read, Phyllis explored crannies
in which the receding tide had left tiny, helpless creatures which she
examined curiously, and then carried tenderly to the water, lest they
perish before the friendly waves came again to cover them.

Their boatman sang songs to her,--strange songs that thrilled her,
though she did not understand the words.

At night, in the best room of the little inn, by a bright fire, her
father told tales of the vikings; of their high-prowed ships, and the
long-haired sailors, with fierce eyes; of their adventurous voyages over
unknown seas. The stories ended when the golden head drooped, drowsily.

The portfolio of sketches grew steadily during the weeks that followed.

"Your best work, Robert," said Valentine

"I have found what I have been seeking," was his answer.

They were happy days. Robert painted, early and late, in all weathers.
Valentine's joy was in him. Phyllis found hers in a closer companionship
with them than she had ever known.

Remembering their eager joy, how tragic the end! Drowned, under the sail
of an overturned boat,--together.

Their little Phyllis, saved by the boatman recovered from the shock of
icy water and horrible fright before her clothing was dry. She was
spared immediate knowledge of her loss. The rough, weatherworn faces she
saw in the firelight of the fisherman's cottage, to which she had been
carried, were kindly and compassionate. The gloom of early evening, the
glow of the firelight, the smell of the sea, the full-rigged ship on a
rude wall-bracket, and the moaning wind outside were memories of after
years. At the moment, wrapped in a blanket, Phyllis was conscious only
of security and warmth. She smiled up at the big fisherman who had
rescued her, and made friendly advances to the cluster of ragged little
ones who gathered around her, with scared faces and brown, bare legs and
feet. When the fisherman's wife tucked her into a warm bed, she inquired
sleepily for her mamma. A reassuring caress was the response: the
language of motherhood is universal, and requires no words.

The patrol of the rocky inlet ended at dawn. When the burdened groups of
booted men tramped past the cottage on their way to the inn, the
fisherman's wife, peering through the window in the gray morning light,
muttered to herself that both had been found.

Some hours afterward came the innkeeper and the postmaster, the one
proud of his English, the other of his responsibilities as fir