAEL'S MOUNT AND BAY.]

The bay was calm enough to satisfy even Judith. There was not a cloud
to be seen in the blue sky, and the bright sunlight lit up the pretty
town of Penzance with its curving shore and background of hills, the
old town of Marazion, Cuddan Point, and far away to the Lizard.

There is a little fishing village at the foot of the Mount, and thither
John Trevan was bound, for he was anxious to consult his friend Richard
Nelson about some matter connected with herring fishing, which begins
after the mackerel season is over. He pulled straight to the stone
steps in the harbour, and saw to his satisfaction that the very man he
wanted was standing on the pier talking to a comrade.

After the bustle of landing was over, and the first greetings had been
exchanged, Mr. Trevan asked: "Is Dick at home? My girls want a run with
him over the Mount."

"He is here to answer for himself," said his father as a handsome boy
of fifteen joined them, and shook hands warmly with Dorothy and Judith,
who were old friends of his.

"How jolly to see you," he exclaimed. "You couldn't have come a better
day. I'm going to be at home."

"Take the lassies to your mother," said Mr. Nelson, "and ask her to
have some dinner ready for us at one o'clock."

The village at the base of St. Michael's Mount is surrounded on
the land side by a wall of granite; a gate at one end admits its
inhabitants and visitors to the Mount. The fishermen lay their nets out
to dry on, the sloping turf just without the wall, and a little farther
up is the well which supplies the villagers with fresh water. Most of
the cottages look over the bay, but a few face the Mount, and it was
to one of these Dick led the way. He stopped at a pretty little house,
with a tiny garden at its side, and a fine old myrtle tree climbing up
its walls and peeping into the gabled windows. A good-looking woman
was standing outside-washing clothes in a large tub. She was delighted
to see the little girls, and dried her hands hastily before she kissed
them.

"How did you come, my dears?" she asked.

"Father brought us," said Dorothy. "He wanted to see Mr. Nelson, and
gave us the treat."

"You must stay and have some dinner," said Mrs. Nelson.

"Yes, mother, they're going to stay," replied Dick. "Father says he'll
be in at one. We're going up the Mount now."

"That suits me exactly, for in a couple of hours I shall have cleared
up and be quite ready for you."


The ascent to the old castle is an easy one. The rock on which it is
built is about two hundred feet high, and on the east and west sides of
the cliff terminates abruptly, and the shore can only be reached by a
flight of steps cut in the stone.

"Can we go inside the castle to-day?" asked Dorothy. "We've never seen
the rooms, though we've been up here so many times. Mother said we
might go in, if you can manage for us; she's given me some money for
the housekeeper."

"All right," answered Dick.

They mounted the stone steps and rang the bell, which was answered by
a respectable woman who permitted them to enter, and pointed out the
various objects of interest.

The hall, which was the refectory of the monks, and the Benedictine
chapel, claims the most notice; but that which had the greatest charm
for the children, was a vault discovered some years ago when the chapel
was undergoing repairs, in which the bones of a full-grown man were
discovered. It is supposed that he was bricked up there and left to
die. Dick and Dorothy entered the vault, but Judith was too timid to
accompany them. Dorothy would also have liked to go to the top of the
church tower and sit in what is popularly called St. Michael's chair,
but the wind was so high the housekeeper would not permit it.

"There's plenty of time before you," she said good-humouredly to
Dorothy. "You may have another ten years on your shoulders before you
need climb to St. Michael's chair; it's not for such as you, but young
brides, or old ones for that matter, who are disappointed if they don't
sit in the chair before their husbands."

"But why?" asked Judith.

"You surely know," said Dick. "Every one in Cornwall has heard of St.
Michael's chair."

"Indeed, we never have," replied Dorothy; "do tell us about it. I only
know that St. Michael's chair is in the church tower, but not why it is
called so."

"Because the wife is said to be the master if she sits in the chair
before her husband; so you see, my dear, you may wait many years before
you need to mount into the tower," said the housekeeper.

"I learnt the story about St. Michael's chair at school in a piece of
poetry," said Dick. "I can't think how it is you've never heard of it.
It begins like this:—

   "'Merrily, merrily rung the bells,
       The bells of St. Michael's tower,
     When Richard Penlake, and Rebecca his wife,
       Arrived at St. Michael's door.

   "'Up to the tower Rebecca ran,
       Round, and round, and round;
    'Twas a giddy sight to stand a-top,
       And look upon the ground.'"

"And did she sit in the chair?" asked Judith.

"Yes, but the bells rang so loudly, that the chair rocked, and out she
fell."

"Is it a real chair?" questioned Dorothy.

"No, my dear; only a stone, and by no means a comfortable one to sit
on; and why it is supposed to be endowed with such gifts it is hard to
say," replied the housekeeper.

The young people thanked her for her kindness, as they left the castle.
They rambled about for some time and gathered flowers, then they
watched the rabbits skipping and running hither and thither among the
furze. At last Dick suggested that they should go down the steps to a
sheltered place, where they could sit and talk.

"Yes, do," said Dorothy; "for we want to hear from you the story of
'Jack the Giant-killer.'"

"Who told you that I knew it?"

"Father. Now begin at once, Dick."

"I will directly we've found a comfortable rock. I think I'd better
take you to my summer-house."

They had to scramble over many, large boulders, until they reached one
which was sheltered by a higher rock behind it; this Dick called his
summer-house. It was close to the shore, and a warm snug place to sit
in.

"Before I begin my story I must ask you one question, and I wish Judith
to answer it," said Dick. "Do you believe that Jack the Giant-killer
was a real man?"

"No, of course, not," she answered. "It's only one of the old Cornish
tales with no truth in it."

[Illustration: KING ARTHUR'S CASTLE ON THE COAST OF CORNWALL.]

"Very well, as that's settled, I'm ready to tell you all I know
about him. Many years ago a giant inhabited the Mount, who was named
Cormoran. He was eighteen feet high, three yards round, and a very
fierce-looking fellow. He lived quite alone, and allowed no one to
come near him. When he felt hungry, he waded through the water on to
the shore, and went to one of the villages to steal cattle. He was so
strong that he could carry six cows on his back at once, and a large
sheep between his finger and thumb. Of course, all the people round
very much disliked this giant, and felt it was hard to lose their
cattle; but yet they were too much frightened of him to venture to show
fight when he appeared.

"Near to the Land's End lived a rich farmer, who had one son, called
Jack, and he determined to win a name for himself by getting rid of
Cormoran. He thought for many days and weeks before he could make up
his mind what to do, and in that time he tried his hand on Thunderbore,
a huge fellow, with flaming eyes and long hair, that hung over his
shoulders like curled snakes. He succeeded in killing this giant, who
lived very near to his father's farm, though the books don't say how he
managed it, but perhaps in the same way that he killed Cormoran.

