u_ got sick!"

"'Tisn't sickness; 'tis--I'm not knowin' what."

"Ah, come," I pleaded; "what is it, dear?"

"Davy, lad," she faltered, "I'm just--dreadful--happy."

"Happy?" cried I, scornfully. "'Tis not happiness! Why, sure, your lip
is curlin' with grief!"

"But I _was_ happy."

"You isn't happy now, my girl."

"No," she sobbed, "I'm wonderful miserable--now."

I kicked off the covers. "You've the fever, that's what!" I exclaimed,
jumping out of bed.

"'Tis not that, Davy."

"Then--oh, for pity's sake, Bessie, tell your brother what's gone wrong
along o' you!"

"I'm thinkin', Davy," she whispered, despairingly, "that I'm nothin' but
a sinful woman."

"A--what! Why, Bessie----"

"Nothin'," she repeated, positively, "but a sinful, wicked person."

"Who told you that?" said I, dancing about in a rage.

"My own heart."

"Your heart!" cried I, blind angry. "'Tis a liar an it says so."

"What words!" she exclaimed, changed in a twinkling. "An' to your
sister! Do you get back in bed this instant, David Roth, an' tell her
that you're sorry."

I was loath to do it, but did, to pacify her; and when she had carried
away the candle I chuckled, for I had cured her of her indisposition for
that night, at any rate: as I knew, for when she kissed me 'twas plain
that she was more concerned for her wayward brother than for herself.

* * * * *

Past midnight I was awakened by the clang of the bell on my father's
wharf. 'Twas an unpleasant sound. Half a gale--no less--could do it. I
then knew that the wind had freshened and veered to the southeast; and
I listened to determine how wild the night. Wild enough! The bell
clanged frequently, sharply, jangling in the gusts--like an anxious
warning. My window was black; there was no light in the sky--no star
shining. Rain pattered on the roof. I heard the rush of wind. 'Twas
inevitable that I should contrast the quiet of the room, the security of
my place, the comfort of my couch and blankets, with a rain-swept,
heaving deck and a tumultuous sea. A gusty night, I thought--thick, wet,
with the wind rising. The sea would be in a turmoil on the grounds by
dawn: there would be no fishing; and I was regretting this--between
sleep and waking--when the bell again clanged dolefully. Roused, in a
measure, I got ear of men stumbling up the path. I was into my breeches
before they had trampled half the length of the platform--well on my way
down t