lots
o' times to go out with him, and yer never would? You'll just get to the
edge, and when yer sees it rock a bit yer'll run away."

"No, I won't, Dick, this time," said the little girl. But as she spoke a
shiver of fear and dread ran through her frame at the thought of the
swaying boat.

Dick saw it, and laughed. "Didn't I tell yer you was afraid," he said,
in a mocking tone; "what's the good of going down there, when you're
frightened?"

"But I want a book, Dick; I must learn to read, and find out what we
want to know. Oh, do make haste!" she added, as she saw the boat
approaching the shore.

Dick was still laughing, but he helped her carry the basket, though he
teased her as they went along about being frightened. They got across
the sands with their samphire, just as Coomber and Bob were springing
ashore.

"Oh, daddy, take me with yer to Fellness," called Tiny, shutting her
eyes as she spoke that she might not see the treacherous waves and the
swaying boat.

"Halloo, halloo! What now, deary?" exclaimed Coomber. And it was
wonderful to see the change in his hard face as he lifted the little
girl in his arms and kissed her.

"She says she'll go," said Dick, "but I don't believe she means it."

"Yes I do. You'll take me, daddy, won't yer--'cos I've picked a lot of
samphire--all that, and another basketful up there? Go and fetch it,
Bob, and daddy can put it in the boat. And I'm going, too."

"So you shall, deary, so you shall," said the old fisherman, in a
pleased tone, for he had often tried to coax her out with him on the
sea; but the memory of that awful night on the bar sands still clung to
her, and the sight of the boat, swayed about at the mercy of the waves,
filled her with a nameless terror.

"There won't be a storm, will there?" asked Tiny, with a shiver of fear,
as the fisherman carefully lifted her in and placed her beside the
basket of samphire.

"My deary, if I thought the wind 'ud be even a bit fresh to-night, I
wouldn't take yer," said the fisherman, in an earnest tone.

He had never been so tender with one of his own children--unless it was
to the little girl lying in the churchyard--as he was to this little
waif of the sea; and now, as he pushed off from the shore, he was
careful to keep the old boat as steady as possible, and sat watching her
little frightened face as he plied his oars. He kept as close to the
beach, too, as he well could, just skirting the sand-banks, so that she