gold to supply his wants, as none of it
was ever likely to be repaid.

Pending the expected arrival of her father, Hilda was seated as usual at
her turret window; now gazing at her infant, who was sleeping on a pile
of cushions at her feet; now casting a glance across the ocean, over
which the sun, now declining towards the west, was casting a rich glow,
when her eye was attracted by the white sails of a vessel which, lighted
up by his beams, shone like driven snow. There was a light wind from
the south-east, before which the vessel under all sail was standing in
towards the land. Hilda, who from having lived all her life near the
sea was well acquainted with the rigs of vessels, recognised the one now
approaching as a schooner, and from her wide spread of canvas she judged
that she was a large one.

On stood the stranger, directly towards Whalsey. At first, from the
bold way in which she approached, Hilda thought that she must have a
pilot on board, but as she drew in with the channel between the south
end of Eastling and the little island known as Grief Skerry, she hauled
her wind, and then went about and hove-to, with her head off shore.

"What can possibly be her errand here?" said Hilda to herself. "Can my
father be on board her? But no, he would have stood on, and brought the
vessel to an anchor."

The family retired to rest at the usual hour of ten o'clock, and
probably not long after that were wrapped in sound sleep. Not so poor
Hilda. The mistress of the mansion slept far less than any of those who
obeyed her orders. She invariably retired long after the household were
in bed, rose early, and probably seldom obtained more than an hour's
continuous sleep. On this evening her child had been somewhat fretful,
and Bertha insisted on carrying the little fellow off to sleep in her
room with her grandson, Ronald Morton. Hilda had reluctantly consented
to the arrangement, and frequently awoke with a start of terror on
missing her little companion from her side. At length she had fallen
into a comparatively sound sleep, when she was suddenly awakened by a
loud, crashing sound. She started up. The noise brought to her
recollection, with painful clearness, the moment when the "Saint
Cecilia" struck on the rocks of Ossa Skerry. She thought she must have
been dreaming, but again the sound was renewed. She felt confident that
it was caused by heavy blows dealt against a small postern gate which
led out on