"You will come again soon?" says Margaret, her little hand clinging to Elizabeth's wrist. Hector's face darkens a little at the earnestness of her voice. Elizabeth sees this. She goes to the table to take up her basket. "Look, Hector," she says, in a low tone, and pointing to the candle, "there is a gift coming to you. I saw two bright specks like that in my candle not long before my Gracie and Addie were born." Hector, who is waiting to see her down the cliff, says nothing, but opens the door, and Elizabeth takes her basket and follows him. Has For the first few steps they take in the darkness poor Elizabeth trembles from head to foot, fearful of some surly or violent answer. she done wrong, she wonders? Will the news be a terrible blow to him at such a time of poverty and hopelessness? They have not gone many steps down the dangerous side of the rock, when such a grip as she never felt before is laid on her arm. "'Lizbeth, what did you mean, what did you mean with your nonsense about the candle?" Elizabeth is frightened; but stopping, and looking at Hector with her full, courageous eyes, answers 66 “I mean, Hector, that next year I can bring my children when I come to see you, as there will be a little playmate here for them.” Elizabeth's arm receives a harder grip, her cheek a hearty sailor's kiss. "Tell that to Joshua, when you meet him in heaven, 'Lizbeth; and if he can't forgive, he's not as happy as I am at this instant. Goodnight, you blessed woman, good-night! By the Lord! I'll find work yet. Good-night!" And he leaves her to make the best of her way alone down the dangerous steep, altogether forgetting what he came out for. Slinging her basket on her umbrella, and her umbrella across her shoulder, the widow Vandereck smiles and shakes her head after him, and turns homeward with a stout heart, fearless, and full of sweet thoughts, for her way lies all along by that which she calls Joshua's grave, where the misty watch-lights are being kindled, and the grand night-anthem sung. Hector hurries back towards the open door of the cottage, his heart throbbing with a joy deep and holy. But Margaret is never to know of that joy, never till miles and miles of sea have been traversed by him again and again; never, no never, till the babe unborn shall be able to stand with the help of the mother's finger, and lisp its first prayer for "poor daddy." Yet the cottage door is open; he is within a few steps of it, yearning to pour his joy and love at Margaret's feet. What can stay him? CHAPTER XIV. AN UNAPPRECIATED HERO. A FAMILIAR Voice, as guttural and hoarse as a voice could possibly be to have yet one touch of music left in it, bursts suddenly through the darkness, and holds Hector fixed to the spot where it first reaches him. It is a little way down the cliff on the Wrexham side, and is accompanied by blundering, sliding, drunken-sounding footsteps. 66 Many changes have I seen, Over many lands I've been, And I've larned a thing or two in my time." Here a stumbling and sliding, and a few select salt-water oaths, interrupted the song, which was, however, presently resumed with increased vigour. "I never knew a knave Who went happy to the grave, Or reached the mountain top he thought to climb." "So it seems," mutters the singer, after another 'I'd prefer a mate's hammock to-night, though." 66 "Bring the can, boys, let us fill it ; Ev'ry bullet has its billet, Man the boat, boys, yeo, heave, yeo!" Yeo, heave, yeo!" roars Hector, in his tremendous voice, and adds, with one of the oaths with which the singer has refreshed his memory, I'll be if that ar'n't Ranting Will." “What's in a name? Give us a paw, messmate. By these bruised shins, I hope you've |