r would now be mourning the loss of two sons; for he had made up
his mind to leave home when it was decided to take Tiny to the
poorhouse.

They were working at the boat a few days after this, caulking, and
plugging, and tarring, when Tiny, who had been playing on the sandhills
a little way off, came running up breathless with some news.

[Illustration: TINY AND THE OLD MAN. (_See page 130._)]

"Oh, daddy! there's a little ugly, old man over there, and he says my
name is Coomber. Is it, daddy?"

The fisherman lifted his hat and scratched his head, looking puzzled.
Strange to say, this question of the little girl's name had never
suggested itself to anybody before, living as they did in this
out-of-the-way spot. She was "Tiny," or "deary," or "the little 'un,"
and no need had arisen for any other name; and so, after scratching his
head for a minute, he said: "Well, deary, if I'm your daddy, I s'pose
your name is Coomber. But who is the old man?" he asked; for it was not
often that strangers were seen at Bermuda Point, even in summer-time.

"I dunno, daddy; but he says he knowed my mother when she was a little
gal like me."

Coomber dropped the tar-brush he was using, and a spasm of pain crossed
his face. Had somebody come to claim the child after all? He
instinctively clutched her hand for a minute, but the next he told her
to go home, while he went to speak to the stranger.

He found a little, neatly-dressed old man seated on one of the
sandhills, and without a word of preface he began:

"You've come after my little gal, I s'pose?"

The old man smiled. "What's your name, my man?" he said, taking out a
pocket-book, and preparing to write.

"Coomber."

"Coomber!" exclaimed the old man, dropping his book in his surprise.

"Why, yes; what should it be?" said the fisherman. "Didn't you tell my
little Tiny that you knew her name was Coomber? But how you came to
know----"

"Why, I never saw you before that I know of," interrupted the other,
sharply; "so how do you suppose I should know your name? I told the
child I knew her name was Matilda Coomber, for she is the very image of
her mother when she was a girl, and she was my only daughter."

"Oh, sir, and you've come to fetch her!" gasped the fisherman.

The stranger took out his snuff-box, and helped himself to a pinch.
"Well, I don't know so much about that," he said, cautiously; "I am her
grandfather, and I thought, when I picked up that old newspaper the