conclusion.

once again, and for the last time, we visit the floating light.

it was a calm sunny evening, about the end of autumn, when the trinity tender, having effected “the relief” of the old gull, left her in order to perform the same service for her sister light-vessels.

“good-bye, welton, good-bye, lads,” cried the superintendent, waving his hand as the tender’s boat pushed off and left them, for another period of duty, in their floating home.

“good-bye, sir,” replied the mate and men, touching their caps.

“now, sir,” said dick moy to the mate, shortly after, when they were all, except the watch, assembled below round the galley stove, “are you goin’ to let us ’ave a bit o’ that there letter, accordin’ to promise?”

“what letter?” inquired jack shales, who having only accomplished half of his period of service on board—one month—had not come off with his comrades, and knew little or nothing of what had occurred on shore.

“a letter from the lighthouse from jim,” said the mate, lighting his pipe, “received it this forenoon just as we were gettin’ ready to come off.”

“all well and hearty, i hope?” asked jerry macgowl, seating himself on a bench, and rolling some tobacco between his palms, preparatory to filling his pipe.

“all well,” replied the mate, pulling out the letter in question, and regarding the address with much interest; “an’ strange news in it.”

“well, then, let’s ’ear wot it’s all about,” said dick moy; “there’s time to read it afore sunset, an it ain’t fair to keep fellers in all the hagonies of hexpectation.”

“that’s true enough,” said jerry with a grin. “arrah! it’s bustin i am already wid kooriosity. heave ahead, sir, an’ be marciful.”

thus entreated, mr welton glanced at his watch, sat down, and, opening his letter, read as follows:—

“dear father,—here we are, thank god, comfortably settled in the new lighthouse, and nora and i both agree that although it is more outlandish, it is much more cheerful in every way than our last abode, although it is very wild-like, and far from the mainland. billy towler, my assistant,—who has become such a strapping fellow that you’d scarce know him,—is also much pleased with it. the children, too, give a decided opinion in favour of the place, and even the baby, little morley, seems to know that he has made a change for the better!

“baby’s name brings me to the news that i’ve got to tell you. morley jones has come back! you’ll be surprised to hear that, i daresay, but it’s a fact. he got a ticket-of-leave, and never rested till he found out where nora was. he came to us one evening some time ago, and fell down in a sort of fit close to the lighthouse-door, while nora was sitting in front of it, and the children were romping with neptune beside her. poor fellow! he was so changed, so old, and so white-haired and worn, that we did not know him at first; but after we had washed the blood off his face—for he had cut himself when he fell—i recognised the old features.

“but he is changed in other respects too, in a way that has filled my dear wife’s heart with joy. of course you are aware that he got no drink during the seven years of his imprisonment. now that he is free he refuses to let a drop of anything stronger than water pass his lips. he thinks it is his only chance, and i believe he is right. he says that nothing but the thought of nora, and the hope of one day being permitted to return to ask her forgiveness on his knees, enabled him to endure his long captivity with resignation. i do assure you, father, that it almost brings tears to my eyes to see the way in which that man humbles himself before his daughter. nora’s joy is far too deep for words, but it is written plainly in her face. she spent all her spare time with him at first, reading the bible to him, and trying to convince him that it was not the thought of her, but god’s mercy and love that had put it into his heart to repent, and desire to reform. he does not seem quite inclined to take that view of it, but he will come to it, sooner or later, for we have the sure promise that the lord will finish the good work he has begun. we have hired a room for him in a little village within half a mile of us. it is small, but comfortable enough, and he seems to be quite content with it—as well he may be, with nora and the children going constantly about him!

“i tell you what, father, the longer i live with nora, the more i feel that i have got the truest-hearted and most loveable wife in all the wide world! the people of the village would go any length to serve her; and as to their children, i believe they worship the ground she walks on, as jerry macgowl used to say.”

“och, the idolatrous haythens!” growled jerry.

“and the way she manages our dear youngsters,” continued the mate, reading on, without noticing jerry’s interruption, “would do your heart good to see. it reminds me of dick moy’s wife, who is about the best mother i ever met with—next to nora, of course!”

