ong the blackness and make it
more gloomy,--absorbing the light, you see, while the snow reflects it."

"But what," asked William, "did you do for light in this dark time,
since you did not have a lamp?"

"Easy there, my lad," replied the Captain; "I'm just coming to that, you
see. Somebody has said that 'necessity is the mother of invention,' or
words to that effect; and darkness, I think, may be considered a
'mother' of that description. First we made an open dish of soapstone,
and put some oil in it; and then we made a wick out of the dry moss, and
set fire to it; but this was found to make so much smoke that it drove
us out of the hut, and it was given up. But we did not throw away the
dish, and after a while it occurred to us to powder the dry moss by
rubbing it between the hands, and with this powdered moss we lined our
soapstone dish all over on the inside with a layer a quarter of an inch
thick. After smoothing this down all around the edge (this dish, which
we called a lamp, was much like a saucer, only rougher and much
larger), we filled it half full of oil, and again set fire to it all
around the edge; and this time it worked beautifully,--smoking very
little, and giving us plenty of light."

"How cunning!" exclaimed the children, all at once.

"Rather so," replied the Captain, "but hardly more so than the two
little drinking-cups we carved out of the same kind of soapstone that we
made the lamp and pot of."

"It must have felt very queer, Captain Hardy," said Fred, inquiringly,
"to be in darkness all the time. I can't imagine such a thing as the
winter being all the time dark,--can you, Will?"

"No, I can't," replied William,--"can you, Sister Alice?"

"Yes, I think I can," said Alice, quickly.

"Why, how's that, my little dear?" asked the Captain, greatly
interested.

"O," said Alice, in her gentle way, "I've only to think of poor blind Jo
going round with his little dog, begging from door to door, and never
seeing anything in all the world,--no sun, no moon, no stars, no any
light to him at all. Poor Jo's bright summer went out long ago; and both
light and warmth were gone, never to come back again, when old Martha
died! and all's night to Jo,--and that's how I know what it is to be in
darkness all the time"; and as little Alice made this little speech
about poor blind Jo, the beggar-man, her lovely face looked thoughtful
beyond its years; and, as she finished, the Captain saw a tear stealing
fr