Chapter VI: In the Highland Light

T nine o'clock Thursday evening Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax had bade farewell to their friends at Moorlow. At nine o'clock Friday morning the train whirled by on its way to Sandy Hook, and then they waved good-bye from the car windows, as they had promised, to Regie and Harry and Nan, who, seated on a pile of railroad ties, had been watching and waiting for the train a long half hour. At nine o'clock Saturday morning Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax went on board the _Alaska_, which some one has called “the greyhound of the sea,” and a half hour later the good ship steamed out into the Bay.

“Well, I suppose you've seen the last of 'em,” said Captain Murray, joining the little party just as the train had disappeared, and looking closely at Regie to see how he was taking it.

“The last for a while, I suppose, sir,” said Regie, in a firm little voice, but nevertheless gazing very wistfully down the track in the direction of the vanishing train. “I would have given a good deal,” he added, “to have seen the big ship they are going on.”

“You would? Well, why not?” said the captain. “Yes, why not?” looking from one puzzled face to the other in an amused sort of fashion.

“Oh!” said Harry, “do you mean that you'll take us to the Highland Light?”

“Of course I do. Where else, to be sure? We can drive over with Dobbin early to-morrow morning. I'll take the glass along, and we'll have a good look at the _Alaska_, every one of us. What time does she leave the dock, Reginald?” for the honest captain believed in calling people and things by their right names.

“Half-past nine, sir,” said Regie, promptly, for he was well posted on all the details of the projected journey.

“Then she'll round the Hook about eleven.”.

“Is the lighthouse very high?” asked Regie, his face aglow with excitement.

“High enough to see a long way out to sea,” answered the captain.

“I was not thinking of that,” said Regie, rather ruefully. “I was thinking I could not climb up so very many stairs with these crutches.”

“But you can go up mighty easy without them. See! just like this,” and Captain Murray caught Regie in his arms as easily as Regie himself would have lifted a kitten. “Bring the crutches, Nan,” he added, “there's no use in staying here any longer.”

“I believe Papa and Mamma Fairfax would like to know we were looking at them,” said Regie, with his arms clasped firmly round the captain's neck. “They could not see us, but they could know we were there.”

“To be sure,” said the captain, making use of those three monosyllables on every possible occasion; “and we'll stop at the railroad station on our way home now, and telegraph them to be on the lookout for us.”

“You're a magnificent captain!” said Regie, never hesitating to express honest admiration.

“I'm glad you think so,” replied the captain, tightening his hold of the warm-hearted little fellow, “but unfortunately your saying so does not make it true.”

“But, papa, it is true,” said Nan, loyally, catching hold of her father's coat, and trudging along by his side. “All the men say so at the Life-saving Station, and I guess they ought to know.”

“None of them have ever been to sea with me, Nan.”

“They know about you all the same,” said Harry, with a significant shake of his head; for he was very proud of his tall father, and of his handsome weather-beaten face.

They had reached the little Gothic railroad station, and Captain Murray sat Regie down on the operator's table while he wrote this telegram on one of the yellow paper blanks:--

“Mr. Curtis Fairfax,

“No. --, Wall St., New York.

“The children will wave you good-bye from the Highland Light at eleven o'clock to-morrow, rain or shine.

“Epher Murray.”

In two hours back came this answer:--

“Captain Epher Murray,

“Moorlow, New Jersey.

“Good for you. Keep a sharp lookout for special signals.

“C. Fairfax.”

“A sharp lookout for special signals!” the words kept ringing in the children's ears.

“What can he mean to do--my darling old Papa Fairfax?” thought Regie, as he dropped off into a sound sleep that night.

At eight o'clock the next morning, Sister Julia and Regie and Nan climbed into the back seat of Cap-. tain Murray's waggon, while Harry took the place beside his father in front.

Faithful old Dobbin broke straightway into a canter, bound for the “Highland Light,” and fortunately for the party there was no “rain,” but plenty of “shine” instead.

Down the fine boulevard they went, past the fine houses, through Sea Bright, with its queer medley of summer cottages, hotels, and fishermen's huts; then crossing and recrossing the track again and again, because the drive on that narrow strip of land between the ocean and the Shewsbury river constantly accommodates itself to the curves of the railroad; over the rickety Highland Bridge, stopping to pay toll on the draw; past the bevy of cottages, where a number of actors and actresses have established a little colony of their own; up the steep hill, with the great seams washed in the road by the heavy rains, but wide enough and deep enough to seem more like the work of an earthquake; finally coming to a halt at the gate which opens on the rear of the grand old lighthouse.

“Why, how do you do, captain? Want to show the youngsters through the light?” asked the keeper, appearing in the doorway at the sound of the waggon wheels.

“Want to do more than that,” answered Captain Murray, lifting his little party out one by one; “want to see the _Alaska_ off for Europe.”

“Friends on board?”

“This little chap's father and mother.”

“Oh, that's it, is it?” said the keeper. “But what's happened the little fellow?” glancing at Regie's crutches.

“He fell from a cherry tree a few week ago,” Sister Julia explained, as they walked towards the house.

“Stealing cherries, eh?” chuckled the man, giving Regie a significant little nudge.

“Indeed, I wasn't,” answered Regie, with some indignation.

“Why, Reginald, he is only joking,” Sister Julia said, reprovingly.

“Of course I was,” said the keeper. “Such a bright little fellow as you look to be ought to know when a man's joking.”

“Yes, I know I ought,” Regie answered, blushing. “I spoke before I thought; you must excuse me, Mr. Keeper.”

“'Mr. Keeper,'” laughed the man, “well! that's a new name for Joe Canfield; but I like it, and you're a mighty honest little fellow. When you're ready to go up, you can leave your crutches below here, and I'll carry you over every one of those blessed stairs myself.”

“You'd better let papa do that,” said Nan, “he's pretty heavy, and we wouldn't have anything happen to him for the world.”

“Do you think I would drop him, little one? Never you fear; I could carry you both as well as not;” whereupon Nan started to travel briskly up the stairs, as if to show him she was quite equal to doing her own climbing.

“Bide a bit, miss,” called the keeper. “You won't be able to sight the _Alaska_ for a half hour yet. If you want to understand about the light you'd better look about down here first.” Then he led the way into a room on the ground floor, where the oil for the lights was stored, the little party following him closely, with the exception of Captain Murray, whom the children were glad to have go “on watch” in the balcony of the light, for fear, by any chance, the _Alaska_ should be sighted ahead of time.

“I suppose you have noticed before you came in, ma'am,” said Keeper Canfield, addressing Sister Julia, “that this lighthouse has two towers and two lights? The dwellings for the keepers' families are in between 'em, and there we live as cosy and comfortable as can be. If you have time when you come down you must take a peep at our baby. Have you ever seen a lighthouse baby?” he added, turning to Nan.

“Never,” said Nan, seriously.