"At any rate, soon after the death of Thunderbore, Master Jack
determined to dig a pit on the spot where the giant always set his foot
when he landed. He covered it with a stone, which he poised so cleverly
that it only required a little touch to make it fall into the deep
hole. The plan succeeded perfectly. Cormoran came out of his cave one
day to seek for provisions. He waded through the sea, and set his foot
on the stone: it gave way, and he fell in, and was so hurt that he lay
moaning until he died. Of course Jack became a great man, and he killed
a good many more Cornish giants. So ends my story. Now, Judith, tell me
what you have been thinking about, for you've been looking a deal too
grave."

"Just this, Dick," answered the little girl. "You know the Bible
contains a story about a giant, and a boy who killed him, and I thought
how grand it was compared to yours; and it's all true, too, every word
of it."

"Tell it to me, and then I'll give you my opinion," said Dick.

Judith hesitated for a moment, and whispered to her sister.

"Oh, yes, do," answered Dorothy aloud. "Dick," she added, "Judith wrote
a history of David and Goliath for teacher, only last Sunday, and she's
got it with her."

[Illustration: JUDITH READS HER STORY OF THE GIANT.]

"That's capital; let me hear it."

"It isn't quite all my own," said truthful Judith; "teacher altered one
or two things—not many. I wasn't allowed to look at my Bible after I
began to write, but I read the history over a great many times so that
I might remember it."

"And she had a prize because it was done the best in the class,"
exclaimed Dorothy.

"That's first-rate," cried Dick. "Don't lose any time, Judith."

The little girl took a roll of paper out of her pocket, and read thus:

"In the days of King Saul, the Israelites fought against the
Philistines, and both armies drew up ready for battle one day. The
Philistines had a great giant on their side, called Goliath of Gath,
who was about eleven feet high, and wore a helmet of brass on his head.
He was armed with a coat of mail; the staff of his spear was like a
weaver's beam; and he had a man going before him to carry his shield.

"He stood and cried to the armies of Israel, and said, 'Why are ye come
out to set your battle in array. Am not I a Philistine, and ye servants
of Israel? Choose you a man for you, and let him come down to me. If he
be able to fight with me, then we will be your servants; but if I kill
him, then shall ye be our servants, and serve us. I defy the armies of
Israel this day.'

"King Saul and all Israel were frightened when they heard these words,
for they had no one who dare meet this giant in single combat. For
forty days he came and presented himself before them, and they grew
more and more afraid.

"In Bethlehem Judah there lived a man named Jesse, who had eight sons.
The three eldest followed King Saul to battle, and the youngest fed his
father's sheep. He was called David, and had a beautiful countenance;
and God loved him, and was with him. One morning his father sent him
to the camp with some corn for his brethren, and ten cheeses for the
captain of their thousand.

"David found the two armies drawn up ready for battle, so he ran into
the midst of the Israelites and talked to his brothers. While he was
hearing how they fared, the great giant came out and spoke the same
words, which frightened the men of Israel so much that they fled away
from him.

"David saw all this, and asked the men who stood near him, what should
be done to the one who killed the Philistine, and took away the
reproach from Israel?

"'The king will make him very rich,' they replied, 'and give him his
daughter, and make his father's house free in Israel.'

"When Eliab, David's eldest brother, heard him ask this question he was
very angry, and said, 'Why didst thou come here? who has charge of thy
sheep? Thou hast only come to see the battle.'

"But David answered, 'There is a reason for my coming.' So he turned
from his brother and asked another, 'Who is this Philistine, that he
should defy the armies of the living God?' Again he received the same
answer; and the people went and told Saul his words.

"The king sent immediately for David. The young man entered into his
presence, and said boldly, 'Let no man's heart fail because of this
giant; thy servant will go and fight with this Philistine.'

"To this the king answered, 'Thou art not able to fight with him, for
thou art a youth.'

"Then David told Saul that a lion and bear had come one day and taken
away a lamb out of his flock, and that he went after them, and slew
them. And he said that he was not afraid of the great giant, who had
defied the armies of the living God, for the Lord would deliver him
into his hand.

"When Saul heard these words, he answered, 'Go, and the Lord be with
thee.' The king clothed David in armour, but the latter said, 'I cannot
go with these, for I have not proved them.' So he put them off, and
took his staff in his hand, and went to the brook, where he chose five
smooth stones, which he put into his shepherd's bag; and with his sling
in his hand, he drew near the Philistine.

"As soon as Goliath looked on David, he scorned him, and asked, 'Am I a
dog, that thou comest to me with stones? I will give thy flesh to the
fowls of the air and the beast of the field.'

"David answered, Thou comest to me with a sword, and a spear, and a
shield; but I come to thee in the name of the Lord of hosts, the God
of the armies of Israel, whom thou hast defied. This day the Lord will
deliver thee into my hand, and all the earth will know there is a God
in Israel.' So Goliath came nearer, and David ran to meet him, and put
his hand in his bag and took out a stone, and slung it, and smote the
Philistine in his forehead, and he fell upon his face to the earth."

"Well done, Judith," said Dick. "I declare I couldn't do it so well,
and I am two years older than you are."

"Which story do you like best, yours or mine?" asked Judith.

"Why, yours to be sure, because I know it's true. Besides, just think
of the beautiful way in which it's written in the Bible. I never get
tired of reading about David, and often envy him."

[Illustration]

"Now let's settle why we should like to be David," said Dorothy.
"Supposing you say first, Dick, as you are the oldest."

"Because," answered the boy, thinking for a moment, "because I should
like to have been the one to kill the giant, when the whole army was
afraid of him."

"And I," said Dorothy, "because I should like to have been as much
thought of as David was, and get into the king's favour."

"And I," said Judith, speaking in a low voice, "because God was with
him, and helped him to kill the giant."

"You've hit on the right reason, Judith," exclaimed Dick. "You always
were good. I don't believe you've half the temptations to be naughty
that Dorothy and I have."

"Oh! Don't say that. Nobody knows exactly what the other is like,"
replied Judith.

"That's true," answered Dick. "Still I can't help thinking you are very
good, Judith. Now let us go back; I have to fetch mother some water
before dinner."


John Trevan and his daughters returned to Newlyn early in the
afternoon, for the former was too busy to be longer absent. The sea was
a good deal rougher than when they were going, but not enough to make
Judith nervous. She and Dorothy chattered to their father all the way
home. They told him of their morning's conversation.

He agreed with Judith that a fisherman's life often reminded him of the
Lord Jesus and His disciples.

"I think," he said, "that the time when the Master stood by the lake
of Gennesaret, and the people pressed upon Him to hear, so that He was
obliged to enter into a boat, is my favourite scene. If you remember,
our Lord commanded Simon to thrust out a little from the land, and sat
down and taught the people in the ship. And after He had done speaking,
He ordered Simon to launch out into the deep, and let down his nets;
and the disciples answered,—

   "'Master, we have toiled all the night and have taken nothing:
nevertheless at Thy word I will let down the net.'

"And when they had done this, they enclosed a great multitude, and
the net broke. How often I have pictured this to myself when we have
been hauling in a great draught, or have toiled for hours and caught
nothing."

Just as John Trevan finished speaking they came near enough to the
shore for the rope to be thrown out. It was caught by one of the crew
belonging to the "Mary Ann."

"We want your opinion, captain," he said.

