ough to be called a fog, or even a mist, but quite
enough to deaden the gray light, always flowing along the boundary of
sky and sea. But over the wet sand and the white frill of the gently
gurgling waves more of faint light, or rather perhaps, less of heavy
night, prevailed. But Dan had keen eyes, and was well accustomed to the
tricks of darkness; and he came to take his leave forever of the
fishing squadron, with a certainty of knowing all the five, as if by
daylight--for now there were only five again.

As the tide withdrew, the fishing-smacks (which had scarcely earned
their name of late) were compelled to make the best of the world until
the tide came back again. To judge by creakings, strainings, groanings,
and even grindings of timber millstones [if there yet lives in Ireland
the good-will for a loan to us], all these little craft were making
dreadful hardship of the abandonment which man and nature inflicted on
them every thirteenth hour. But all things do make more noise at
night, when they get the chance (perhaps in order to assert their own
prerogative), and they seem to know that noise goes further, and assumes
a higher character, when men have left off making it.

The poor young fisherman's back was getting very sore by this time, and
he began to look about for the white side-streak which he had painted
along the water-line of that new boat, to distract the meddlesome gaze
of rivals from the peculiar curve below, which even Admiral Darling
had not noticed, when he passed her on the beach; but Nelson would have
spied it out in half a second, and known all about it in the other half.
Dan knew that he should find a very fair berth there, with a roll or two
of stuff to lay his back on, and a piece of tarpauling to draw over his
legs. In the faint light that hovered from the breaking of the wavelets
he soon found his boat, and saw a tall man standing by her.

"Daniel," said the tall man, without moving, "my sight is very bad at
night, but unless it is worse than usual, you are my admired friend
Daniel. A young man in a thousand--one who dares to think."

"Yes, Squire Carne," the admired friend replied, with a touch of hat
protesting against any claim to friendship: "Dan Tugwell, at your
service. And I have thought too much, and been paid out for it."

"You see me in a melancholy attitude, and among melancholy
surroundings." Caryl Carne offered his hand as he spoke, and Dan took
it with great reverence. "The