“humph!” said dick, with a grim smile; “wery complimentary. i wonder wot my old ooman will say to that?”

“she’ll say, no doubt, that she’ll expect you to take example by jim welton when speaking of your wife,” observed jack shales. “i wonder, dick, what ever could have induced mrs moy to marry such a fellow as you?”

“i s’pose,” retorted dick, lighting his pipe, “that it was to escape the chance o’ bein’ tempted, in a moment of weakness, to marry the likes o’ you.”

“hear, hear,” cried macgowl, “that’s not unlikely, dick. an’, sure, she might have gone farther an’ fared worse. you’re a good lump of a man, anyhow; though you haven’t much to boast of in the way of looks. howsever, it seems to me that looks don’t go far wid sensible girls. faix, the uglier a man is, it’s the better chance he has o’ gittin’ a purty wife. i have a brother, myself, who’s a dale uglier than the figurhead of an owld dutch galliot, an’ he’s married the purtiest little girl in ireland, he has.”

“if ye want to hear the end of jim’s letter, boys, you’d better shut up your potato-traps,” interposed mr welton.

“that’s true—fire away,” said shales.

the mate continued to read.

“you’ll be glad to hear that the old dog neptune is well and hearty. he is a great favourite here, especially with the children. billy towler has taught him a number of tricks—among other things he can dive like a seal, and has no objection whatever to let little morley choke him or half punch out his eyes. tell mother not to be uneasy on that point, for though neptune has the heart of a lion he has the temper of a lamb.

“there is an excellent preacher, belonging to the wesleyan body, who comes here occasionally on sundays, and has worship in the village. he is not much of a preacher, but he’s an earnest, god-fearing man, and has made the name of jesus dear to some of the people here, who, not long ago, were quite careless about their souls. careless about their souls! oh, father, how often i think of that, now. how strange it seems that we should ever be thus careless! what should we say of the jeweller who would devote all his time and care to the case that held his largest diamond, and neglect the gem itself? nora has got up a sunday school at the village, and billy helps her with it. the grotto did wonders for him—so he says himself.

“i must close this letter sooner than i intended, for i hear nora’s voice, like sweet music in the distance, singing out that dinner is ready; and if i keep the youngsters waiting long, they’ll sing out in a sharper strain of melody!

“so now, father, good-bye for the present. we all unite in sending our warmest love to dear mother and yourself. kindest remembrances also to my friends in the floating light. as much of my heart as nora and the children can spare is on board of the old gull. may god bless you all.—your affectionate son, james welton.”

“the sun will be down in a few minutes, sir,” said the watch, looking down the hatchway, while the men were engaged in commenting on jim’s letter.

“i know that,” replied the mate, glancing at his timepiece, as he went on deck.

the upper edge of the sun was just visible above the horizon, gleaming through the haze like a speck of ruddy fire. the shipping in the downs rested on a sea so calm that each rope and mast and yard was faithfully reflected. ramsgate—with the exception of its highest spires—was overshadowed by the wing of approaching night. the goodwin sands were partially uncovered; looking calm and harmless enough, with only a snowy ripple on their northern extremity, where they were gently kissed by the swell of the north sea, and with nothing, save a riven stump or a half-buried stem-post, to tell of the storms and wrecks with which their name is so sadly associated.

all around breathed of peace and tranquillity when the mate, having cast a searching glance round the horizon, leaned over the hatchway and shouted—“lights up!”

the customary “ay, ay, sir,” was followed by the prompt appearance of the crew. the winch was manned, the signal given, and, just as the sun went down, the floating light went up, to scatter its guiding and warning beams far and wide across the darkening waste of water.

may our little volume prove a truthful reflector to catch up a few of those beams, and, diverting them from their legitimate direction, turn them in upon the shore to enlighten the mind and tickle the fancy of those who dwell upon the land—and thus, perchance, add another thread to the bond of sympathy already existing between them and those whose lot it is to battle with the winds, and live upon the sea.