"I'm here," answered John. "Go home, children, and do not wait for me."

Dorothy and Judith were soon sitting at their grandfather's side,
giving him and their mother a full account of the day's proceedings.
Among other things they spoke of St. Michael's chair, and said they
wondered they had never heard it was so famous.

"Just as well not, little ones," said Captain Nance. "We've no
bickering for mastery here. Your father and mother have each their own
place to fill, and they seek help from One who is able to uphold their
footsteps, and teach them how to govern themselves. That's the secret
of true happiness in married life: After all, St. Michael's chair
and the charm it is said to possess, is only one of the old Cornish
traditions."

                               ————————



CHAPTER VII.

WILLY'S BIRTHDAY.

DOROTHY won golden opinions from her parents and teacher next day. Her
lessons were so well said, and her sums so correctly done, that Miss
White sent a message home by Judith, expressing how satisfied she was
with her pupil.

"You're very happy to-day, Dorothy," said her father; "I can see it in
all your movement, and your face is beaming."

"Yes, father, I am very happy. I tried hard not to be idle this
morning. I was just a tiny bit sorry that I had to go to school, but I
asked God to help me to act properly, and Judith was so kind; and now
I'm so glad to think that Miss White is satisfied to-day."

"You can't have a better helper than your Heavenly Father," said
Captain Nance. "He'll bring you to the port at last. Don't forget what
I told you about His being our guide. I've borne the battles and the
breezes of life long enough to know where to find safe anchorage."

Dorothy not only merited her teacher's praise on that day, but on other
days that followed. She tried to conquer herself, and succeeded as she
had never done before, because she endeavoured to think of these words
at all times,—

   "Thou God seest me."

She told Judith she meant that verse to be her birthday text.

"And it shall be mine too," answered her sister.


The month of April wore away, and May set in. The hedges round Newlyn
grew greener every day; the trees came out in full leaf, the ferns
waved in wild luxuriance, and the banks were blue with hyacinths.

The mackerel season ends in the middle of May, and the fishermen employ
the weeks that intervene before the pilchard season commences, by
fishing for herrings off the coast of Ireland.

The "Mary Ann" left Newlyn late one afternoon in the third week of May.

"I shall think of you on Willy's birthday," John said to his wife, just
before starting; "you'll bear up for my sake, Philippa?"

"I will try to," she answered; "but I must remember my boy as of
old. Nine years, John, on the 8th of next month, since he left us. I
think of him as a boy still, but if he's living he's a young man of
twenty-four. How happy he would have made us had he turned out well; he
would have helped you in so many ways."

"So he would, wife, and God only knows how gladly I should welcome him
home. I'm always changing my opinion about him; sometimes I doubt much
if we ever see him again in this world, and then again I feel sure he
will return. God grant that we shall meet him in heaven, if we never
see him here."

"Father is the only one who seems clear about his being alive, and
coming home; and I find myself dwelling on the old man's words."

"Try not to, Philippa, it makes the uncertainty harder to bear. Leave
the matter in the Lord's hands; and now let us join grandfather and the
children."

When all was in readiness for departure, John bade adieu to his wife
and daughters, who, with Captain Nance, accompanied him to the harbour.
He shook hands with his father-in-law, and said, "God bless and keep
you."

"Good-bye, my son," answered the veteran; "if my sailing orders come
before you return, don't grieve for me; remember I shall have won the
prize, and my poor weather-beaten bark will be safely landed."

The "Mary Ann" was not the only fishing vessel starting from Newlyn
that night. There were five others. Herring fishing has been a source
of great profit since the year 1826, when two boats left in the month
of May for the coast of Ireland. Their success was so great that others
followed, and since then a good trade has been carried on, and the
income of the fishermen greatly increased thereby.

It was a glorious afternoon for starting; the wind was so brisk that
the "Mary Ann" was soon out of sight.

"Now, children, come home," said Mrs. Trevan; "see how hard you can
work at school for the next six weeks, and then work of another kind
begins."

"Yes, mother, pilchards for ever!" cried Dorothy. "How I like the fun."

"Fun you call it; hard work I say," replied Mrs. Trevan. "What say you,
Judith?"

"I think like Dorothy, mother, it's good fun; but then we don't do so
much as you do."

"This year you must put your shoulders to the wheel," said
Captain Nance; "when girls enter their teens, they enter on new
responsibilities."

"Do you mean to work very hard, grandfather?" asked Judith.

"I shall try how my old bark will bear the strain. The bolts are
dropping out fast, child, but so long as the planks hold together I
shall work."

Judith did not answer her grandfather; she only pressed the hand she
held to show she understood the meaning of his words.


The days rolled on rapidly until Willy's birthday dawned, and Philippa,
as was her custom, went out early in the morning to pray.

"Dorothy, wake up," said Judith, "I hear mother stirring, and this is
Willy's birthday. I've just thought that as we've turned thirteen we
are old enough to comfort her. Let's go up Paul Hill and tell her we
should like to pray with her for Willy."

"Do you think mother will like it?" questioned Dorothy.

"I'm sure she will. She'll feel that we think of her in her sorrow."

Mrs. Trevan sat alone on Paul Hill. It was still very early in the
morning, and no sound disturbed the stillness, save the twittering of
the birds. Her eyes wandered far, far away.

"Will he ever come?" she said aloud.

And then the question merged itself into thoughts of her first-born,
her darling, the boy who had loved her in spite of his naughtiness;
but who had loved his own will and his own ways so much better that he
could descend so low as to steal from his mother, and leave the home
without a parting word. Was he in want? And would the want make him
bethink himself of the fisherman's cottage, and the love and tenderness
which had gathered round him there; and would he remember his early
training and the God against whom he had sinned, but who would show
mercy, and was ready to welcome him back to His heart; who had a robe
waiting for him with which He would replace the rags; who had a ring in
token of owning His son once more in the family; who had shoes to cover
his feet that were sore, and ached from walking over dusty roads and
sharp stones? Did Willy feel, did he know that there would be joy in
heaven if he would arise and come to his Father?

At last she buried her head in her hands and prayed for strength to
have faith in God, and to believe that a wise and loving Father was
busy about her life, and knew all about her heart-sickness, and did not
forsake her. She felt a quiet calm stealing over her as she repeated
these words aloud,—

   "When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through
the rivers, they shall not overflow thee; when thou walkest through the
fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon
thee. For I am the Lord thy God, the Holy One of Israel, thy Saviour."

Her face was still hidden, when a gentle touch on either shoulder made
her look up, to find her daughters at her side.

"Mother, forgive us, and don't be vexed because we've come," said
Dorothy; "but we think we're old enough to help you to bear your
sorrow."

Philippa's eyes glistened through her tears. "My darlings!" was all
that she could answer.

They sat down, one on each side of her, and talked about their brother
for some time. Then the conversation grew more personal; and Dorothy
and Judith spoke of the longing they had to live holy lives, and how
often they failed in little things; and how they daily read God's book
together, and tried to realise the time when Jesus spoke to publicans
and sinners, and walked and lived on earth.

