other day, and read about her being saved, I'd just like to come and
have a look at her. I was pretty sure she was my Tilly's little one, by
the description of the silver medal she wore, for I'd given it to her
mother just before she ran away to get married to that sailor Coomber."

"Oh, sir, a sailor, and his name was Coomber! Where is he? What was he
like?" asked the fisherman, eagerly.

"He was drowned before his wife died; she never held up her head
afterwards, the people tell me. I never saw her after she was married,
and swore I'd never help her or hers; but when she was dying she wrote
and told me she was leaving a little girl alone in the world, and had
left directions for it to be brought to me after her death. With this
letter she sent her own portrait, and that of her husband and child,
begging me to keep them for the child until she grew up. A day or two
after came another letter, saying she was dead, and a neighbour was
coming from Grimsby to London by ship, and would bring the child to me;
but I never heard or saw anything of either, and concluded she was
drowned, when, about a month ago, an old newspaper came in my way, and
glancing over it, I saw the account of a little girl being saved from a
wreck, and where she might be heard of. I went to the place, and they
sent me here, and the minute I saw the child, I knew her for my
Tilly's."

The old man had talked on, but Coomber had comprehended very little of
what was said. He stood looking half-dazed for a minute or two after the
stranger had ceased speaking. At length he gathered his wits
sufficiently to say: "Have you got them pictures now?"

"Yes," said the old man, promptly, taking out his pocket-book as he
spoke. "Here they are; I took care to bring 'em with me;" and he brought
out three photographs.

Coomber seized one instantly. "It is him! It is my Jack!" he gasped.
"Oh, sir, tell me more about him."

"I know nothing about him, I tell you," said the other, coldly; "I never
saw or spoke to my daughter after she married him; but I'm willing to do
something for the little child, seeing it was my girl's last wish."

"The child," repeated Coomber. "Do you mean to say little Tiny is my
Jack's child?"

"Well, yes, of course I do. What else could I mean?" replied the other.

"Then--then I'm her grandfather, and have as much right to her as you
have," said the fisherman, quickly.

The stranger shrugged his shoulders. "Well, I s'pose you have," he