ling
with the waves to-night.

The sea is dashing itself in wildest fury against rock and boulder, and
rushing in headlong up from the sands only to recede again in haste, as
though in a hurry to fly back again to swell the power of the cruel
waves that would willingly deal out death with every stroke.

The clouds, having changed from black to murky yellow, are hanging
heavily in mid-air, as though undecided as to whether they will not fall
in a body and so overwhelm the trembling earth. The spray, dashed inland
by the terrific force of the wind, lighting on the lips of those who
stand with straining eyes looking seaward, fills their mouths with its
saltness, and blinds their aching sight.

All the people from the little village are on the shore, and are talking
and gesticulating violently. Some of them have fathers, brothers, and,
perhaps, "nearer and dearer ones still than all others," on the point of
incurring deathly danger to-night. Some of them are standing, with
clinched hands and stony eyes, watching as though fascinated by the
cruel, crawling sea, as it runs up to their feet, gaily, boisterously,
heedless of the unutterable misery in their pallid faces. But for the
most part, people are full of energy, and are shouting from one to the
other, and examining ropes or asking eager questions of grizzled old
sailors, who, with plug in cheek and stoical features, are staring at
the sea.

"Where is the ship?" asks Dicky Browne, laying his hand on the arm of
one of those ancient mariners to steady himself, while the old salt, who
is nearly thrice his age, stands steady as a rock.

"Close by; a schooner from some furrin' port, with wine, they say." So
shouts the old man back again.

"And the life-boat?"

"Is manned an' away. 'Twill be a tussle to-night, sir; no boat can live
in such a sea, I'm thinking. Hark to the roar of it."

The dull moon, forcing itself through the hanging clouds, casts at this
moment a pallid gleam upon the turbid ocean, making the terrors of the
hour only more terrible. Now at last they can see the doomed vessel; the
incessant dashing of the waves is slowly tearing it in pieces; some
figure with flowing hair can be seen near one of the dismantled masts.
Is it a woman? and what is that she holds aloft?--a child! a little
child!

The agony increases. Some run along the beach in frantic impotency,
calling upon heaven to show pity now, in tones that even pierce the
ghastly howling of the w