“Well, a lighthouse baby is worth seeing, for somehow or other they look brighter than ordinary babies. It seems as though they were born with a notion that their two eyes must cheer us old codgers on life's great sea, just as the lights in the tower there cheer the sailors.”

The children looked wonderingly up at their guide, not quite sure whether he were in earnest or no.

“Now, you see,” he continued, “this is the room where we store the oil, and how much do you suppose we burn in a year? Forty-five hundred gallons! We burn mineral oil, that is, oil that comes out from the ground through the oil wells.”

The room in which they were standing was flanked with wooden boxes, each containing a full oil-can, and everything was scrupulously neat, for not a speck of dust was to be seen anywhere.

“Now I guess we had better go up,” said the keeper, when a good many questions had been asked and answered, “and we'll go easy, so as not to lose our breath;” then, taking Regie's crutches in one hand, he lifted him into his arms.

“And, Nan,” said Sister Julia, “you had better take hold of my hand, for fear your little head should grow dizzy on this winding flight.”

Of course Harry was half-way up before the rest of the party had even started.

The keeper landed Regie safely right inside the light itself, and indeed it was large enough to hold them all. What a marvellous place it was! It seemed as though they were in a beautiful crystal house, for they were surrounded by tier after tier of glass prisms, so arranged as to project the light from the lantern against a series of brass reflectors at the back, and they, in turn, throw the light twenty-five miles out to sea.

The children were too much awed by the wonderful contrivance to even speak, until Harry slipped out of the light and peered in at them through the glass. It made him look very funny--eyes, nose, mouth, every feature appeared to be drawn out lengthwise by the prisms.

“Why, Harry Murray!” cried Nan, “you're a disgrace to the family. I never saw anything so ugly in all my life!”

“I wish you could come out here and have a look at yourself, then,” Harry called back. “Your head is about two inches high, and two feet wide. You could stand in a bandbox, you are so short, but it would take a dozen of 'em to hold you the other way!”

Nan and Harry were so much amused with these ridiculous distortions that Reginald was the only one who really paid attention to the keeper's description of the lantern, but he listened sagely, and plied questions fast enough to atone for the indifference of the others. Harry might be partially excused for his inattention, on the ground that he had been through the light two or three times before. As for Nan, it must be confessed that she was not of an inquiring turn of mind.

“There's one sad thing about this light,” said the keeper to Reginald, who sat on a little stool with his crutches laid across his knees. “There's one very sad thing, and that is, that some sailors do not understand what it is for at all. They seem to be fascinated by it, and they steer straight for it, and of course there's no help in the end, but that they all get wrecked on the bar.”

“Why, that's very queer,” said Reginald. “I should think a man wasn't fit to be a sailor at all unless he understood about lighthouses and things.”

“So it would seem,” said the keeper, with a shrug; “but I've thought sometimes that the trouble is with their steering apparatus, and that the poor things are more to be pitied than blamed. The moment they come in sight of the light, their helms seem to get bewitched, and first thing they know their queer-rigged little crafts are headed straight for the light, and on they come, sort of in spite of themselves, and with death staring them right in the face.”

“Have there been many wrecks lately?” asked Reginald, his eyes as large as saucers.

“Five last night.”

Regie stared at the man with a look that meant plainly, “I don't believe a word of it,” and the keeper laughed outright. Sister Julia, sitting at the top of the little flight of stairs just outside the lantern, watched him with an amused smile on her face; and Nan, who was listening now, was interested enough to wish that she had heard it all.

“You think that I am telling you a yarn, don't you, youngster?” said the keeper to Regie, “but 'pon honour it is every word true. If you don't believe it, I'll show you the five little wrecks lying in a row on a bench in the yard, just as I picked 'em up this morning.”

“Picked 'em up!” said Regie, scornfully.

“Yes, sir, picked 'em up. The reason you don't understand me is because you spell sailor with an “o,” but in this case you must spell it with an “e”--sailers, you see--which is only another name for birds, you know.”

It was Regie's turn to laugh now. “You fooled me pretty well,” he said; but Nan looked more ready to cry.

“Do you mean,” said she, “that five little birds flew against this lantern last night, and killed themselves?”

“Five last night, and six the night before,” said the man, as though the truth must be told, no matter how unpleasant.

“Ship ahoy!” shouted Captain Murray from the tower balcony, where he had been on watch for the last half hour. All knew what that meant, and Sister Julia and Nan and Harry hurried down the little flight that led from the lantern to the balcony, and the keeper quickly caught Regie in his arms again.

“Where is she?” cried Regie, impatiently, as though he could hardly wait for an answer.

“You can see her with the naked eye,” replied the captain, “away off there in a direct line from the Hook. I knew her build and rig the moment she came in sight; but she's flying a queer sort of flag,” putting his glass to his eye.

“Perhaps it's the special signal Mr. Fairfax telegraphed us to look out for,” said sister Julia.

“Please let me have a look,” cried Reginald, almost pulling the glass from Captain Murray's hands in his eagerness. It took a moment to adjust it to his eyesight, and then he exclaimed, almost breathless with excitement. “Yes, there's a big red flag with some large yellow thing on it. Oh, I know, it's a flag from one of Papa Fairfax's warehouses, and the yellow thing is a coffee canister; see, Captain Murray, see if it isn't.”

Captain Murray took the glass back again. “Yes, you're right, Reginald,” he said; “but there's something on the flag beside the canister, something that looks like letters.”

“Perhaps it is a message,” cried Rex, fairly wild with excitement. “Oh! please let me see if I can make them out.” Once again the glass was quickly re-adjusted to Regie's sight, while Nan and Harry pressed their faces close to his, as though being as close as possible to the glass was the next best thing to looking through it. “Yes, they are letters,” said Regie more calmly, “big white letters, and the first is a G, I think, and the next an O, but the flag waves so I cannot read the rest.”

“'Perhaps it's 'Good-bye,'” said Nan.

“Of course it is,” cried Regie, “I see the B now, and the E; but there's another word besides. Try, Nan, if you can make it out,” and Regie with much self-denial gave up his place at the glass.

Wind and tide seemed always to favour little Nan, for at that very moment a stiff breeze caught the flag and held it out bravely, so that she read “Good-bye, Regie,” as easily as from her spelling book at school.

Oh! how the message thrilled through and through Regie's excited little frame.

To think that Papa Fairfax cared so much for him as to take all that trouble; and right then and there a prayer went silently up from Regie's full heart that he might never do anything to grieve him--never.

Quickly the glass was passed from one to another that all might have a look.

“Oh, if we only could signal back somehow!” said Sister Julia, earnestly.

“And what is to hinder, dear?” answered the keeper's wife, who had toiled up to the tower with the baby in her arms.

“Daniel,” she added, turning to her husband, “run to the parlour and pull down the curtain from the double window. That's big enough for them to distinguish.”