Mrs. Trevan was beguiled by these loving confidences, and was filled
with thankfulness to God that even her Dorothy, whose quick temper and
hasty words had so often troubled her, seemed so earnest in pursuit of
the things which make for our everlasting welfare.

"Now mother, dear, let us go for a little walk," said Dorothy. "Come
with us to Paul Church, it will do you good."

"Not now, we must return to grandfather; but I promise you that we will
have an early tea this afternoon, and walk over the hill later."

"That will be delightful," said Judith. "And if we can only get
grandfather to come too, we shall enjoy it all the more."

Captain Nance was quite ready to walk to Paul Church after tea. The
ascent was rather trying to the old man, but he enjoyed the scene
nevertheless. Mrs. Trevan lingered for a few moments on the spot where
her daughters had surprised her in the morning, and her face grew
anxious; but again her children interfered, they would have her admire
the furze which was out in full blossom. The air was redolent with its
sweetness; it grew in the hedges, on waste patches of land, about the
shaft of a mine long since abandoned, at the edge of the cliff; by the
road side, in fact, in all directions the eye fell on bright masses of
yellow.

Every step up Paul Hill revealed a broader expanse of sea, and gave
them a wider view of Mount's Bay. When they reached the top, Captain
Nance sat down.

"This mounting makes my old engine puff a little," he said. "Give me a
few minutes' rest, and I shall be ready to march again."

Newlyn and Mousehole, a little fishing village beyond, form part of
the parish of Paul. Its church is celebrated for its old granite tower
which bears the date of 821. It is all that remains of the edifice,
which was burned by the Spaniards in 1585. They landed at Mousehole
and came over the hill to Paul. It is said they met some women laden
with wood and furze, and compelled them to deposit their bundles in the
porch of the church, and by setting fire to it and opening the doors
they created such a draught of air that the building was soon in flames.

In the churchyard lie the remains of Dolly Pentreath, who died in
December, 1777, at the age of one hundred and two. She was the last
person who could converse in the Cornish language, which was very much
like the Welsh. The people of Cornwall had their own dialect once, and
up to the reign of Henry VIII., many men and women could not understand
a word of English.

Dolly was the daughter of a fisherman who lived at Mousehole. At twelve
years old she used to go to Penzance to sell fish, speaking the Cornish
language, which many of the inhabitants could not even then understand.
She was twenty years old before she learned English. Towards the close
of her life she was very poor, and lived by begging, fortune-telling,
and gabbling Cornish.

The Spaniards and Dolly Pentreath formed the topics of conversation
between Captain Nance and his grandchildren.

Mrs. Trevan said but little, she occupied herself with her knitting and
her thoughts. She was roused from her reverie by hearing her father
trying to teach Dorothy and Judith the few words of Cornish he knew.

"Dew gena why," said Dorothy.

"Dew gena why," repeated Judith.

"Now how long will you remember that these words mean in Cornish what
we understand when we say 'good-bye'?" asked their grandfather.

"I'm sure I shall forget them by to-morrow. What do you think, mother?"
asked Dorothy.

"That you ought to have a better memory."

"I'll make a promise to one, or both of you," said Captain Nance, "If
you say 'Dew gena why' to me before you go to school to-morrow, you
shall have the best bun to be bought at the pastry cook's in Penzance."

"You will have to spend your money, father," replied Mrs. Trevan. "I
see by the bright faces before me that both Dorothy and Judith mean to
earn a bun."

Mrs. Trevan was right. The next evening Captain Nance and his
grandchildren walked from Newlyn through the lanes to Penzance, which
is about a mile distant, and when they returned about an hour later,
each of the little girls had a paper bag which contained a large bun,
and Captain Nance was out of pocket by the transaction.

                               ————————



CHAPTER VIII.

MIDSUMMER EVE.

JOHN TREVAN returned on the 22nd of June, and found his dear ones well
and happy. He had had a successful cruise and was some pounds richer
than when he started.

Dorothy and Judith were watching anxiously for their father, because
when he was at home, they joined in the gala doings on the Eve of St.
John, and went to the fair on Midsummer day. It sometimes happened that
Mr. Trevan was later in returning, but this year he was just in time,
to the children's great delight.

One of the old customs that yet remain in Cornwall is the annual
celebration of the Eve of St. John. It is thought to be a remnant of
idolatry, and to have been introduced into Britain by the Phœnician
traders who worshipped the sun; be this true or not, it is certain that
the summer solstice has been celebrated for a long period of time by
the lighting of fires.

When it grows dusk, tar barrels and bonfires blaze in every direction,
at Penzance, Marazion, St. Michael's Mount, Newlyn, and Mousehole: the
whole of Mount's Bay is thus illuminated. The young men and maidens
resort to Penzance in the evening from the country, carrying torches,
which they swing about in all directions: fireworks are let off, and
the revels conclude by the lads and lassies forming themselves into a
line and running through the street calling out "an eye, an eye!" And
thus play the game generally known as "thread the needle."

Mrs. Trevan was rather nervous about her children going into the midst
of the confusion, but her husband overruled her fears, and started to
Penzance with his daughters on St. John's Eve.

Captain Nance grew young again when he saw the fires blazing: he
fancied he was a boy running hither and thither with his torch, and
leading the line of young people through the streets of Penzance.
He watched them burn out and then he returned to his arm-chair and
netting, and finally fell asleep.

"We've never enjoyed ourselves so much before," said Dorothy, opening
the door at eleven o'clock, and thus rousing her grandfather. "The game
isn't over yet, but father thought we'd better come home."

"I think so too," answered Mrs. Trevan, who was busy with her
needlework. "But how tired you look, John," she added.

"No wonder," he replied, laughing. "Your daughters run so fast, and I
had to keep up with them lest I should miss them in the crowd."

"You run quite as fast as we do, father," said Judith.

"Perhaps I do, and once I could run faster, but it makes my legs ache.
I've been chasing you through the streets of Penzance for one hour, and
am almost stunned with hearing 'an eye, an eye!' shouted on every side
of me. But I am really proud of our young people, for with all their
enjoyment there is no rudeness nor rough behaviour."

"That speaks well for them," remarked Captain Nance. "It was just the
same in my day, and we rarely heard of an accident happening."

"Now, children, be off to bed," said Mrs. Trevan. "Are you going
holiday-making with them to-morrow?" she asked her husband.

"We shall see," he replied. "At any rate, I am not going out fishing.
I've an idea, wife," he said, when his little daughters had left the
room. "I've come back richer than I've ever been before, and I'm
inclined to hire a cart to-morrow and drive you all to the Logan Rock.
The children have long wished to see it. What say you, father?"

"That I shall be delighted to go," said the old man; "it's many years
since I was there, and it's one of the grandest sights in all our
county. I should like to know where you can find sixty-five tons of
granite to rock like a child's cradle. I ought, perhaps, to say that it
used to rock like a child's cradle, for since it was tumbled over and
set up again, it doesn't move so well as it did."

"Then it's settled that we go," replied John. "We've none of us been to
the rock for many a day, and I'm sure we shall all enjoy seeing it."

