In the mean time they went blue-fishing (trying it by both accepted modes—the "heave and haul" from a rowboat or at anchor, and trolling from a yacht under full sail), hunting, eel-bobbing, and perch-fishing.

The ladies sometimes went with them on their fishing excursions; Zoe and Betty oftener than any of the others. Lulu went, too, whenever she was permitted, which was usually when her father made one of the party.

"We haven't been on a 'squantum' yet," remarked Betty, one evening, addressing the company in general; "suppose we try that to-morrow."

"Suppose you first tell us what a 'squantum' is," said Mrs. Dinsmore.

"Oh, Aunt Rose, don't you know that that is the Nantucket name for a picnic?"

"I acknowledge my ignorance," laughed the older lady; "I did not know it till this moment."

"Well, auntie, it's one of those typical things that every conscientious summer visitor here feels called upon to do as a regular part of the Nantucket curriculum. How many of us are agreed to go?" glancing about from one to another.

Not a dissenting voice was raised, and Betty proceeded to unfold her plans. Vehicles sufficient for the transportation of the whole party were to be provided, baskets of provisions also; they would take an early start, drive to some pleasant spot near the beach or one of the ponds, and make a day of it—sailing, or rather rowing about the pond, fishing in it, cooking and eating what they caught (fish were said to be so delicious just out of the water and cooked over the coals in the open air), and lounging on the grass, drinking in at the same time the sweet, pure air and the beauties of nature as seen upon Nantucket moors and hills, and in glimpses of the surrounding sea.

"Really, Betty, you grow quite eloquent," laughed her brother; "Nantucket has inspired you."

"I think it sounds ever so nice," said little Grace. "Won't you go and take us, papa?"

"Yes, if Mamma Vi will go along," he answered, with an affectionate look at his young wife; "we can't go without her, can we, Gracie?"

"Oh, no, indeed! but you will go, mamma, won't you?"

"If your papa chooses to take me," Violet said, in a sprightly tone. "I think it would be very pleasant, but I cannot either go or stay unless he does; for I am quite resolved to spend every one of the few days he will be here, close at his side."

"And as all the rest of us desire the pleasure of his company," said her mother, "his decision must guide ours."

"There, now, captain," cried Betty, "you see it all rests with you; so please say yes, and let us begin our preparations."

"Yes, Miss Betty; I certainly cannot be so gallant as to refuse such a request from such a quarter, especially when I see that all interested in the decision hope I will not."

That settled the matter. Preparations were at once set on foot: the young men started in search of the necessary conveyances, the ladies ordered the provisions, inquiries were made in regard to different localities, and a spot on the banks of Sachacha Pond, where stood a small deserted old house, was selected as their objective point.

They started directly after breakfast, and had a delightful drive over the moors and fenceless fields, around the hills and tiny emerald lakes bordered with beautiful wild shrubbery, bright with golden rod, wild roses, and field lilies. Here and there among the heather grew creeping mealberry vines, with bright red fruit-like beads, and huckleberry bushes that tempted our pleasure-seekers to alight again and again to gather and eat of their fruit.

Everybody was in most amiable mood, and the male members of the party indulgently assisted the ladies, and lifted the children in and out that they might gather floral treasures for themselves, or alighted to gather for them again and again.

At length they reached their destination, left their conveyances, spread an awning above the green grass that grew luxuriantly about the old house, deposited their baskets of provisions and extra wraps underneath it, put the horses into a barn near at hand, and strolled down to the pond.

A whaleboat, large enough to hold the entire company, was presently hired; all embarked; it moved slowly out into the lake; all who cared to fish were supplied with tackle and bait, and the sport began.

Elsie, Violet, and Grace declined to take part in it, but Zoe, Betty, and Lulu were very eager and excited, sending forth shouts of triumph or of merriment as they drew one victim after another from the water; for the fish seemed eager to take the bait, and were caught in such numbers that soon the word was given that quite enough were now on hand, and the boat was headed for the shore.

A fire was made in the sand, and while some broiled the fish and made coffee, others spread a snowy cloth upon the grass, and placed on it bread and butter, cold biscuits, sandwiches, pickles, cakes, jellies, canned fruits, and other delicacies.

It was a feast fit for a king, and all the more enjoyable that the sea air and pleasant exercise had sharpened the appetites of the fortunate partakers.

Then, the meal disposed of, how deliciously restful it was to lounge upon the grass, chatting, singing, or silently musing with the sweet, bracing air all about them, the pretty sheet of still water almost at their feet, while away beyond it and the dividing strip of sand the ocean waves tossed and rolled, showing here and there a white, slowly moving sail.

So thoroughly did they enjoy it all that they lingered till the sun, nearing the western horizon, reminded them that the day was waning.

The drive home was not the least enjoyable part of the day. They took it in leisurely fashion, by a different route from the one they had taken in the morning, and with frequent haltings to gather berries, mosses, lichens, grasses, and strange beautiful flowers; or to gaze with delighted eyes upon the bare brown hills purpling in the light of the setting sun, and the rapidly darkening vales; Sankaty lighthouse, with the sea rolling beyond, on the one hand, and on the other the quieter waters of the harbor, with the white houses and spires of Nantucket Town half encircling it.

They had enjoyed their "squantum," marred by no mishap, no untoward event, so much that it was unanimously agreed to repeat the experiment, merely substituting some other spot for the one visited that day.