Big enough for them to distinguish! you would have thought so could you have seen the great expanse of turkey red that floated from the tower a few minutes later.

“They see it! they see it!” shouted Harry, whose turn it was now at the glass. “They're dipping their colours.”

“So they are!” every one cried, for no glass was needed to discern that.

With happy, wistful eyes Regie watched the great _Alaska_ till she was a mere speck on the horizon; then the little party turned their faces homeward, and from that moment Regie looked eagerly forward to the day when they should come sailing back again.

VII.--A TRIP TO BURCHARD'S

EEMS to me, peaches must be at their best about now, father,” Mrs. Murray said to the captain, as they sat at breakfast one morning, about a week after Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax had sailed.

“Shouldn't wonder, Mollie,” replied the Captain, and then he said nothing more, for he was busy with his own thoughts.

“Shouldn't wondering doesn't help matters any,” said his wife at last, impatiently. “What's to be done about 'em, Epher?”

“About what, Mollie?” asked the captain, for he had really forgotten what she was talking about.

“Why! the peaches, to be sure. You must be having one of your absent-minded turns.”

“I was thinking, Mollie,” he answered, “about getting some new blankets and tarpaulins for the crew. That is more like minding my own business than being absent-minded, it strikes me.”

Captain Murray had had charge of the Moorlow Life-saving Station for eight years, and had just accepted a new appointment.

“I guess you'd say I hadn't been minding mine, if I let the fall go by without doing up any peaches. Nobody sets more store by my preserves than you do, Epher Murray, but you'll have few enough to set store by this year, unless you do something pretty quick about 'em.”

“Well! well! I'll send word over to Burchard's orchard; that's all that's needed, isn't it?”

“And who will you send, I'd like to know?”

It seemed to Mrs. Murray as though the captain might offer his own services for such an all-important matter as this preserving.

“Couldn't the children drive over for them?” asked Sister

Julia, who always endeavoured to make things as comfortable as possible for everybody.

“The very thing!” Regie exclaimed.

“Oh! do let us go, father,” cried. Harry and Nan together.

“Of course you can go,” answered Captain Murray, only too willing to give a permission that freed him from any responsibility in the matter.

To be allowed to go by themselves all the way to Burchard's orchard seemed quite an adventure in the eyes of the children, and they were anxious to be off but certain things must needs be first attended to. Nan had various little indoor duties, which kept her busy for a while every morning, and Harry had regular morning work in the neighbourhood of the wood pile. As for Regie, Sister Julia said, kindly but firmly, that “he could not stir a step till he had written a letter to Papa Fairfax.” Harry soon succeeded in finishing his task, and hurried out to the barn, as he thought, to help the man, Joe, to put Pet into the harness. What was his disappointment to find the barn empty. He knew in a moment that Joe must have taken him to be shod, for ponies, as well as little people, seem to need shoeing very often, and he rushed back to the house in a great state of excitement.

Regie was struggling with his letter, with Sister Julia sitting by as an authority in the matter of spelling.

“Say,” cried Harry, appearing on the scene, “there isn't a sign of Pet in the barn. I s'pose they've taken him off to be shod, and there's no telling when they'll bring him back.” His manner showed so very plainly what he thought, that he hardly needed to have added that “he thought it was very mean indeed.”

“I think it is very mean, too!” said Regie; “seems to me I ought to be told when my own pony needs shoeing, and not have him walked off just when I want to use him.”

“If that is the case you had better off with my head, then, King Regie,” laughed Sister Julia; “for I am the guilty one. The moment it was decided that you should go to the orchard I sent Joe off with Pet, for it would never do to have him cast a shoe on such a long drive.”

“Oh, that's all right then,” said Regie, apologetically. He had a foolish trick of growing indignant over many things, because he would not wait to find out the true facts of a case. This may be said in his favour, however, that when he found himself in the wrong, which was very often, he was always ready to admit it,--an honest, winning trait which is somewhat rare in this self-confident world of ours.

“Now run along, Harry,” said Sister Julia. “This letter of Reginald's must go out by to-morrow's steamer, and if he does not hurry, Pet will be at the door long before he is through with it.”

Harry departed as requested, and Reginald spread his arms out on the table, and resumed writing, accompanying every up and down stroke of his pen with an earnest little motion of the lips, as if that were a necessary part of the proceeding. With long pauses over certain words, and constant appeals to Sister Julia, frequently as to the spelling of words of which he was perfectly sure, the letter was at last finished, and this was the result--

“Moorlow, Sept, 7th '85.

“Dear Papa Fairfax,--We are all well, and having a first-rate time, and hope you are having a good time too. The pony is just as well and fat as ever, but Captain Murray's cow has a very lame foot. We caught a woodchuck last Saturday, and Captain Murray's man, Joe, skinned him, and we gave the skin to Mrs. Murray for a little rug. We have been making darts with horseshoe nails and corks and feathers. Did you know how to do that when you were a little boy? We have had to put the old drake in another place. He kept picking up the little ducks and shaking them. We are going to a peach orchard this morning (if Pet ever comes home from being shod). So good-bye, from

“Your loving

“Regie.

“P. S. It is very nice here. Captain Murray asked me to send his love to you. Sister Julia is very kind. I love her next to you and Mamma Fairfax.--R. F.”

The careful directing of the envelope was the work of an additional five minutes, and Sister Julia stood ready to hand Reginald his hat and crutches the moment it should be completed; for Harry and Nan and Pet were waiting at the door, and all equally impatient.

“Now, children,” said Sister Julia, as they were getting stowed away in the cart, “it is eleven o'clock, and it will take you about an hour and a half to drive over, and you must allow the same time for driving home. I shall be worried if you are not here by five. I shall depend upon you, Regie, to keep watch of the time. Let us see if our watches agree.” They were found to agree to the minute, and the little party set off. Pet was the most energetic pony; going or coming was all the same to him. He always trotted over the ground as fast as his little legs could carry him, seldom falling into a walk of his own accord. So it was not strange that, with Pet's steady pattering and the children's steady chattering, they found themselves at the peach orchard in what seemed to them a very short space of time, though, in point of fact, they had been on the road almost as long as Sister Julia had predicted.

Regie was able to drive right into the orchard, for the bars of the rail fence had been let down, and they soon came to a rough platform covered with peach baskets, some full and some empty, over which a coloured boy, with hands plunged into his trousers pockets, was loyally keeping guard.

“Any peaches for sale?” asked Harry, scrambling out.

“Lots of 'em,” grinned the boy.

“Where's Mr. Burchard?” asked Nan.

“South corner,” indicating the direction with a bob of his woolly head; “he's got a gang of men down there with him picking.”

“Let's go and help 'em,” said Harry, “we can eat all we want to and have lots of fun,” but the words were no sooner uttered than he realised that hobbling over that rough orchard was out of the question for Regie, and indeed it was too rough to drive farther in with the cart.