"Indeed I shall," answered Mrs. Trevan, "and what's more, and best of
all, is the outing with you, and the children, and father."

"I never thought to see the rocking stone again," said Captain Nance.
"How wonderful it is that I have lived to my great age, after having
such a rough life of it."

"God knows what is best for us all, father, and it's been a great joy
to have you here," replied Philippa, "and I like to think of you as
ready to live if He wills, but not afraid to die if He wills."

"Afraid, my child! No, thank God, I'm not afraid," answered Captain
Nance, emphatically. "Who dare be afraid with a loving Father at
the helm! I'm only waiting for my sailing orders. I'm ready to say
to-night, or to-morrow, or this moment,—

   "'Farewell, poor world, I must be gone,
     Thou art no home nor rest for me,
     I'll take my staff and travel on,
     Till I a better world may see.'

"Good night, my son and daughter."


The far-famed Logan Rock is situated on a magnificent headland of
granite. It is approached through a narrow pass, on reaching the top of
which the last rampart of rocks is seen, on which the stone is poised.

The road from Newlyn to Treryn, the nearest village to the Logan Rock,
is a good one, and for some distance the same as to the Land's End. The
cart was left at the village inn, which takes its name from the stone;
and a walk of a mile through the fields brought the party to the shore.

"There is some climbing for us to do," said Captain Nance. "I think I
shall want your help, John; that is, if Philippa and the children can
take care of themselves."

"I can take care of myself, grandfather," answered Dorothy, "and Judith
can go with mother. Did you see how well I got over the hedges alone?"

In spite of Dorothy's boastful way of speaking, she fell and grazed her
arm; but not severely, only enough to make her more careful, and to
remind her that it was better to act quietly than to talk grandly.

At length the summit of the pass was reached, and then the grandeur of
the scene burst upon them: they sat on a slab of granite, and looked on
to the rampart of rocks where the famous Logan Stone rests.

An old man approached them and touched his hat. "Would you like to see
the stone move?" he asked.

"Yes; after we've rested a little, you shall take us right up to it,
and we'll see if we can make it rock," replied Mr. Trevan.

"It 'll never rock again properly, sir; it used to rock easily enough,
but since it was tumbled over eight and thirty years ago, it's never
gone as well since. I could move it then with one arm, but now I have
to push with my shoulders against it. That stone rolling over was a
sight not to be forgotten in a man's life."

"Did you see it go?" asked Dorothy.

[Illustration THE LOGAN ROCK.]

"Yea, little miss; I was one of the two Cornish men here when the
lieutenant came who did it. He was a nice young man, with all his
faults, and uncommonly sorry when he found how grieved and angry he had
made everybody about here. His name was Goldsmith, and he commanded
a revenue cutter which was stationed off our coast. He'd heard that
it was said in Cornwall no one could upset the Logan Stone, though it
rocked so well.

"He'd nothing better to do, so he came over here with some of his
picked men, armed with levers. He ordered them to be put under the
stone, gave the word of command, and over it rolled. Fortunately it
was saved from falling into the water, or on to the ground, because it
stuck in yon crevice between the rocks, just below the slab from which
it was started. My friend and I were struck dumb, and enough to make
us, to see the beautiful stone, which weighs nigh upon seventy tons,
which all the world flocks to see, and which some say was put here by
the Druids, thrown over for idle sport.

"When we came to ourselves, we made for the Lord of the Manor, and told
him what we'd seen. I assure you that day there was quite a panic among
the people of Treryn; it was just as if a plague had broken out, or
something awful had happened; and no wonder, for we've little enough to
depend upon, and to have the bread taken out of our mouths was indeed
hard, for who'd come to see the Logan Stone sticking between two rocks.
The matter wasn't let alone. Lieutenant Goldsmith was reported to the
Admiralty; and they ordered him to put back the stone, and said they'd
lend him all that he wanted for the purpose from Plymouth Dockyard. The
week of work that followed before it was done will ever be remembered
by those who had a hand in it, and even the women and children looked
on. Strong planks were fixed about the Logan Stone, chains were
fastened round it, pulleys were rigged, and capstans were manned. At
last it moved a little, then it began to swing about in the air, then
it was heaved up, and by degrees dropped down where you see it; and
then we all fell on our knees and thanked God."

"What became of the lieutenant?" asked Judith.

"As soon as the people saw that the old stone was back, their curses
turned into blessings; but, poor young man, it was a lifelong sorrow
for him. Putting it back cost him a lot of money, and he was only clear
of all his debts just before he died. And now follow me, and I'll make
it move."

The stone moved at the old man's push, but Mr. Trevan found that though
he put forth all his strength, he produced no perceptible motion. Truly
the days of rocking for the Logan Stone are well-nigh gone, but the
wild beauty of its surroundings remains untouched, and fills the mind
with awe and wonder.

"Which do you like best, the Land's End or the Logan Rock, Judith?"
asked her grandfather that evening.

"The Logan Rock," she replied; "it's far, far grander."

"Yes, dear; I agree with you. I felt it so grand, I was quite inclined
to sit down and cry like a child. The waves were beating up wildly, and
all around me spoke of a great God. I've never been so touched before;
I can't think why it was; for an old tar should have a strong heart and
a steady hand."

"I love you all the more for having a soft heart, grandfather. I dare
say you were filled with wonder and thankfulness that the God who made
the beautiful rocks was a loving Father, and cared for you above all
the great things He has made."

"No, that's not it, exactly, little one. I fancy I know why I felt so
sad. You'll know, too, if you live to be old. I sometimes ache for
my clearance to come, and long to get my sailing orders; and when
I witness such beautiful sights as I saw to-day, I want to take my
departure to the land beyond Jordan."

"Do you think Heaven will be very beautiful, grandfather?" asked
Dorothy.

"Yes, child; it must be more beautiful than anything that we can
imagine. I try to picture to myself what the beloved disciple saw;
but oh, children, I can't, and so the old tar will wait on patiently,
knowing that—

   "'Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart
of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love Him.'"

                               ————————



CHAPTER IX.

PILCHARD FISHING.

ADJOINING John Trevan's house was a building we have not yet noticed.
It is called a pilchard cellar. Before we describe it, we must explain
what a pilchard is like, and why it should need a cellar.

Pilchards are a little smaller than herrings, closely resembling them
in size. They are not found swimming about alone, or even in dozens;
they rather choose the companionship of hundreds, thousands, and
millions of their kind.

In winter they live in the deep sea, but when spring comes they desire
change, so they rise nearer to the surface of the water, and form
themselves into small shoals; the small shoals grow into larger ones,
and at last, the large ones unite into one mighty host, led by the
pilchard king. This army comes on past the Scilly Isles about the end
of July, and for the next four months, the Cornish fishermen, their
wives and children, are principally employed in catching, curing, and
packing pilchards.

They are not kept for home consumption, but are salted, put into
barrels, and sent to the Mediterranean; Italy and Spain affording the
best market for them.

John Trevan rented a pilchard cellar. It was a square building, open
in the middle, with a sloping roof round the four sides, which was
supported by pillars of rough granite. It had gutters into which the
oil ran from the fish when they lay in salt, and from the gutters, by
reason of the inclined floor, into a pit or tank made to receive it.

