ad given orders that he and Moy should overhaul
the old North Goodwin buoy, and give her a fresh coat of paint. Dick
therefore rose, wiped his mouth, kissed the entire family, beginning
with the infant and ending with "the missis," after which he shook hands
with Nora and went out.

The storm which had for some time past been brewing, had fairly brewed
itself up at last, and the wild sea was covered with foam. Although
only an early autumn storm, it was, like many a thing out of season, not
the less violent on that account. It was one of the few autumn storms
that might have been transferred to winter with perfect propriety. It
performed its work of devastation as effectively as though it had come
forth at its proper season. On land chimney stacks and trees were
levelled. At sea vessels great and small were dismasted and destroyed,
and the east coast of the kingdom was strewn with wreckage and dead
bodies. Full many a noble ship went down that night! Wealth that might
have supported all the charities in London for a twelvemonth was sent to
the bottom of the sea that night and lost for ever. Lives that had
scarce begun and lives that were all but done, were cut abruptly short,
leaving broken hearts and darkened lives in many a home, not only on the
sea-coast but inland, where the sound of the great sea's roar is never
heard. Deeds of daring were done that night,--by men of the lifeboat
service and the coast-guard,--which seemed almost beyond the might of
human skill and courage--resulting in lives saved from that same great
sea--lives young and lives old--the salvation of which caused many a
heart in the land, from that night forward, to bless God and sing for
joy.

But of all the wide-spread and far-reaching turmoil; the wreck and
rescue, the rending and relieving of hearts, the desperate daring, and
dread disasters of that night we shall say nothing at all, save in
regard to that which occurred on and in the neighbourhood of the Goodwin
Sands.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

A NIGHT OF WRECK AND DISASTER--THE GULL "COMES TO GRIEF."

When the storm began to brew that night, George Welton, the mate of the
floating light, walked the deck of his boiled-lobster-like vessel, and
examined the sky and sea with that critical expression peculiar to
seafaring men, which conveys to landsmen the reassuring impression that
they know exactly what is coming, precisely what ought to be done, and
certainly what will be the result