the ship and look over, and there they see a flock of
beautiful big white geese coming up out of the water; and sometimes
they shoot the geese, but if they do a great storm comes on and
engulfs the ship, and they are all drowned; but sometimes they stand
stockstill, amazed, and then the birds rise up out of the air on their
great white wings, up, up, drifting along, together, till they look
like the clouds over there. Then a gentle breeze springs up, and the
ship sails away safely into port."

"And where do the geese go?" Beth demanded, with breathless interest.

"They make for the shore too, and in the dead of winter, on stormy
nights, they fly over the land, uttering strange cries, and if you
wake and hear them, it means somebody is going to die."

Beth's eyes were staring far out beyond the great green Atlantic rollers
that came bursting in round the sheltering headland, white-crested with
foam, flying up the beach with a crash, and scattering showers of
spray that sparkled in the sunshine. She could see the ships and the
barnacles, and the silent sea, heaving great sighs and flushing with
fine colour in the act; and the geese, and the sailors peering over the
side and shooting at them and sinking immediately in a storm, but also
sailing into a safe haven triumphantly, where the sun shone on white
houses, although, at the same time, it was dark night, and overhead
there were strange cries that made her cower--"Beth!" cried Sophia,
"what's the matter with you, child?"

Beth returned with a start, and stared at her--"I know who it will
be," she said.

"Who what'll be, Miss Beth?" Anne asked in awe.

"Who'll die," said Beth.

"You mustn't say, Beth; you'll bring bad luck if you do," Miss Keene
interposed hastily.

"I'm not going to say," Beth answered dreamily; "but I know."

"You shouldn't have told the child that story, miss," Anne said.
"Shure, ye know what she is--she sees." Anne nodded her head several
times significantly.

"I forgot," said Sophia.

"She'll forget too," said Mary philosophically. "I say, Beth," she
went on, raising herself on her elbow--she was lying prone on a slab
of rock in the sun--"what does your mother think of us?"

Beth roused herself. "I don't know," she answered earnestly; "she
never says. But I know what papa thinks of you. He says Mary's a gawk,
Sophia is as yellow as a duck's foot, and Lenore is only half-witted."

The effect of this announcement astonished Beth. The M