“One of us must stay with Pet,” said Regie, casually, as though there was no other reason in the world why he should not go. Harry and Nan scampered off, with some misgivings on Nan's part as to the kindness of deserting her king; but the vision of a seat on a comfortable bough, with luscious peaches within easy reach, was a stronger test than even her loyalty could bear.

“Want to get out?” said the coloured boy to Rex, when the children had gone. “I'll help you,” glancing significantly toward the crutches.

“No, thank you,” answered Rex, “it is too much bother;” and, foolish, sensitive little fellow that he was, he blushed up to the roots of his hair, as though a broken leg was something to be heartily ashamed of.

“Lame long?” asked the boy, who seemed averse to wasting breath on any unnecessary words.

“Three months,” said Rex, “but I'll soon be over it. I wish you'd let down Pet's check,” he added, willing to change the subject.

“Boss pony,” said the boy, carrying out Regie's request, whereupon Pet sniffed about him, expecting something to eat.

“Seems hungry,” said the boy.

“That can't be,” said Rex, proudly; “he has all the hay and oats he wants every day.”

“Give him a peach?” asked the boy, with elevated eyebrows.

“Yes, if you want to.”

Jim, for that was the boy's name, picked out “a booty,” as he called it, gave it rather an unnecessary rub on the side of his old trousers, and popped it into Pet's expectant jaws. Pet made a great fuss over it. It could hardly be an easy matter to manage a large peach, and the good-sized pit inside of it, with a curb bit in the mouth.

“Do they give peaches to horses?” asked Reginald, beginning to have some misgivings on the subject.

“Some's feared to do it.”

“Are they afraid of the pit's sticking in their throats?”

The boy gave a little grunt that meant “Yes, they were.” Regie was alarmed. “But you need not fear 'bout this un,” added the boy; “he looks knowin' enough to spit the pit out.” Jim was right, and in a few minutes the pit fell softly to the ground. Then the boys fell to talking about one thing and another to while away the time, until it suddenly occurred to Jim to put another peach into Pet's mouth.

“I wish you had not done that,” said Regie, a little provoked. “I think he came very near choking on the other one.”

There was a sound of wheels just then, and a waggon loaded with peach baskets came in sight, with Nan and Harry seated in front of them. “There's old black Ned,” said Jim, pointing towards the horse that was drawing the waggon; “he eats ten peaches of a mornin', and spits the pit out every time; but, my eyes! I reckon this pony ain't got sense enough, arter all,” for just at this point Pet began to cough and strangle most prodigiously.

“Pull it out, can't you?” said Rex, impatiently, whereupon the boy simply stood and stared, plunging his hands deeper down into the depths of his trousers pocket. Regie knew that he could get to Pet in no other way so quickly as to scramble along his back and drop over his head. It was the work of a moment, and the unexpected arrival of somebody on his neck caused Pet to jerk his head so violently as to send the unlucky stone flying out of his throat, and to land Regie in a topsy-turvy state in front of him. Regie hardly touched the ground before Harry was at his side, trying to help him up. Pet did not know what to make of all this, and stood looking down at his young master with his ears pricked up and his head on one side; but no doubt he was grateful to the transaction that had enabled him to part company with that deplorable stone.

“Your leg's not hurt, is it, Rex?” cried Nan, instantly appearing on the scene.

“I guess not. Get my crutches, please,” and Nan hurried to pull them out from under the seat of the cart.

“Why, what's all this?” asked the man, who had been leading the horse with the load of peaches.

“Oh, that old coloured boy of yours gave a peach to my pony, and then, when he choked on the pit, was too much of a coward to try and get it out and Rex turned to wither poor Jim with one of his most kingly glances, but Jim had vanished.

“I should think he would take himself off,” said Harry, indignantly. “If he'd stayed round here I would have given him a piece of my mind,” and Harry made certain significant gestures with the plumpest of fists. “Think of his letting a lame fellow like Rex come tumbling out of the cart, rather than lift his hand to help a choking pony,” and an angry red flush shot over Harry's sun-burned face.

Just at this moment Nan discovered a black curly-headed little pate directly under a hole in the platform, but with Harry at this angry pitch she did not dare to make known her discovery. Presently, when Harry and Rex were busy getting into the cart, and the man's back was turned, what did the little witch do but catch up an old tin pail near at hand, dip it half full of powdered dust from the road, and pour it down through that one small hole in the platform. There was a spluttering sound as of suppressed choking. Nan was the only one that noticed it, but her little face was sufficiently wreathed in smiles to prove that “revenge is sweet” to the “gentler sex,” though the revenger be still in pinafores.

VIII.--ON THE WAY HOME

HEN you will surely send those peaches this afternoon?” said Harry to the man, when all was in readiness to turn their faces homeward.

“Surely; and if you don't hurry up they'll get there before you.”

Hurrying was just in Pet's line, and he pricked up his ears as though he fully understood this last remark. Rex gave him the word and away he flew, almost running against the gatepost in his eagerness to be off from that region of coloured boys and peach stones.

“Which way shall we go?” asked Rex, consulting his little silver watch; “we have plenty of time.”

“Of course we have,” said Nan, “and why shouldn't we stop somewhere when there is an elegant luncheon in the bottom of this cart and we have not taken a minute to eat it?”

“Sure enough,” Harry exclaimed, and the children stared at each other with a look of amazement, wondering how it ever could have happened that they should for a moment have forgotten anything so important.

“I tell you what let's do,” said Rex; “let's go home by the Rumson Road. I know a lovely great tree, where we can rest Pet while we eat the luncheon.”

Harry and Nan fell in with the plan, and Pet, who, with true pony instinct, had started the shortest way home, was obliged to right-about-face. There are not many more charming drives than that of the Rumson Road, bordered as it is on one side by beautiful country houses, whose windows command a near view of the river and a distant one of the sea. Luxuriant hedges and evenly trimmed grass-plots line the drive, and here and there a fine old tree throws a grateful shadow athwart the red soil road. Though each of the little trio had been over it many times before, it seemed to-day to wear a new beauty in their eyes, and when they reached a point where it curves gracefully and two grand old places confront each other, Nan's enthusiasm found vent.

“Isn't it just too beautiful for anything?” she exclaimed. “Yes, it is lovely,” Rex answered,--“just like the country far away from the sea, and yet you can see the ocean as plain as day.”

“It is a great pity,” said Nan, “that plants and flowers won't grow as they ought to, close down to the shore.” She was looking at a great bed of flowers in the midst of one of the lawns, and recalling a little company of spindly geraniums, which she had vainly tried to make flourish in her little garden at home, so depressing is the effect of salt sea-fogs and sandy soil upon all growing things. “And there are no trees to speak of near the sea,” she added, with a little sigh, for she dearly loved the green and the shade of the inland country; “nothing but meadows of great coarse grass.”

