ld.
Then he ran along the hard, sandy beach as fast as the wind and his
burden would let him. The Culm huts came in sight at last, cheerless
and desolate, and with no sign of life or occupancy about them, save
the faint smoke which the wind whirled down from the chimneys.

Noll began to regard Dirk's habitation with anxious eyes long before
he drew near. He half expected to see the fisherman's tall figure
pacing up and down the sand, beating his breast and groaning with
despair, perhaps; but instead, the sands were deserted. Noll came
opposite the miserable dwelling, and paused a few seconds before
rapping, waiting to hear the sick child's low wail. He heard only a
confused, unintelligible murmur of voices.

A woman answered his summons,--not the child's mother, but a neighbor,
evidently,--and stood staring blankly at him.

"Can I see Dirk,--Dirk Sharp?" Noll asked.

At the sound of the boy's voice, the fisherman himself came to the
door. His face was haggard, and looked wan and worn, for all the
bronze of wind and weather that was upon it.

"Lord bless ye, lad!" he cried to Noll, "but ye be too late."

"Too late?"

"Yes," brokenly, "my little gal died las' night."

Noll was silent with surprise. He was too late,--too late.

"Oh, Dirk," he said, as soon as he could speak, "I would have come
back last night, but I got into the sea, and--and it was impossible.
So I brought what I could this morning."

Dirk looked at the lad and his basket, and choked. At last he said,
gratefully, "It be good in ye to care for the like o' us, lad. We be
poor folks fur ye to look at, the Lord knows! What did ye bring fur my
little gal?"

Noll lifted the cover of his basket, and Dirk peered in, exclaiming,
"My little gal never seed the like o' them, lad! She wur a tender
thing, my little gal wur, and mabby ef she'd had a bit o' somethin'
better'n the salt fish--Well, she be beyond meat and drink now," he
said, choking again.

Noll knew not whether to turn back, or to stay. Dirk, however,
presently said, "Come, lad, step in an' see my little gal. She wur as
white an' sof'-cheeked as yerself. O Lord! I might ha' knowed she'd
never come up stout an' growin' like the rest," he groaned as he
turned back to lead the way for Noll.

In the room where the little one had lain sat three or four old
fish-wives,--wrinkled, weather-beaten old faces they had,--who were
nodding and whispering over their pipes in a