f to beg the pale,
tired lady to go home and wait and see what turned up. But Mrs. Beauchamp
felt that to sit at home doing nothing would be intolerable. She shook
her head and turned again on to the Parade, and with her went Susie's
light feet, so real, so active, that she almost saw the red jersey on a
level with her shoulder, and those brown, defiant eyes. For it was of
Susie that her mind was full--poor Susie, who had "often and often not
wanted to go," but who had gone.

It was easier for little Dickie; all his life it would be easier for Dick
than for this eager, forgetful, repentant daughter, whose passionate
sorrow always came too late.

Mrs. Beauchamp leaned over the railing at the top, and looked down on to
the sands, debating whether it was worth another effort. The group of
fishermen still stood close under the shelter of the cliff; their gruff
voices floated up to her, and gave her a feeling of companionship. She
ran down on to the beach, but when she stood in front of them she felt it
impossible to speak. One by one they rose awkwardly, and gazed at her in
an embarrassing silence, but making no suggestion, so that it was she
who spoke first.

"I have not found them; I cannot trace them anyhow. Can none of you help
me?"

Her sweet, impatient voice appealed to them rather hopelessly, and there
was no response.

"I'm willing to do what I can," one of them said at last. "At daylight
I'll bring round my boat and go over the rocks. It's an ebb tide."

"Oh no," she said, and shuddered. "I can't sit still till
daylight--indeed I cannot. It is only ten o'clock now."

"It's a fair offer, lady," said the man.

"But it is going to be a fine night," she pleaded. "The rain is over. If
I could find the twins of whom my children speak! Can you not help me?
You are at least men."

"Why, ma'am"--it was a new voice that answered her--"if it's children you
want, I'll find them fast enough if they are on shore; it's only the sea
that keeps her own. A set of lubberly men that can't help a lady in
distress! That's not how the Royal Navy acts. And don't you cry, lady.
Lads and lasses don't get mislaid as easy as that; bad halfpennies come
back to their moorings. We'll knock at every door in the town before we
give up."

He was an old man, but there was a very different note in his voice from
the flabby sympathy of the other men. He put out his pipe with a horny
thumb, and gave a rather contemptuous look round the lou