“You forgot the lawns round the places on the boulevard, Nan,” said Harry.

“Oh, to be sure, but the grass only grows there because they have men to sprinkle and 'tend to it all the time. Papa says he could s'port half-a-dozen little girls like me for what it costs for one of those lawns a single summer.”

“That seems very extravagant,” said Regie, who had quite a business way of looking at matters.

“I think I would like to live back here, where things grow as though they loved it, and not because they are made to,” Nan remarked, thoughtfully.

“Indeed, I know better, Nannie Murray; you love the sea too much to be contented away from it a week,” Harry remarked, with brotherly superiority. “Why, mother took you to Grandma Murray's when you were only a scrap of a baby, and you cried and fretted so she 'was ashamed of you, and had to bring you home. The moment you caught sight of the sea you crowed and clapped your little hands, and behaved like another baby altogether. No, sir-ree, you'd be sick of living back here in a week.”

“Well, perhaps I would,” Nan admitted, for she knew, after all, that no sound was so sweet in her ears as the roar of the breakers on the beach, nor anything that looked quite so beautiful to her as the dear old ocean, whether under a blue sky or a grey one.

By this time they had reached Regie's tree. It stood just at the top of a little descent in the road, and not many yards away from one of the numerous railroad crossings which traverse that part of the country.

Rex was helped out to a comfortable seat under it. Harry took Pet out of the shafts and tied him to a rail fence near by, while Nan, a perfect counterpart of her energetic mother, began transferring the luncheon from the basket to the grass, and spreading it out so that it should look as inviting as possible.

Then there was silence as far as any continued conversation was concerned for the space of fifteen minutes. There was an occasional “These biscuits are delicious,” or a “Please pass me the sponge cake,” but that was all. A good appetite and plenty to gratify it generally quiets, for the time being, even the most incessant of little chatterboxes.

When the luncheon was all disposed of, save a few crumbs,--which, by the way, made a beautiful meal for a family of ants the next day,--Regie threw himself on his back, and with hands folded under his head, looked up into the boughs, and in dreamy fashion watched the birds flying in and out. Harry whipped the inevitable boat hull out of his pocket and began whittling; and Nan, as any one who knew her could have foretold, soon discovered some sort of wild flowers at a little distance, and wandered off to gather them. They proved to be Black-eyed Susans, as the children call the yellow field daisies; and when she had picked them she discovered a larger growth of the same flower farther on in the midst of one of those luxurious wild “hedges, which often flourish along the line of railroads in the country. Of course she must needs have these too, and she hurried to reach them, as though half afraid that someone would seek to rob her of the prize. Eagerly she broke the stems; with a quiet knack placed each flower just where it would most contribute to the effectiveness of her bouquet, and she was just turning to go back to the boys when she spied something large and dark lying right across the track a hundred yards away.

“Harry! Reginald!” she cried, at the top of her voice, “come here, quick!” at the same time shading her eyes with her hand, to discover, if possible, what the something might be. Harry was on his feet in an instant, for Nan was hidden from sight, and he feared some accident. Regie reached for his crutches and followed after as fast as he could. It seemed to Nan as though Harry never would come. “Look there,” she cried, as soon as he was within hearing distance, “What can it be?” pointing down the track as she spoke.

“My jimini, I believe it's a cow!” and, more courageous than Nan, hurried on to investigate. Nan, with a pretty native thoughtfulness, waited till Rex had hobbled up to her, and then they trudged along to join Harry, who had reached the dark object, and stood poking at it with a sharp-pointed stick. Yes, it was certainly a great, dark-red cow, and the little party, gathering around her, stared at her for a few seconds in awe-struck silence.

“Is she dead?” asked Nan, betraying a world of emotion in her voice.

“Looks like it, doesn't it?” said Harry, appealing to Regie. Rex shook his head solemnly in the affirmative.

“Oh, dear, dear!” cried Nan, “she'll be run over when the train comes.”

“It won't hurt her if she is,” answered Harry, trying to assume a light tone; but his face plainly showed that he thought it a pretty serious matter.

“I wonder what we ought to do?” said Rex.

“I think we had better get right off this track this minute,” Nan wisely advised, “for there's no knowing when a train may come round the curve yonder.” So they clambered up the bank and sat down to deliberate.

“Do you suppose she will throw the train off the track?” questioned Nan.

“I don't believe so,” said Rex, “that's what the cow-catcher is for, you know.”

“But the trouble is they don't always catch,” remarked Harry, with an emphatic shake of his head.

“Oh, do you suppose a train may be coming?” asked Nan, with a perceptible little shiver.

“How should we know, goosie?” answered Harry, with a nervous sort of shrug.

“But,” questioned Rex, in business-like fashion, “what are we going to do about it?”

“Well,” said Harry, “I don't see that we can do anything. I haven't an idea where this road can run to. Perhaps it is not used now.”

“Oh, yes, it is,” cried Nan. “Hark!” and she pushed back her sun-bonnet so that she could hear more distinctly.

Yes, surely it was a whistle, all three of the children heard it,--a long way off no doubt; but now they hear it again, and it sounded nearer.

“I think we ought to run down the track and stop the train,” urged Rex.

“But how shall we do it?” Harry exclaimed. “I don't believe they would stop just for our calling; and besides, they might not hear us; we ought to signal somehow.”

The words “signal somehow” suggested a red flag to Nan, for she knew that was what they used at times of danger, and the thought suggested--well, no matter what, but she disappeared behind a bush, and in a moment re-appeared, waving a veritable little red flag.

“Where did you get it?” cried the boys both at once, and staring at her in blank astonishment.

“It is my flannel skirt,” Nan replied, with cheeks well nigh as scarlet as the skirt itself.

“Good for you, Nan; you're a 'cute one!” and Harry quickly fastened the skirt to the same stick with which he had poked the cow. Then he rushed off, calling, “Come on, Nan; but Rex had better wait here.”

Poor Rex! never had he felt so thoroughly out of patience with that lame leg of his. It seemed so hard not to be able to run with the best of them when there was so much excitement in the wind.

“May I go?” said Nan, appealingly, and as though she dared not stir without permission from his little Royal Highness.

“Of course, child,” said the king, somewhat ungraciously.

Harry hurried along the track, and rounding the curve immediately gained a position, from which he knew the little flag could be seen from quite a distance? He reached the spot none too soon, for by this time the train was in sight. Right away he began waving vigorously. Nan's sun-bonnet was hanging from her neck, and she quickly untied the strings and shook it wildly up and down.

“Oh, Harry! do you think they see us?” she cried.

“See us! why, they can't help seeing us, goosie.” Harry called Nan by this name more often than by any other. He did not mean it unkindly, and Nan did not mind.

“They are slowing up,” cried Harry, jubilantly.

“They are slowing up,” Nan repeated, in the vain hope that Rex might hear her. The next moment the train came to a standstill, and Nan dropped in a limp heap to the ground, for, trembling with excitement, her little limbs, stout though they were, refused longer to support her.

