s fur's I kin see, them folks is a firin' off that air gun
jest fur the musicalness on't. Blast 'em! Come, gals: we mought as
well be walkin' along hum as ter stop a-yawpin' here in the wind an'
spray, a-burnin' up the winter's kindlin' fur folks 'at's a-foolin' on
us. 'Spesh'ly as I think she's a Britisher. Blast her!"

The old Quaker was not accustomed to use strong language of any sort,
but evidently the human nature in him was so powerful in this instance
that he could not help indulging in the most emphatic admissible
invective.

But the mother and wife were not so easily satisfied. In their eyes
the strange ship and all on board her were not of as much consequence
as the unworthy missing Jim, whose fate they associated with it.
Jim's boat, they said, was gone. No one could have taken her but Jim
himself. He would never have put out on such a night as this save to
go to the help of the distressed ship; and if he was on the water, the
light burning on Sankota Head would guide him safely back. So, in the
midst of spray and wind, the three kneeled on the cliff and kept the
blaze alight till the rising dawn made it useless, when, to the dismay
of the watchers, the ship hoisted sail and bore away. She showed no
colors, but the old islander, once a whaler, declared that she was a
British man-o'-war.

But where was Jim? The unanswering surf still boomed at the foot of
the cliff, though the height of the waves was rapidly diminishing, and
the water was gradually assuming the peculiarly bland expression that
often comes after a storm, reminding one of the cat that has "eaten
the canary," but there was no sign of incoming boat or men.

Chilled to the bone with the wind and cold sea-spray of the November
night, and to the heart with sorrow and disappointment, the three
returned to the lonely house. Running to meet them came Mary Allen,
breathlessly crying, "Where's Eben and Jim?"

Poor Sarah could not answer, but the brave old mother, a veteran in
sorrows, replied with trembling lips, "We don't know anythin' o' thy
brother, Mary; an' Jim hain't b'en hum sence las' night. His boat's
gone, an' we thought he might ha' went out to help the ship that was
a-firin' all night. But she's sailed off this mornin' all right; an'
father, he says she was a Britisher an' undly a-firin' ter fool us
folks. So I don't know nothin' about it," uttering the last words in a
drearily hopeless tone that gave them exceeding pathos.

For a mome