hold his breath as that cutter approached and ran between the
pier-heads, her sail dipping in the wave which bore her in. He saw it a
dozen times that day, and had seen it a hundred times before, but never
cared to see it again. He worked sullenly on, exchanging few words with
his fellow-labourers, till the twilight compelled them to shoulder their
tools; and they then made their way, alas! to the many public-houses
near, and one of them we must enter with John Barker, and see the
Sixpence, that little messenger of good--that talent committed to his
care--far worse than wasted by its responsible owner. Happily, the
payment was not long delayed, and glad shall we be to hide our eyes and
stop our ears from all that goes on without in the till with our little
friend.

It is about midnight, the noisy guests are gone, the people of the house
are in bed, and we may now venture forth from our hiding-place to look
through the chink in the door. It is a clear frosty night. The moon,
just rising, is brightly reflected in the water. The stars are looking
silently down on the sleeping town. Castle Cornet rises gloomily out of
the sea. The moonlit sky, which shows us its outline only, leaves much
to the imagination. We may fancy it a frowning fortress of modern days;
or we may go back two hundred years, and think we see the ruin which
told of its nine-years' siege. But we would rather think of Castle
Cornet as we know it now, with its old keep standing as a monument of
bygone days; or better still, we would thank the rising moon for veiling
it in such solemn mystery, and would let our fancy share the rest which
seems to pervade all around, while we enjoy the perfect stillness. There
is not a sound, except the ripple of the water. Houses, streets, ships,
men, women, and children, all seem resting peacefully in the silent
night. But, hark! there was a sound of cracking from the window! Again
and again we hear it, and whispering too outside. A few moments more,
and the window is opened, and two men have crept in. They are some of
the guests of the evening come to recover thus what they and their
companions have wasted here to-night, that they may have it to waste
once more. The till was quickly rifled, and at a slight noise overhead
the thieves beat a precipitate retreat, and, in their haste, dropped our
Sixpence in the street outside. Happy little Sixpence! to have escaped
such hands; better to lie on the cold, hard pavement, curtaine