“Well, children, what's up?” shouted the engineer, from the cab of the locomotive. “I hope you ain't stopped the train for the fun of the thing.”

“Well, I guess not,” cried Harry, indignantly. “There's a dead cow on the track just round the curve; we were afraid she might throw your train off.”

“Good for you,” answered the man, “you may have saved us an ugly accident. Come, Joe,” he called to the fireman, as he jumped from his engine. “Now show us where she is, Johnnie.”

“My name's Harry,” suggested that small gentleman, not caring to be addressed by the general title of Johnnie.

“Well, then, Master Harry, lead the way.” Nan stayed where she was. The excitement of the last few moments had robbed her of all strength; besides, she did not exactly want to see them drag that poor cow from the track. And now the people in the train began to crane their necks from the car windows to ascertain what might be the' cause of the delay. A few men had gotten out and had gone ahead to investigate.

“What's wrong, honey?” asked an old woman of Nan, whose seat on the embankment brought her just on a level with the window.

“There's--there's a cow on the track,” answered Nan, with a big sigh between the two “there's,” as if her little heart had been quite overburdened.

“And de engineer saw it in time to stop de train? Tank de Lord!” ejaculated the old woman.

“No, no, he didn't; _we_ stopped the train,” Nan answered, proudly; “the engineer couldn't see the cow at all from here.”

“Bress my heart! how did yer do it, chile?”

“Why, with my flannel skirt,” Nan explained. She had not noticed that others in the car were listening to their conversation, but at this remark a coarse derisive laugh made her realise that a dozen pair of eyes were upon her. It proved too much for her overstrung nerves. She burst into tears and threw herself flat upon the grass, burying her face in her hands.

“Ye'd all oughter be ashamed o' ye'selves,” said the old mammy, turning indignantly upon the fellow-passengers, though as much mystified as any of them by Nan's reply to her question.

Meanwhile the cow had been pulled from the track, and Regie and Harry were naturally much elated by the earnest commendation of the passengers who stood about them. “Look here,” said one of them, evidently a farmer, “seems to me we ought to do something for these little people; who knows but some of us might have been in Kingdom Come but for them.”

“That's so,” answered another passenger, “but what can yer do more'n thank 'em? they look like gentlefolks' children. I reckon they wouldn't take money for doing a kind turn.”

“Well, I guess not,” said Regie, who had overheard the last remark.

“I thought so,” answered the passenger, with a knowing wink. “He's got the right spirit, but I'd like to know one thing: where did you get that 'ere red flag?”

“It's my sister's flannel skirt,” said Harry.

“And who was so awful 'cute as to think of it?”

“Why, Nan, of course,” Harry replied, and as though Nan's “'cuteness” was a widely-accepted fact.

They had all been walking back toward the train as they talked, and now a warning whistle from the engineer hurried every one on board. As the wheels of the car began to turn slowly, the old mammy was the first to descry the little flannel skirt, whose mention had caused so much merriment, flying from the stick, which Harry had thrust into the ground when he had no farther use for it.

“Oh, see!” she cried, pointing towards it, “that's how she did it--she did make a flag of it. Now that's what I call 'cute.”

“'Cute, I should say so,” exclaimed the passenger who had been talking with Regie. “Let's give 'em three cheers as we go, one apiece, and the last and the loudest for the girl--the smart little owner of the little red skirt.” At the sound of the hearty cheering Nan raised her head, with a smile shining through her tears. She had heard the old mammy's exclamation, and then she understood why the people had laughed when she told them she had stopped the train with her flannel skirt. How stupid of her not to have explained that she made a flag of it! Four slow puffs from the locomotive were heard above the cheering, then a dozen short quick ones, and in another second the train had rounded the curve and was out of sight, though for several minutes they could hear the noise of it growing fainter and fainter in the distance.

“Well, now we had better hurry home,” said Rex, drawing a long breath. “It wall be seven o'clock before we get there, and Sister Julia will be awfully worried.”

Nan readjusted the little skirt that had done such good and novel service, and then they hurried back to Pet and the cart as fast as Regie could manage to get over the ground.

It was indeed nearly seven o'clock before they reached home, and Sister Julia _was_ worried--worried enough to have been waiting at the gate an hour, peering up and down the road in the deepening twilight, wondering what could have happened, and which way they would come home, and sometimes wondering if they ever would come at all. Oh! how happy she felt when she recognised the patter of Pet's nimble feet on the hard boulevard, long before she could discover the little turnout itself.

“Bless your little hearts!” she cried, running to meet them, “I have been so worried! what has kept you such a long while?” The children tried to tell all in one breath. “Oh, lots of things,” they answered. “We had to wait to stop a train because a dead cow was on the track,” said Nan.

“And Pet almost choked to death on a peach stone,” added Rex, “and----”

“Oh, wait a moment,” said Sister Julia, putting her fingers to her ears; “I cannot understand a word if you all talk at once.” Mrs. Murray was standing in the doorway; she had felt sure the children would come home all right. “How about the peaches?” she asked as they came up the path, for all this excitement did not make her forget that everything was in readiness for preserving the next day.

“Oh, they'll surely come to-night, the man promised faithfully,” Harry answered. “Hark! I heard a waggon; I guess they're coming now.” Yes, the waggon turned in at the gate, and Mrs. Murray's mind was as much relieved about the peaches as Sister Julia's about the children. The little trio did justice to an ample supper that night, and after an hour's narration of the exciting experiences of the day, they were perfectly willing to desert the open wood fire in the sitting-room for downy pillows and blankets, those comfortable contrivances which waft tired little people into the realm of slumberland.

IX.--A DAY ON THE BEACH

[9078]

T had been arranged that for the first week Regie and Harry and Nan should be allowed to do pretty much as they liked, but after that lessons should be regularly begun with Sister Julia. Rex and Harry had reached about the' same point in their studies, but poor little Nan was a good way behind, farther than her years would warrant. All the winter before she had attended school at the Branch, but she had pleaded very hard not to be sent back again.

“It is such a large school,” she had told her mother, “that when you get ahead they have to hold you back for the other girls, and so you don't learn very much.”

Mrs. Murray could not help smiling at her excuse for having made so little progress, knowing well enough the fault lay in the fact that she could not or would not apply her mind to the task which had been set her, but Nan hailed with delight this plan for studying with Sister Julia. Of course it had to be quite independently of the boys, because they were so far ahead of her, but somehow or other she was really in earnest about the matter, and did get along finely. The greatest incentive to hard study came to her in the mortification she felt one evening at not being able to enter into a game of Regie's, because she could not read the printing on the cards belonging to the game.

Now that the children had settled down to their schooling the time flew faster than ever, and before they knew it, enough days had come and gone to allow “Uncle Sam,” one morning, to shake a letter out of his mail-bag, directed to Regie and postmarked “London.”

