n her voice, ran them up and down, and out and in, in a way that
would have made a laugh, had there been anybody there to notice or to
laugh.

"I remember singin' that ar to Mary Jane Wilson the very night she
died," said Aunt Ruey, stopping. "She wanted me to sing to her, and it
was jist between two and three in the mornin'; there was jist the least
red streak of daylight, and I opened the window and sat there and sung,
and when I come to 'over the hills where spices grow,' I looked round
and there was a change in Mary Jane, and I went to the bed, and says she
very bright, 'Aunt Ruey, the Beloved has come,' and she was gone afore I
could raise her up on her pillow. I always think of Mary Jane at them
words; if ever there was a broken-hearted crittur took home, it was
her."

At this moment Mrs. Pennel caught sight through the window of the gleam
of the returning lantern, and in a moment Captain Pennel entered,
dripping with rain and spray.

"Why, Cap'n! you're e'en a'most drowned," said Aunt Ruey.

"How long have you been gone? You must have been a great ways," said
Mrs. Pennel.

"Yes, I have been down to Cap'n Kittridge's. I met Kittridge out on the
beach. We heard the guns plain enough, but couldn't see anything. I went
on down to Kittridge's to get a look at little Mara."

"Well, she's all well enough?" said Mrs. Pennel, anxiously.

"Oh, yes, well enough. Miss Roxy showed her to me in the trundle-bed,
'long with Sally. The little thing was lying smiling in her sleep, with
her cheek right up against Sally's. I took comfort looking at her. I
couldn't help thinking: 'So he giveth his beloved sleep!'"

CHAPTER VII

FROM THE SEA

During the night and storm, the little Mara had lain sleeping as quietly
as if the cruel sea, that had made her an orphan from her birth, were
her kind-tempered old grandfather singing her to sleep, as he often
did,--with a somewhat hoarse voice truly, but with ever an undertone of
protecting love. But toward daybreak, there came very clear and bright
into her childish mind a dream, having that vivid distinctness which
often characterizes the dreams of early childhood.

She thought she saw before her the little cove where she and Sally had
been playing the day before, with its broad sparkling white beach of
sand curving round its blue sea-mirror, and studded thickly with gold
and silver shells. She saw the boat of Captain Kittridge upon the
stocks, and his tar-kettle with th