Mr. and Mrs. Trevan were busily engaged in this cellar one morning
towards the end of July. They were clearing away things that had
accumulated during the winter, such as washing tubs, clothes lines,
fire-wood, and old fish baskets, for the first boats from Newlyn were
about to set sail that afternoon in quest of pilchards. They were
likely to go some distance out to sea, as the shoals do not come inland
until the month of August, when they are probably driven there by
hunger.

Pilchards are caught near to the shore in a different manner from that
which is employed in the open sea.

As they approach the land, they are enclosed in the seine, a large
net which encircles the whole shoal. In this case it is the merchant
who engages the fishermen to work for him at weekly wages. Huers, or
look-out men, stand on the cliffs when the sea birds gather in great
numbers, and watch for a red tinge on the water, which shows that a
shoal is approaching. When the huer ascertains for certain that he is
not deceived, he shouts, "Heva, heva"—found, found—and this is the
signal for the boats to put off and secure the prize. He is furnished
with a large bush of furze, which he waves to the right or left to
indicate the direction they are to take, and where to cast the seine.

The fishermen who work for themselves use the drift-net, and their
own boat is sufficient, while seine-fishing requires three boats;
for enclosing the shoal of pilchards is only the first step towards
securing it.

Dorothy and Judith were all excitement, and lessons were abandoned
in the more engrossing occupation of helping to salt pilchards. They
assisted their mother and grandfather to join the nets together into
one. Each member of the crew which owned the "Mary Ann" had the same
done at home, and at last all were joined again; thus an enormous net
nearly three quarters of a mile in length was formed.

The "Mary Ann" was supplied with provisions, for she might have to
spend two nights at sea. She left Newlyn about five o'clock; the glass
was high, the sea calm, and the moon at its full.

"Look sharp for the birds," said John Trevan, when the boat was some
miles out at sea; for gulls and other wild fowl pursue a shoal of
pilchards, as well as hordes of dogfish, hake, and cod.

On and on they sailed, until the boat was about ten miles distant from
the Scilly Isles; then John Trevan gave the word of command to lower
the net. It was let down gently into the sea, and formed a wall more
than twenty feet deep. The sails were then taken down, and boat and net
allowed to drift with the tide.

"'Tis almost too bright a night for them," whispered one of the crew to
his companions. "See how clear the water is. The moon shows the net."

"Hush," said another; "we are striking into the right course. I see
hungry fish on every side, as if in pursuit."

And so it was, a few minutes later they came up to a fine shoal of
pilchards, not so large as sometimes, but large enough for the net to
secure fifteen thousand, which were scooped out by the aid of smaller
nets, worked within the compass of the great seine-net. Some large
fish were caught besides, that in chasing their prey had been captured
themselves.

The "Mary Ann" was not the only well-laden boat that entered Newlyn
harbour next morning; others had been equally successful; for as the
shoal came against one drift-net, its course was altered until it fell
in with another, and so on through the night.

John Trevan and his partners were met by their wives and children,
all eager to help carry the pilchards to the cellar. They were laden
with cowels, barrows, and tubs, and were soon hard at work. Some of
the women having taken up one load remained in the cellar to cure
them, while the rest went backwards and forwards until the fish were
all brought up; then they too helped to cure them. It is done in
this manner. The pilchards are cleaned and placed in tiers edgewise,
and each tier is sprinkled with salt; they thus resemble a packet of
sandwiches turned side uppermost, and remain in this condition for six
weeks, in order to give time for the oil and water to drain out. They
are thoroughly washed before being packed in barrels for export.

It was after nine o'clock ere the day's work was done. Then the cellar
was locked, and the members of each family retired to their respective
homes, in a condition agreeable neither to the sight or smell.

"I am right-down tired," said Dorothy, throwing herself into a chair,
"and so must you be, grandfather; and poor father has been up all
night. But only think, Judith, we've each earned two shillings; for you
know the rule, father, threepence an hour, just as if we were working
for strangers."

"Are you sure you do as much when you work for me as when you work for
some of our rich merchants?" asked Mr. Trevan.

"Indeed I am," answered Dorothy. "But here comes mother with something
nice for supper. I do think you are the very kindest mother to be found
anywhere," she added.

"What can it be?" said Judith, for Mrs. Trevan had brought in her dish
with a white napkin thrown over it.

"It's a squab pie; I'm sure it is by the shape of it," exclaimed
Dorothy, "Am I right, mother?"

"Yes, I've kept my secret very well; but I wanted to surprise you,
John, after your hard work."

A squab pie is highly esteemed in Cornwall; it is made of mutton
steaks, onions, and sliced pippins placed in layers in a deep pie-dish,
and covered with crust.

"But how did you find time to make it without our knowing?" asked
Judith.

"I did it when you all went out, yesterday; and I slipped out of the
cellar for a few minutes to look to the fire so as to warm it up
again," replied her mother. "Now, father, let me help you."

"Not to-night, Philippa," answered the old man, "though I'm sorry to
disappoint you. I'm over tired, and would rather sit still and look
on. John," he added a few minutes later, "I've been asked to be a huer
this year; do you advise me to accept the offer? I'm not sure my old
weather-beaten bark will stand up against the fatigue."

"Nor do I wish you to risk it, father," said Mr. Trevan. "Leave such
work now for younger men. I ought not to have allowed you to stand
about salting pilchards all to-day."

"But I like it, John; and I should enjoy standing on Paul Hill to
watch for the tinge on the sea, and to wave a branch of furze hither
and thither when I'm sure the shoal is advancing. I've rarely been
deceived. How wonderful it is to see the water alive with silver
scales."

"So it is, father, and I know you've been a clever huer in your day,
and since you were too old to command a ship; but you can't stand the
fatigue of watching and waiting about for hours, this year. You are
tired enough with to-day, and it's been easy work compared to a huer's,
for he is exposed to rough winds and heavy rains. Will you not go to
bed at once?"

"No, John, not until I've offered up my evening prayer. I want to thank
God with you, for I'm so grateful to Him for giving you such a good
take. We may say of the pilchards, we know not whence they come or
whither they go, but that God sends them to us; and it seems to me a
cause for deep thankfulness that they appear year after year; for after
all, it is the Father's good pleasure to send them."

"So it is, and we will bless Him for His great kindness to us,"
responded, John reverently. "How apt we are to forget the many mercies
which are scattered around us day by day, and to take them as if we
deserved them instead of with thankful hearts."

"Right, John, very right. 'It is of the Lord's mercies that we are not
consumed, because His compassion fail not. They are new every morning:
great is His faithfulness.' I can sing of fresh mercies which have been
scattered around my path through all my long, long pilgrimage."

"So can I; and so can we all," added Mrs. Trevan. "Now, father, let us
pray together."

Dorothy and Judith were not too tired to join in grandfather's evening
prayer.

[Illustration]



CHAPTER X.

THE STORM.

"HOW are you, grandfather?" asked Judith, next morning, tapping at the
old man's door.

