s were extinguished,
and the bright beams of the floating light were gone! The brig then
dropt astern and was soon lost to view.

This was a disaster of the most serious nature--involving as it did the
absence of a light, on the faithful glow of which the fate of hundreds
of vessels might depend. Fortunately, however, the extreme fury of the
gale had begun to abate; it was therefore probable that all the vessels
which had not already been wrecked had found ports of shelter, or would
now be able to hold on to their anchors and weather the storm.

But floating-lights are not left without resource in a catastrophe such
as this. In the book of Regulations for the Service it is ordered that,
in circumstances of this kind, two red lights are to be shown, one at
the end of the davit forward, the other on a stanchion beside the ensign
staff aft, and likewise a red flare light is to be shown every quarter
of an hour. Accordingly, while some of the men lit and fixed up the red
lanterns, Jerry MacGowl was told off to the duty of showing the red
flares, or, as he himself expressed it, "settin' off a succession o'
fireworks, which wos mightily purty, no doubt, an' would have bin highly
entertainin' if it had been foin weather, and a time of rejoycin'!"

Meanwhile the lantern was lowered, and it was found that the only damage
done had been the shattering of one of its large panes of glass. The
lamps, although blown out, had not been injured. The men therefore set
vigorously to work to put in a spare pane, and get the light once more
into working order.

Leaving them, then, at this important piece of work, let us turn aside
awhile and follow the fortunes of the good ship Wellington on that
terrible night of storm and disaster.

When the storm was brewing she was not far from the Downs, but the
baffling winds retarded her progress, and it was pitch dark when she
reached the neighbourhood of the Goodwin sands. Nevertheless those on
board of her did not feel much uneasiness, because a good pilot had been
secured in the channel.

The Wellington came bowling along under close-reefed topsails. Stanley
Hall and Jim Welton stood leaning over the taffrail, looking down into
the black foam-streaked water. Both were silent, save that now and then
Jim put down his hand to pat a black muzzle that was raised lovingly to
meet it, and whispered, "We shall be home to-morrow, Neptune,--cheer up,
old boy!"

But Jim's words did not expre