lay at my feet at night, and I feed him myself
and fondle him for the sake of him who loved him so. And you may depend
Miss, the dog knows his young master is gone, and the way he is gone
too, for I could not bring him on the shore for a long while, but he
would set up such a howl as would rend your heart to hear. And that made
me love the poor thing I can tell you."

"But how did it happen?" softly asked Edith.

"Why Miss it ain't at all an extraordinary way in which he met his
death. It was in this way. He was very fond of me, poor boy, but he
liked his way better than my way too often. And may be I humoured him a
little too much. He was my Benjamin, you must know Miss, for his mother
died soon after he was born. Sure enough I made an idol of the lad, and
we read somewhere in the Bible, Miss, that 'the idols he will utterly
abolish.' But I don't like looking at the sorrow that way neither. I
would rather think that 'whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth.' Well,
Miss, like father like son. My boy loved the sea, as was natural he
should, but he was too venturesome; I used often to say, 'Bob, the
oldest sailor living can't rule the waves and winds, and if you are such
a mad cap as to go out sailing in such equally weather on this coast, as
sure as you are alive you will repent it.' He and some young chaps
hereabouts, got such a wonderful notion of sailing, and though I have
sailed many and many a mile, in large vessels and small, I always hold
to it that it is ticklish work for the young and giddy. Why sometimes
you are on the sea, Miss, ah, as calm as it is now--all in peace and
safety--a squall comes, and before you know what you are about you are
capsized. I had told him this, and he knew it, Miss, but he got a good
many idle acquaintances, as I told you, and they tempted him often to do
bold reckless things such as boys call brave."

"It was one morning at the end of September, Bob says to me, 'Father, we
are going to keep my birthday; I am sixteen to-day,' and so he was,
bless him, sixteen the very day he died. 'We are going to keep my
birthday,' says he, 'Newton, and Somers, and Franklin, and I, we are all
going to Witton,' that is the next town, Miss, as you may know, 'we are
going to have a sail there, and dine at grandmother's, and home again at
night, eh Father.' 'Bob,' says I, 'I can't give my consent; that
ticklish sailing boat of young Woods' requires wiser heads and steadier
hands than your's to manage. You