return, for we could not see the
sea, much less any boat upon it. So we stayed indoors, and my
grandfather sat by the fire smoking his pipe.

'I thought Jem would have been here before now,' he said at length, as I
was putting out the cups and saucers for tea.

'Oh, he'll come before we've finished tea, I think, grandfather,' I
answered. 'I wonder what sort of a spade he'll have got for us.'

When tea was over, the door opened suddenly, and we looked up, expecting
to see Jem enter with our purchases. But it was not Jem; it was his
wife.

'Sandy,' she said, 'what time do you make it? My clock's stopped!'

'Twenty minutes past six,' said my grandfather, looking at his watch.

'Past six!' she repeated. 'Why, Jem's very late!'

'Yes,' said my grandfather; 'I'll go down to the pier, and have a look
out.'

But he came back soon, saying it was impossible to see anything; the fog
was so thick, he was almost afraid of walking over the pier. 'But he's
bound to be in at seven, he said (for that was the hour the
lighthousemen were required to be on the island again), 'so he'll soon
be up now.'

The clock moved on, and still Jem Millar did not come. I saw Mrs. Millar
running to her door every now and then with her baby in her arms, to
look down the garden path. But no one came.

At last the clock struck seven.

'I never knew him do such a thing before!' said my grandfather, as he
rose to go down to the pier once more.

CHAPTER VIII.

WAITING FOR THE BOAT.

Poor Mrs. Millar went out of her house, and followed my grandfather down
to the pier. I waited indoors with little Timpey, straining my ears to
listen for the sound of their footsteps coming back again.

But the clock struck half-past seven, and still no sound was to be
heard. I could wait no longer; I wrapped the child in a shawl, and
carried her into the Millars' house, and left her under the care of Mrs.
Millar's little servant. And then I ran down, through the thick,
smothering fog, to the pier.

My grandfather was standing there with Mrs. Millar. When I came close to
them he was saying, 'Cheer up, Mary, my lass; he's all right; he's only
waiting till this mist has cleared away a bit. You go home, and I'll
tell you as soon as ever I hear his boat coming. Why, you're wet
through, woman; you'll get your death of cold!'

Her thin calico dress was soaked with the damp in the air, and she was
shivering, and looked as white as a sheet. At first she woul