an I. The
night was dark because of the storm, but the figure looked like that of
my brother Wilfred.

Full of conflicting thoughts, I hurried home, where I found my father
dressed as if to go out.

"What's the matter, father?" I asked.

"There's a vessel round the point, Roger, and she's signalled for help."

"Let me go with you. Is it a large one?"

"No, and I am afraid that my friend's child is in her."

"What child?"

"Did you see that horseman this morning, Roger?"

"Yes, father."

"He came to tell me that an old friend was dead, and that in his last
hours he had expressed a wish that I should take care of his child."

"Yes, father; what then?"

"She started to come here by boat, and should have arrived in our
little landing-place by this. Hark! that's another signal for help.
Come, Roger; where's Wilfred."

"Wilfred cannot help on such a night as this, especially as his brother
hurt him so yesterday," said my mother, who had just come into the room.

"Come, let us go alone, then, Roger," said my father.

We hurried down to the little harbour, where a dozen hardy Cornishmen
were preparing to launch a boat on the angry sea.

"Not gone yet, men?" said my father.

"No, Maaster Trewinion, and ted'n no good. We should be knocked to
pieces in two minutes," said one.

"But we're goin' to have a try," said another.

It was, indeed, a dangerous undertaking. The seas were now rising up
like great hills and again falling into deep valleys. It seemed
impossible for a boat to live.

"We ca'ant do no good," said the first speaker.

"But they've signalled for help," said the second, "and I ca'ant stand
that!"

As he spoke we heard a sound like a crack of a musket, which faintly
reached us above the roar of wind and wave.

"We'll man the biggest boat somehow," said my father. "Come here,
everyone; who will go with Roger and me?"

To the honour of the brave Cornish boys, a crew was ready in a minute.

We jumped into the boat and soon were out in the boiling surf.

"Hold your oars firmly," cried my father, "now, then, pull while you
may, the storm is rising every minute."

Bravely those noble lads strained and tugged; but it was terrible work.
We were tossed about as though the boat in which we sat were a chip or
a bit of cork.

For a minute no word was spoken. Every man breathed hard, and laboured
with all his strength, while my father watched, grasping the rudder in
his hand. Time after