“See here, Reginald, I've brought something for you,” called Captain Murray, coming with the mail, just as the children were setting off from the house, for it was Saturday and they had planned to spend the morning on the beach.

“Hurrah! here's another!” shouted Regie, for he had already received a steamer letter, which had been mailed when the _Alaska_ touched at Queenstown.

“Yes, another letter,” answered the captain, handing it to him, “and it's a rouser.”

Regie stood irresolute a moment. “I tell you, boys,” he said, always forgetting that Nan could not be included under this general title, “I tell you, I'll save it till we get fixed all comfortable on the beach, and then I'll read it to you.”

“All right; let's start,” said Harry, and the little party started, though Rex had some misgivings as to his ability to master Mamma Fairfax's handwriting, for he knew from the direction that the letter was from her. “We haven't played that king game much,” he said, as they trudged along. He was able to manage with a little cane now in place of the crutches.

“Seems to me we're kind of playing it,” answered Harry, glancing down at a heavy rug that he himself was carrying, and then over towards a luncheon basket with which Nan was laden: “at any rate the body-guard are sort of waiting on Your Highness.”

“Aren't you ashamed of yourself, Harry Murray?” cried Nan, resenting the indignity. “You oughtn't to expect Regie to help carry things until he can walk as well as you and I do.”

“I hope he'll walk a good sight better than you do before very long,” retorted Harry, in a teasing mood. “See, Nan, this is the way you always get over the ground,” and Harry threw aside the rug the better to imitate Nan's funny gait, characterised by a straightness on Nan's part amounting to an actual bending backward, and a jerky, independent little step. Harry hit it exactly, and Regie laughed immoderately, which was not very polite, considering Nan's gallant defence of him a few moments before. But Nan smiled, too, in spite of herself.

“I can't help it if I am too straight,” she said; “there's one good thing,--straight people are not so dangerous of having consumption.”

“Look out, Nan, you'll choke if you use such big words,” advised Harry.

“No, really, I think it would be real fun to play the king game this morning,” urged Regie, as they came to a spot on the beach where, by mutual consent, they spread out the rug and sat down.

“All right, then,” replied Harry, “and I'll be the king.”

“Then I shall not play,” said Nan, “I am not going to keep changing kings every day.”

“Of course not,” Regie laughed, “you believe in the divine right, don't you, Nan?” Regie had just learned what “divine right” meant, and proudly aired his knowledge.

“I don't know,” said Nan, “but whenever we play I believe in your being the king; I never could think of Harry as a king for a moment. Besides, you're our company, and we ought to wait on you.”

“Bosh!” said Harry, “I don't call people what boards in your house, company.”

“'What boards!'” repeated Nan. “Well, I should think you'd better brush up your grammar, Mr. Murray. Oh, the letter,” she added, nodding in the direction of Regie's pocket.

“Oh, to be sure; why, I'd almost forgotten it,” and Rex drew out his knife and carefully cut the envelope open at one end, after a neat little fashion of his own.

“'London, September 19th. My dear Reginald,'” he read, then paused, for in the very first sentence he discovered a word that he could not quite make out.

“Guess I'd better read it to myself first,” he said, “there may be something private in it.” Harry gave a significant cough, which meant that it was easy enough to see through such a flimsy excuse as that. Regie wisely paid no attention to it. Both the children knew it must necessarily be many minutes before they would be favoured with the contents of the letter, so Nan threw herself back on the rug, laid one arm under her head, and gazing out over the ocean gave herself up to the most delightful daydreams. Harry resorted to whittling, that occupation of all leisure moments.

Suddenly, after ten minutes of unbroken quiet, Regie began again, making brief halts now and then before words that still proved a little puzzling.

“London, September 19th.

“'My dear Reginald,--I doubt if there is a half hour in which we do not speak of you, or five minutes in that half hour in which we do not think of you, and so you can understand that we are pretty fond of a little fellow we have left behind us. Indeed, Papa Fairfax said, only a few minutes ago, that he wanted so much to see Regie that if he was not sure that he was very happy he thinks he would have to send some one away to America to bring him over.'”

“Oh! do you think he will?” questioned Nan.

“Of course not, goosie,” Harry retorted, “don't interrupt again. Go on, Rex.”

----“'But if he did,'” Regie resumed, “'you would have to hurry to catch us, for we shall be obliged to travel pretty fast as soon as we leave London. You do not need to get out the atlas to look up the place where this letter comes from, do you? Even little Nan knows how London looks on the map.'”

“Don't believe it,” muttered Harry, half under his breath, but loudly enough for Nan to hear him.

“Do, too,” whispered Nan, with a defiant shake of her curls; “but please don't interrupt. Go on, Rex.” Rex did not mind these interruptions in the least, as they gave him a chance to look ahead a little.

“'It is ten years,'” he went on, reading slowly, “'since Papa Fairfax and I were here before, and we hardly know this London in the sunshine, for the old London of fog and rain, since we are having wonderfully clear weather. I shall have to wait till we reach home to tell you all about the sights of London. When you are older I shall hope to visit with you all the places where Papa Fairfax and I have been this morning,--Westminster Abbey, and St. Paul's, and the Tower. How you will enjoy the Tower, but in a sad sort of way, because so many sorrowful things have happened there. Last evening we strolled in for a while to see Madame Tussaud's wax figures, naturally looking rather more grimy and dusty than they did ten years ago.

“'And now, Rex, I have several other letters to send off by this same steamer, so this must do for the present. Do not forget to write once a week surely, either to Papa Fairfax or to me.

“'Yours lovingly,

“'Mamma Fairfax.

“That's a nice letter,” said Regie, gazing rather wistfully out to sea.

“Very nice,” said Nan, “but you don't want to go, do you?”

Poor little Nan was blessed with a lively imagination.

I say “poor Nan,” for these lively imaginations play such sorry tricks upon the little folk and big folk who happen to possess them. Nan had but to catch a glimpse of the wistful look in Regie's eyes straightway to make up her mind that he was unhappy and lonely, and would gladly leave them all if he could.

“No, I don't want to go exactly,” answered Rex; “but I guess you'd feel a little queer sometimes if that great ocean were between you and your father and mother.”

“I do not believe I'd mind if I was on the same side of it with you, Regie,” said Nan, betraying her unbounded admiration for his little Royal Highness.

“Nan, you're a regular spoony,” remarked Harry.

“I don't know what a spoony is,” Nan answered; “but of course it's something horrid, or you would not call me one,” and she gave a little sigh which seemed to come almost from the soles of her boots. She did have to put up with a great deal of teasing from this brother of hers. Regie came to her rescue.

“You're not a spoony, Nan, at all,” he said; “and, Harry, you don't deserve to have a sister. You do tease her awfully.”

