e wood
in. It's a wonder she didn't put ye in the stove instead o' the wood!"

As this joke was not new to the listeners, no notice was taken of it,
and the three lapsed into silence.

Outside the steady boom of the surf beating on the rocks came with
monotonous regularity, and inside the clock ticked. For a long time
Uncle Terry sat and smoked on in silence, resuming, perhaps, his
by-gones, and then said: "By the way, Telly, what's become o' them
trinkets o' yourn ye had on that day? It's been so long now, 'most
twenty years, I 'bout forgot 'em. I s'pose ye hain't lost 'em, hev ye?"

"Why, no, father," she answered, a little surprised. "I hope not. They
are all in the box in my bureau, and no one ever disturbs them."

"Ye wouldn't mind fetchin' 'em now, would ye, Telly?" he continued after
drawing a long whiff of smoke and slowly emitting it in rings. "It's
been so many years, an' since I got thinkin' 'bout it I'd like to take a
look at 'em, jest to remind me o' that fortunate day ye came to us."

The girl arose, and going upstairs, returned with a small tin box shaped
like a trunk, and drawing the table up in front of Uncle Terry, set the
box down upon it. It is likely that its contents were so many links that
bound the two together, for as he opened it she perched herself on the
arm of his chair, and leaning against his shoulder, passed one arm
caressingly around his neck and watched him take out the contents.

First came a soft, fleecy baby blanket, then two little garments, once
whitest muslin but now yellow with age, and then another smaller one of
flannel. Pinned to this were two tiny shoes of knitted wool. In the
bottom of the box was a small wooden shoe, and though clumsy in
comparison, yet evidently fashioned to fit a lady's foot. Tucked in
this was a little box tied with faded ribbon, and in this were a locket
and chain, two rings, and a scrap of paper. The writing on the paper,
once hastily scrawled by a despairing mother's hand, had almost faded,
and inside the locket were two faces, one a man's with strongly marked
features, the other girlish with big eyes and hair in curls.

These were all the heritage of this waif of the sea who now, a fair girl
with eyes and face like the woman's picture, was leaning on the shoulder
of her foster-father, and they told a pathetic tale of life and death;
of romance and mystery not yet unwoven, and a story not yet told.

How many times that orphan girl had imagined