"Sairay! Sairay!" her mother lifted an admonishing finger, "be careful how you talk about the A'mighty! Babies is different from growed-up folks, and, besides, I guess ef the Lord ain't too good to count the hairs of our heads, he can even take notice of a dog's howl!" and Sara, who had the reverent soul of a little child, was once again silenced, if not convinced. Just then, too, her father entered, bringing a great gust of cold air with him as he opened the door.
"Up yet?" he asked in his big, cheery voice, as he unwound the gorgeous worsted comforter from about his throat, and shook off the sleety rain from his tarpaulin. "Waal, this fire's a purty sight, I vum, for it's a dirty night out, an' no mistake. But we'd better all turn in naow, for we must be stirrin' early to-morrer; we've got our orders, an' I'm second mate o' the Nautilus."
"O father, the Nautilus? That old tub? I thought you said she wasn't sea-worthy."
"Oh, waal, not so bad as thet, quite. To be shore she's old, an' she's clumsy, but I guess she's got a good many knots o' sailin' in her yet, Sairay. I guess so. Leastwise thet's whar I'm to go, so it can't be helped, thet's sartin. Now, wife, ef you'll git out my kit," and he turned with some directions concerning his departure, while Sara, feeling she was not needed, crept silently up to bed, her soul distracted between gloomy forebodings, and the effort to trust in God and hope for the best.
The next morning, however, broke clear and fine, which was a great comfort; for whatever storms and dangers her father and friends must and would, doubtless, meet on the great ocean, it was something to have them start with fair winds and sunny skies.
All were up before dawn, except the baby, who slept on in blissful unconsciousness of any impending change; and soon the women stood, with their shawls over their heads, down on the sandy, crescent-shaped beach, watching the last preparations.
It was an impressive scene, and never lost that quality to Sara's eyes, though she had been used to it since infancy. As she stood now, near but hardly a part of the noisy throng, she was about midway in the crescent, at either end of which there gleamed whitely through the morning mist the round tower of a lighthouse.
These were only nine miles apart as the bird flies, but over thirty when one followed the concave shore; and the eastern light warned of treacherous rocks jutting out in bold headlands and rugged cliffs, while the western served to guide the mariner past quite as treacherous shallows, and a sandy bar which showed like the shining back of some sea-monster at low-tide.
Within this natural harbor was the little fleet of sloops, smacks, and schooners, getting up sail, and shipping some last half-forgotten supplies, while numerous smaller craft were paddled or rowed about, closer in shore.
The wide white beach, unbroken for a considerable sweep by even a headland, was now alive with an excited crowd—talking, laughing, weeping, and gesticulating, while back on the higher ground could be seen the small, straggling village, of but little more than one street, where nearly all the houses turned a gabled end to the highway, while a well-trodden path led through a drooping gateway to a door somewhere at the side or rear.
There were few trees to hide their unpainted homeliness; but some windows showed house-plants and muslin curtains within, while the most noticeable architectural features were the long, open sheds, used for cleaning and packing fish, and a bald, bare meeting-house, set like conscious virtue on a hill,—the only one to be seen, just back of the village, and only worthy the name because there was nothing whatever to dispute its claims in the way of highlands in that region.
As Sara stood half dreamily taking it all in, more by imagination than eyesight, for it was still mistily gray, except off to the east beyond the Cliff light, where the sky was brilliant with the first crimson blush of the morning, a man approached her, a young fellow, still tall, trig, and ship-shape in figure, as few seamen are apt to be after thirty.
"Good-morning, Sairay," he said respectfully; "we've got a fine day for the start, a'ter all." "Yes, Jasper, very fine, and I'm glad enough. The last start was dreadful! I cried all the next night, for, don't you remember? the wind kept rising till it was a perfect gale, and I couldn't help thinking of that dreadful Mare's Head Point. Mother was sure you'd get there about midnight, and saw signs and warnings in everything."
He laughed cheerily.
"Oh, she enjoys it, Sairay; don't 'grudge her that comfort, for a'ter all we mostly gets home safe, barrin' a broken rib perhaps, or a finger. I've had three falls from the rigging, and one wreck, and I'm pretty lively yet!" A general movement seawards interrupted them. This was the final scene, the actual start. He held out his hand quickly.
"Well, good-by, Sairay."
"Good-by, Jasper. You'll look after father? That is, he's getting old, you know, and if anything should happen"—
"I won't forgit, Sairay. I'm on the Sea Gull, but I'll see him now and then. Good-by."
His voice was wistful, but his eyes even more so, as he clasped her hand in a quick, strong pressure which almost hurt her, then turned, and went with great strides towards his father's long-boat just about pushing off; for this was Jaspar Norris whose father was captain of the fleet, and by far the richest and most consequential man in Killamet.
Sara turned from the young man's hand-clasp to her father's embrace.
"Waal, Sairay, we're off, an' good luck goes with us, ef a man kin jedge by the weather. Good-by. God bless you, darter!"
Sara could not speak, but she held him close a minute, then stood with tearful eyes and watched him embark, telling herself he had always returned safe and sound, and surely he would again. Even her heartache could not dull the beauty of the scene, as, with all sails set, the white-winged vessels glided smoothly out toward the open sea, and suddenly her face grew bright, and she caught her breath in excitement, for just as the leader rounded the lighthouse, the tips of the masts caught the first rays of the rising sun, and gleamed almost like spear- points in the strong light, which soon inwrapped the whole fleet in a beautiful glow. Others saw it as well as herself, and some one shouted, "A good sign! A good sign!" while a hearty cheer rose from the little group of women, children, and old men upon the beach.
Sara joined in it, and felt glad as well as they; for while she might have doubts of howling dogs and dripping candles, this seemed an omen that heaven itself might deign to send as a comfort to their anxious hearts.
CHAPTER II.
STORM AND TROUBLE.
They turned homewards presently, and Sara, walking between the now momently subdued Morton and Molly, heard her name called with a purity of pronunciation so seldom accorded it in Killamet that she knew at once who spoke.
"It's Miss Prue, children; run on home, while I stop and see what she wants," she said, turning from them and passing through the little gateway in a neat white paling fence at her side. Then she followed the path to the door, as usual near the rear of the cottage, but here prettily shaded by a neat latticed porch, over which some vines, now bare of leaves, clambered, while a little bay-window close by was all abloom with plants inside. Between the plants she caught a glimpse of a smiling face, which presently appeared at the door.
"Good-morning, Sara. Come in a minute, child. I haven't seen you this fortnight!"
Sara smiled up into the kind elderly face, around which a muslin cap was primly tied.
"No, Miss Prue, I've been very busy getting the nets and father's clothes ready; he's been expecting the start every day."
"Yes, I suppose so. What a fine morning for it! I've been watching them from the skylight through my binocle; 'twas a brave sight!"
"Yes, beautiful, only that father is getting old for such hardships. I dread