he should feel in like case--or rather, he
questioned, was it not despair that made him take it so calmly, utter
despair? And after all what did a few years more or less of life matter
to him? If death only came quickly without much pain, would it not be
well with him? What had he to live for? Bitterly came back to him the
last time he had looked over this raging sea. If it was not here, it was
somewhere hereabouts, somewhere quite close. He could not help thinking
of it, and contrasting it, that lovely summer's afternoon, and this
bitter winter's night, with just ten days in between them. He looked at
the fire on shore, now dying down, now blazing up brightly, replenished
by willing hands, and between it and him came Susy Mackie's fair face.
So sweet and dainty and fair, all that a man might long for, and yet she
would give no thought to him. No thought! A wave higher than its fellows
drenched him through and through, and made him wonder was the Vanity
settling down, slipping off the reef into the deep water beyond it. No
thought! What did it matter? It was only a little nearer the inevitable
end, and if she had given him thought--if she had given him her heart,
it was in despite her better judgment; her narrow up-bringing had won
the day, and only that morning he had thought that life was not worth
living without her. Why should he repine now that fate had taken him
at his word? Then a great wave of tenderness came over him. His little
girl, his sweet, pretty little girl, who made even of the stern, hard,
unlovable faith of her fathers, a thing that was holy and beautiful.
His little girl! He remembered--and the very thought sent a warm glow
through his chilled veins--how she had wept over his possible death,
wept bitter tears because she thought her God was harder and more cruel
than the children He had made with His hands. His little girl, his
darling!

The boy next him began to moan, and in spite of the shrieking wind and
the howling sea Harper made out that his hands were aching, that he was
perished with cold and could not hold on any longer.

"Nonsense, lad, nonsense!" and he took off his strong leather belt and
buckled it round the shroud and round the boy's body, "there, that 'll
give you a helping hand. Hold on now." Then as the boy thanked him, he
saw by a stray and watery moonbeam it was young Angus Mackie.

"It's right on your own coast, Angus, we 've come to grief."

"I 'm thinking," said the lad, "it