ing hot and spicy to drink, and finally tumbled into
a bunk with coarse but spotless sheets, and very rough but comfortable
blankets, where in less than four minutes he was sound asleep, worn out,
as even the pluckiest eleven-year-old boy would be, with the strain on his
small body and brave young soul.

How long he slept, Freddy did not know; but it was long enough for the
wind to lull, the skies to brighten, the black clouds to break and scatter
before the golden glory of the summer sun. The wide lookout window had
been thrown open, and showed a glorious rainbow spanning the western sky.
And there, on a pallet thrown hastily on the floor, lay daddy, very still
and pale, with Uncle Tom kneeling beside him, holding his hand. An icy
fear now clutched Freddy's heart at the sight. Reckless of the
ten-sizes-too-big shirt trailing around him, he was out of his bunk with a
jump to his father's side.

"Daddy, daddy!--O Uncle Tom, is daddy dead?"

And daddy's eyes opened at the words,--eyes that were no longer burning,
but soft and dim with tears.

"Not dead, little Boy Blue! Daddy is alive again,--alive as he has not
been for long, long years.--Tell him all, Tom. I am too weak. Tell him
all. He'll be glad to hear it, I know."

But Father Tom only put his arm around the boy and drew him close to his
side.

"Why should I?" he said, smiling into the upturned face. "We know quite
enough for a little boy; don't we, Freddy,--that, like another wanderer
from his Father's house, daddy was dead and is alive again, was lost and
is found. And now get into some short clothes, if you can find them, and
we'll go over to Killykinick in my little motor boat; for poor Brother
Bart is in sad terror about you, I am sure."

Ah, in sad terror, indeed! It was a pale, shaken old man that stood on the
beach at Killykinick, looking over the sea, and listening to the Captain,
who was striving to find hope where he felt there was none.

"Looks as if the old cabin on Last Island might be holding together still.
Dan and Neb are knocking a raft together, and if they can make it float
they'll go over there and get the little lad off. And if they don't Padre"
(the rough old voice trembled),--"if they don't, wal, you are sky pilot
enough to know that the little chap has reached a better shore than
this."

"Aye, aye, I know, Jeroboam!" was the hoarse, shaken answer. "God knows
what is best for His little lamb. His holy will be done. But, O my laddie,