"Come in, dear," he answered. "I'm not well; quite tired out, Judith.
I'm not so young as I was. I must give up work, except mending and
making nets, and I like doing that as well as anything; it reminds me
of the disciples when the Master called them. It can't be long before
He calls me."

"I'll bring you a cup of tea, grandfather," said the little girl,
stooping down to kiss him tenderly. "I'm so glad you didn't try to get
up until you are more rested."

Towards afternoon Captain Nance was so far better as to take his old
place in his arm-chair. He tried to mend a net, but his hands did not
move so rapidly as usual.

"I must give in to-day, Philippa," he said at last. "I'm so very, very
weary. I'm going to tell John he was right when he said I wasn't fit to
be a huer this year. I'm going to look-out for something better than
pilchards—my sailing orders, they won't be long before they come."

"You're tired and out of spirits to-day, father," said Mrs. Trevan,
kindly. "Another night's rest will set you up again."

"Never, Philippa; I've gone beyond that. I've only one prayer to be
answered now, then I can say,—

   "'Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy
word.'

"On my bended knees, night and day, I have and will supplicate my
Heavenly Father, that Willy may yet return. His coming will bring
matters into plain sailing before I go the way of all flesh. I shall
have nothing left to wish for or to care for. He'll come before I die."

Mrs. Trevan's eyes filled with tears, but she made no remark, and for
some minutes neither father nor daughter spoke.

"I think I'll have a little walk," said Captain Nance, breaking the
silence, and rising from his arm-chair. "Give me my stick, Philippa."

"Let one of the children go with you, father, or I will. You seem too
poorly to be alone."

"I'd rather go by myself, Philippa. I shall only walk as far as the
Tolcarne. You may send the children after me in half an hour."

The old man wended his way slowly down New Street, and crossed the
bridge over the little river which runs through Newlyn. Turning past
the flour mill, he took a narrow road which led up a steep hill, and
brought him to the Tolcarne. These rocks command a charming view of
Mount's Bay and the hills around it, for they lie on the edge of a high
cliff. In Cornwall is heard what is locally termed the calling of the
sea; a murmuring roaring noise which sometimes extends eight or ten
miles inland. As Captain Nance gazed on the scene which he had known
from boyhood, he thought he heard the sea calling.

"Calling me home," he said aloud. "What mercy there is in the call. I'm
ready to answer;—

   "'Speak, Lord, for thy servant heareth.'

"I'm not afraid of receiving my sailing orders."

And the aged man stretched out his hands as if he wished to respond to
what seemed to him a call to another and brighter world. But he drew
them back when he heard footsteps approaching, and recognised voices
that he knew.

"Who were you speaking to, grandfather?" asked Dorothy.

Captain Nance smiled. "To the waves, dear," he replied. "It's almost
hard to return back again to the world, even to be with those I love so
well. I feel so very, very weary to-day."

"Grandfather, come home," said Judith, taking his hand, gently. "You go
the other side, Dorothy."

So they led him down the hill, and beguiled him along by their loving
words. He fell into a calm sleep on his return, and then they told
their mother how they had found their grandfather, and what he had said.

"I believe the end is approaching," she answered; "we shall have to
brace ourselves up to bid him farewell soon. We shall miss him, but we
dare not pray to God to let him live amongst us when he longs so much
to be safely landed with his Saviour."


The month of September found the fishermen still busy; but a great
change had passed over Captain Nance in the few weeks which intervened
since he had taken an active part in curing the first pilchards of the
season. He no longer attempted to make or mend a net, but sat in his
arm-chair all day long. He rarely tried to walk even so far as the iron
railings, and sometimes slept for several hours during the day.

The doctor said that no medicine could prevent the candle of life from
burning out.

To the question which his friends so often asked, "How are you to-day,
Captain Nance?" he replied, "As well as I ever shall be. I'm waiting,
waiting, waiting for my sailing orders to come."

"There's no going out fishing to-day," said John Trevan, entering
the room where his wife sat with her father, about twelve o'clock
one morning in the third week of September. "It's blowing a strong
sou'-wester outside the bay; when the tide turns we shall have rough
weather. Give me a bit of dinner, wife, for I'm going to take the 'Mary
Ann' into Penzance harbour, lest any harm should befall her; there's
not much chance for a fishing-boat if she breaks away from her moorings
in such a gale as we shall have."

Mount's Bay was soon alive with vessels sailing across from Newlyn to
find a better place of refuge than the little harbour affords when the
wind sets in from this quarter. Not only were the small craft glad to
gain shelter, but many merchant-ships were seen making for the bay.

At the turn of the tide, John Trevan's words were verified. The waves
rolled up with terrific force, and broke over houses and walls; over
the high road between Penzance and Newlyn, which lies exposed to
the beach; over carriages and carts; over grown-up people and young
children.

It happened to be market day at Penzance, so that many were passing to
and from Newlyn. At length the road became dangerous, for the waves
threw up great stones; so the women took to the fields and the men
ran along the wall which divided the road from the fields. Many were
heavily laden; husbands had been making purchases, and wives had their
baskets filled with provisions for home consumption; but even the
fields were flooded at last, and few escaped a wetting.

The water dashed over the seawall at Newlyn, and right up the narrow
way past John Trevan's house. Dorothy and Judith, who were standing at
the iron railing, were nearly swept down by the fury of a wave, and,
thoroughly drenched, were glad to run home.

John Trevan was returning from Penzance after placing the "Mary Ann" in
safe anchorage, when he spied a boat which had evidently broken from
its moorings in the bay. "Do unto others as you would that they should
do unto you" was his motto, so he went down on the beach to see if he
could save the boat from being dashed on the rocks.

"Let it alone," shouted one of his comrades; "it belongs to James
Thompson, and if it's lost, he deserves it."

"Nay, nay," answered John, "that's not what my Gospel teaches me. Come
and give me a hand."

The other man passed on. But John was not to be deterred from doing the
right by this conduct. He stopped one and another of the fishermen who
had been to Penzance on the same errand as himself, and enlisted their
services. The boat was secured at last and dragged into a place of
safety, just as Thompson, who had been warned of the danger to which it
was exposed, came running up to look after his property.

He was a cross-grained fellow, and not a favourite in Newlyn; but he
now advanced to John Trevan and offered him his hand.

"You've done more to make me acknowledge the truth of the Gospel than
any man in Newlyn," he said. "I did not believe you when you declared
one day you tried to carry out the golden rule in your words and
actions; now I do believe you. There must be something real in such
religion as yours. I shan't forget this in a hurry."

John shook the hand thus held out to him warmly, and from that hour
these two became staunch friends.

By six o'clock in the evening the waves dashed mountains high, and
the whole length of the shore was a bubbling, surging mass of foam.
One ship was struggling across the bay; she was driven about in all
directions, but evidently hoped to reach the harbour.

Between Newlyn and Penzance there are many reefs of rocks, and it needs
careful navigation to steer clear of them; it seemed as if the vessel
which was battling with the waves must be wrecked on these rocks.
As she neared the pier she drifted to seaward; the coast-guardsmen
signalled to her and prepared boats and rockets; when anxiety was at
its height, a sudden shift of wind caught her sails, and she safely
cleared the pier.

