ter was
thirteen years old, while Frank was only a few months his senior.

They were inseparable playmates from early childhood; and as we lived
near a broad, deep inlet, which put in from the Atlantic, they learned
to swim at the age of ten, and soon learned to manage a yacht as well
as veterans. I was sometimes anxious because of their venturesome
disposition, but although they frequently ventured outside, sometimes
in very nasty weather, no accident ever befell them, and the parents of
both boys gradually learned to dismiss all fear concerning them, under
the belief that, as they grew older, they became better fitted to take
care of themselves.

One day in March Frank told me that a suspicious brig had been standing
off shore for the better part of a week, and he and Arthur had come to
the conclusion that it was a pirate. I laughed heartily at their
fancy, and assured them that the days of buccaneers and sea rovers were
long since past, and they must dismiss all such absurd ideas from their
minds.

The following week the Atlantic sea-board was devastated by one of the
fiercest storms that had been known for years. Reports of wrecks and
disasters to shipping reached us for several days after, and Frank
remarked one evening at supper that he believed his suspected pirate
was one of the unfortunate vessels that had gone down with all on
board. I smiled at his words, but when I learned that the beach was
strewn with wreckage, and that a great deal of it had washed into the
inlet, I thought it probable that he was right, so far as the fate of
the strange ship was concerned.

It was near the close of the month that my boy brought home a tightly
corked bottle, which he and Arthur had found while cruising in the
inlet. When he said that there was a piece of rolled paper inside, I
felt enough curiosity to withdraw the stopper with the aid of a strong
corkscrew, and to make an examination.

Sure enough there was a small roll of thick, vellum-like paper, on
which, in a cramped hand, evidently written years before, was the
following:

"_Three feet under the Beacon Tree_."

For a minute or two I was puzzled, and then, as if by inspiration, the
whole truth burst upon me.

The Beacon Tree was the name of an immense poplar that stood near the
mouth of the inlet. The fish-hawks had builded their nests in the
forked tops for a half century. I remember hearing my father say it
was struck by lightning long before and a