“What's the harm?” said Harry, sullenly. “But, Nan,” he added, “I wish you would remember this, that I would not care to tease you if I did not really love you, and that when I stop it will be a bad sign.”

“What's going on up there?” asked Nan, willing to change the subject.

“They're getting ready for a drill at the Life-saving Station,” Harry answered, glancing in the direction toward which Nan was pointing. Regie was on the alert in a moment.

“Oh, are they? do let's go up there. I never saw a drill in all my life, and I never was in a Station but once.”

It was an old story to Nan and Harry, but Regie was up and off, and the body-guard must needs follow.

The station was one of those low, oblong buildings, which, dotting the coast at regular intervals, are to be found in the neighbourhood of all sea-shore resorts in the United States, and whose well-trained crew have been the means of saving many, many lives. This one little station at Moorlow had the grand record of having rescued five hundred persons in the nine years since it was established.

“What are you going to do?” asked Rex, the moment he came within speaking distance of two men who were dropping a coil of rope into a box.

“Going to have a drill,” one of them answered; “there's no telling how soon we may have a wreck, and we must be ready for it. We had two last November.”

Regie was about to say that he hoped they would have at least two this November, but realised what a dreadful wish that would be in time to check himself.

“What will be the best place to see it from?” he asked. “I would not miss any of it for the world.”

The men were amused at his earnest manner.

“That boat hull will be a good place,” said one of them; “but you'd better understand about things first. You see we are going to fire a shell out of this here howitzer, and the shell is fastened-to this long coil of rope, so that when it goes whizzing away to the wreck it carries this rope--the whip-line we call it--with it.”

“Yes, but where's your wreck?” Regie queried.

“Why, yonder,” and the man pointed down the beach to where a piece of timber, with cross-pieces resembling a mast, was firmly planted in the sand. “There's our wreck, and we are going to send this rope flying over it.”

“And what are you going to do then?”

“Why, then, one of the men, who is supposed to be on the wreck, will haul away on the line till the big rope which is fastened to the little rope is drawn over, so that we can send the breeches-buoy buzzing along the line.”

“The breeches-buoy?” questioned Regie.

“Yes, to be sure. Have you never seen one?”

“I think not; I was never in a Life-saving Station but once, and that was in the summer, when there was nothing particular going on, and nobody to tell me anything.”

“Then you come right along into the Station with me,” said the man, kindly, “and I'll show you the breeches-buoy, and some other things besides. Why, there's Captain Murray's children,” spying Harry and Nan seated on the sand at a little distance; “they know the old Station by heart. Hallo, Nan!” he called, “come, show this little stranger through the Station.”

“Why, that's Reginald Fairfax, Mr. Burton,” cried Nan, coming toward them, and in a tone of surprise at such ignorance. “He lives at our house, and he's no little stranger at all.”

“Oh, that's it, is it?” said Joe Burton, with elevated eyebrows; “well, then, Miss Murray, please have the kindness to show Mr. Fairfax through the Station.”

Regie would have preferred to adhere to the original plan of having Mr. Burton for a guide, but was sufficiently polite not to betray his preference.

“You won't begin the drill before I come out, will you?” he called out to Mr. Burton.

“Never you fear,” was the reassuring answer.

Nan showed Regie through, and was able to answer all questions to the perfect satisfaction of his little Royal Highness. First they went into the large room where the surf-boat was kept, and the life-saving car, which was oval in shape, with a cover fitting tightly over it. It was large enough to hold five people, and was sent out on the line to a wreck when the weather was too rough for the breeches-buoy. The breeches-buoy was a funny contrivance, made to accommodate one person at a time, and closely resembling a life-preserver in tarpaulin knee-breeches. Attached to it was an arrangement of pulleys and wheels, by means of which it could be run to and fro on a line from the wreck. At the farther end of the room hung the shells which had been fired from the mortar at different times. They were painted red, and each bore in white letters the name of the particular wreck to which it had proved such a welcome messenger.

From this larger room opened the “mess room,” a kitchen, where the crew spent most of their time during the long winter months. A steep little stairway ran up from one corner to the loft overhead where the men slept. At one end of it a large window looked out to sea, and from the centre of the room a short flight of ladder-like stairs led into the cupola which surmounted the Station, and from which you see a great distance in every direction. The view from the cupola this clear October morning was glorious.

The water was wonderfully blue, with here and there a white sail skimming over it, as lightly and airily as the fleecy clouds across the blue of the sky. Regie and Nan stood side by side, taking in the beauty of the scene. Presently Nan said, “Yes, I do love the ocean so, it seems to me I couldn't live away from it; as though I should die if I had to, the same as little plants and things die without water.”

“Yes, I guess you would,” answered Regie; “and do you know, Nan, I believe you must have been born on just such a day as this, for your eyes have the same shade of blue in them as the sea. Besides, you are like a little wave anyway, a daring little wave that comes scampering way up the beach and then--and then----,” Rex paused. He was sure he had hold of a very fine idea, but somehow he could not get on. A half-suppressed giggle from the stairway did not help matters much, nor a whispered, “Guess you're stuck, old fellow.” Harry always had a faculty for turning up when he was not wanted, and never when he was. Nan was thoroughly provoked at him. She liked what Rex was saying about her being just a little wave of the sea, and now she should never know how he was going to finish. But for Rex Harry's coming was quite fortunate, for he was himself quite at a loss to know how he should wind up the flowery little speech begun so bravely.

“You two spoonies had better come down,” Harry added, descending the little flight of stairs as noiselessly as he had come. Just then one of the men waved his hand as a sign that the drill was about to commence, and the children hurried down to join Harry, where he sat comfortably established on the hull of the old boat. The drill amounted to little more than a series of experiments with the breeches-buoy. The whip-line was shot over the improvised mast, and one after another all the crew got into the buoy and came spinning down the line.

“Oh! I should think that would be such fun,” said Regie; “but unless we're wrecked some day I suppose we'll never have a chance to try it.”

“Why not?” said Harry; “I warrant you they'll let us play with it awhile when the drill's over. I'll ask one of the crew.”

“Seeing as you're Captain Murray's children we can't refuse you,” answered Joe Burton, “but look out for yourselves, that you don't get a tumble. The little 'un had better not try it.” With Harry's help Rex managed to climb the ladder attached to the mast, and after they had each had two or three rides apiece, Nan could resist the temptation no longer. Watching her chance when the boys were standing for a moment with their backs turned, she clambered up the ladder, and dropped into the buoy. It was a very funny sight, the red-stockinged legs dangling in mid-air, and the blue eyes just peering over the edge of it, for she was such a little tot as to be quite swallowed up by this contrivance intended for grown-up people. But oh! the fun of it. It seemed more like flying than anything else in the world, and in regular turn Harry and Rex and Nan took ride after ride.

Never, I venture, did three children enjoy a morning of rarer sport, or do better justice to such a delicious dinner as they found waiting for them when they went home at noon.