While this vessel was saved, another, later in that evening, was lost.
She came from America and was bound to Plymouth, but she could not
reach Mount's Bay; she was driven into Lamorna Cove.

It is a wild spot at all times, for the rocks are on a large scale,
and the shore is strewn with great boulders. A few workmen's cottages
scattered here and there are the only signs of habitation. The sea
on a calm day leaves only a fringe of sand, but in storm dashes up
furiously, carrying all before it.

The American vessel soon went to pieces. Only two of her crew reached
land, and only one of the two lived through the night. Both of them
were cast on to a rock; a young man and an old man. While the latter
had no strength to crawl out of danger, his companion managed to creep
high enough away from the waves to save his life. There he lay unable
to move until morning broke, when he was discovered by one of the
workmen, who took him to his cottage.

This was how Willy Trevan came home.

                               ————————



CHAPTER XI.

SAILING ORDERS.

THE sea was not calm enough the next day to allow the Newlyn fishermen
to go out in their boats, but it was not raging as on the previous
night, though wise heads said that at the turn of the tide the waves
would come up almost as wildly as on the previous evening.

The fishermen stood together in knots through Newlyn, talking over the
last night's gale, and retailing the news that one and another had
picked up by the way.

The streets and rough pathways gave evidence of the storm; seaweed lay
in large quantities everywhere, while on the shore they were gathering
it up into heaps ready to cart away to manure the fields. One little
garden which lay exposed to the seawall was literally washed away, and
where flowers had been on the previous day, there was seaweed; while
the cockle shells that had ornamented the borders were strewn about in
wild disorder.

Captain Nance felt very weakly; he found it difficult to leave his bed
at all; but his brave spirit went far to sustain him, and with the
assistance of his daughter, he was placed in his accustomed chair by
dinner-time.

John Trevan came home with a sad list of accidents that had befallen
different vessels along the coast, and also said that an American ship
had been wrecked in Lamorna Cove, "and only one poor fellow saved, who
lies ill at Tressider's cottage," he added.

"He'll be well looked after there," remarked Mrs. Trevan. "I wonder who
he is, and whether he was homeward bound. We must see if he has lost
his all, and help him, John, if he is in want. You will meet Tressider
either to-morrow or the next day, when he comes to market, so mind you
ask him some particulars."

John nodded his assent; he knew why his wife was so anxious to hear
about this wrecked man; it was her tribute to Willy's memory.

"We've not heard the extent of the damages," said Captain Nance.
"There's been more mischief done; you may depend upon it many lives
were lost last night. Some, I dare say, prayed when danger threatened,
as the disciples did of old,—

   "'Lord, save us: we perish.'

"But others, it may be, found a watery grave without having time to
cry for mercy. There are many sorrowful hearts, and anxious ones, too,
about our world to-day."

Here grandfather was interrupted by a tap at the door. Dorothy, who was
sitting close by, opened it.

"Here's a letter for Mr. Trevan. I'll come back for an answer directly."

John took the note; it was closely sealed. He tore it open, and as
he read the first words he uttered an exclamation which he checked
quickly, glancing at his wife.

"What is it?" she asked, anxiously noting her husband's agitation.
"John, tell me;" and she would have taken the letter from him.

"No, no, Philippa," he said, "not yet. Can you bear it?"

"Bear what, John? Tell me."

"Willy's come home. He's the young man who lies ill at Tressider's."

Philippa could not bear the joyful news; she fainted away. The strain
and weariness, the tears and long waiting, had lasted for years; and
now the joy was so unlooked for. But consciousness soon returned.

"He's come at last," she murmured. "My God, I thank Thee for hearing a
mother's prayers."

"Bear up bravely, wife; our son is not far off; he's only at Lamorna;
we must go and fetch him home."

"Where is he?" she asked, as if she scarcely comprehended her husband's
words.

"At Lamorna. Tressider found him lying on a rock, bruised and hurt, but
living. He was the only one saved from the wreck."

Mr. and Mrs. Trevan made all haste to reach Lamorna Cove. There indeed
were signs of storm, for scattered about far inland were quantities of
seaweed and timbers which had been washed up by the great waves.

Tressider's cottage was planted half way up the ravine, so they were
obliged to leave their hired cart at the little roadside inn, and walk
to it. Philippa's knees trembled; she could scarcely command herself
enough to go forward; and her teeth chattered with agitation. Mr.
Trevan threw his strong arm round her and almost carried her at last.

"John, let me go to him alone," she said.

No one but God and the angels witnessed the meeting between the mother
and her newly found son. When the husband entered the room ten minutes
later, they were still locked in a close embrace; but they made room
for him, and Willy was forgiven and welcomed home by his father.


More than a week elapsed before he could bear the journey to Newlyn.
His mother remained with him, and little by little heard the sad
history of his life. It was an old, old story that Willy told. The
story of the prodigal wandering from his father, and choosing his own
way; finding the world a hard taskmaster; going from one scene of
wickedness to another; then being in want and resolving to go home.
But in the meantime he had learned by stern discipline that he had
wronged a Heavenly Father as well as an earthly parent; he remembered
his mother's tears and prayers, and he arose and went to his God; made
confession of his sins, and sued for pardon through Jesus Christ.

When the family was once more re-united in the old home, every heart
was full to overflowing with gratitude to God. Willy was carried from
the spring cart and laid on the sofa that had been brought in from the
best parlour for him. It was an old-fashioned couch, which was deemed
too good for ordinary occasions, but was not thought too good for sick
Willy to rest upon.

The meeting between Captain Nance and his grandson was solemn and
touching.

"'Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy
word,'" said the old man, as he bent over him and kissed him. "Willy,
I believed I should live to see you, and God has sent you home. Praise
the Lord for all His mercies, and most of all for teaching you, even
though suffering, that there's no safe anchorage anywhere out of
Christ."

Dorothy and Judith were silent with pleasure; they looked lovingly and
admiringly at their tall sun-burnt brother, who pressed the hands that
fondled his. It was not a noisy family party that sat in that little
parlour at Newlyn on the evening that Willy returned, but a very happy,
quiet, earnest group; even his father remained at home to receive him.

Captain Nance, as usual, conducted prayer.

"Good-bye, my children and grandchildren," he said, ere he left the
room. "My sailing orders will come soon now. My old weather-beaten
bark will be safely landed on the eternal shore before long. The
harbour-master will come alongside and release me from any further
waiting. Bless and thank God for it. Kiss me, all of you."

They obeyed him, and then his daughter helped him to bed as usual.
Afterwards she came to her Willy, and his room, which had so long been
empty, was once more tenanted by its rightful occupant.

The next morning there was a sound of weeping in the fisherman's
cottage, for they loved the brave old man so much. His sailing orders
had been brought to him during the night, and his weather-beaten bark
was safely landed where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary
are at rest.



[Illustration]



LONDON: R. K. BURT AND CO., PRINTERS.






*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76233 ***