But their next excursion was to Wanwinet, situate on a narrow neck of land that, jutting out into the sea, forms the head of the harbor; Nantucket Town standing at the opposite end, some half dozen miles away.

Summer visitors to the latter place usually go to Wanwinet by boat, up the harbor, taking their choice between a sailboat and a tiny steamer which plies regularly back and forth during the season; but our 'Sconset party drove across the moors, sometimes losing their way among the hills, dales, and ponds, but rather enjoying that as a prolongation of the pleasure of the drive, and spite of the detention reached their destination in good season to partake of the dinner of all obtainable luxuries of the sea, served up in every possible form, which is usually considered the roam object of a trip to Wanwinet.

They found the dinner—served in a large open pavilion, whence they might gaze out over the dancing, glittering waves of the harbor, and watch the white sails come and go, while eating—quite as good as they had been led to expect.

After dinner they wandered along the beach, picking up shells and any curious things they could find—now on the Atlantic side, now on the shore of the harbor.

Then a boat was chartered for a sail of a couple of hours, and then followed the drive home to 'Sconset by a different course from that of the morning, and varied by the gradually fading light of the setting sun and succeeding twilight casting weird shadows here and there among the hills and vales.

The captain predicted a storm for the following day, and though the others could see no sign of its approach, it was upon them before they rose the next morning, raining heavily, while the wind blew a gale.

There was no getting out for sitting on the beach, bathing, or rambling about, and they were at close quarters in the cottages.

They whiled away the time with books, games, and conversation.

They were speaking of the residents of the island—their correct speech, intelligence, uprightness, and honesty.

"I wonder if there was ever a crime committed here?" Elsie said, half inquiringly. "And if there is a jail on the island?"

"Yes, mother," Edward answered; "there is a jail, but so little use for it that they think it hardly worth while to keep it in decent repair. I heard that a man was once put in for petty theft, and that after being there a few days he sent word to the authorities that if they didn't repair it so that the sheep couldn't break in on him, he wouldn't stay."

There was a general laugh; then Edward resumed: "There has been one murder on the island, as I have been informed. A mulatto woman was the criminal, a white woman the victim, the motive revenge; the colored woman was in debt to the white one, who kept a little store, and, enraged at repeated duns, went to her house and beat her over the head with some heavy weapon—I think I was told a whale's tooth.

"The victim lingered for some little time, but eventually died of her wounds, and the other was tried for murder.

"It is said the sheriff was extremely uneasy lest she should be found guilty of murder in the first degree, and he should have the unpleasant job of hanging her; but the verdict was manslaughter, the sentence imprisonment for life.

"So she was consigned to jail, but very soon allowed to go out occasionally to do a day's work."

"Oh, Uncle Edward, is she alive now?" Gracie asked, with a look of alarm.

"Yes, I am told she is disabled by disease, and lives in the poorhouse. But you need not be frightened, little girlie; she is not at all likely to come to 'Sconset, and if she does we will take good care that she is not allowed to harm you."

"And I don't suppose she'd want to either, unless we had done something to make her angry," said Lulu.

"But we are going to Nantucket Town to stay a while when we leave 'Sconset," remarked Grace uneasily.

"But that woman will not come near you, daughter; you need, not have the least fear of it," the captain said, drawing his little girl to his knee with a tender caress.

"Ah," said Mr. Dinsmore, "I heard the other day of a curiosity at Nantucket which we must try to see while there. I think the story connected with it will particularly interest you ladies and the little girls."

"Oh, grandpa, tell it!" cried Rosie; "please do; a story is just what we want this dull day."

The others joined in the request, and Mr. Dinsmore kindly complied, all gathering closely about him, anxious to catch every word.

"The story is this: Nearly a hundred years ago there lived in Nantucket a sea-captain named Coffin, who had a little daughter of whom he was very fond."

Gracie glanced up smilingly into her father's face and nestled closer to him.

"Just as I am of mine," said his answering look and smile as he drew her closer still.

But Mr. Dinsmore's story was going on.

"It was Captain Coffin's custom to bring home some very desirable gift to his little girl whenever he returned from a voyage. At one time, when about to sail for the other side of the Atlantic, he said to her that he was determined on this voyage to find and bring home to her something that no other little girl ever had or ever could have."

"Oh, grandpa, what could that be?" exclaimed little Walter.

"Wait a moment and you shall hear," was the reply.

"What the captain brought on coming back was a wax baby, a very life-like representation of an infant six months old. He said it was a wax cast of the Dauphin of France, that poor unfortunate son of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette; that he had found it in a convent, and paid for it a sum of money so enormous that he would never tell any one, not even his wife, how large it was."

"But it isn't in existence now, at this late day, surely?" Mrs. Dinsmore remarked inquiringly, as her husband paused in his narrative.

"It is claimed that it is by those who have such a thing in possession, and I presume they tell the truth. It has always been preserved with extreme care as a great curiosity.

"The little girl to whom it was given by her father lived to grow up, but has been dead many years. Shortly before her death she gave it to a friend, and it has been in that family for over forty years."

"And is it on exhibition, papa?" asked Elsie.

"Only to such as are fortunate enough to get an introduction to the lady owner through some friend of hers; so I understand; but photographs have been taken and are for sale in the stores."

"Oh, I hope we will get to see it!" exclaimed Lulu eagerly.

"As far as I'm concerned, I'm bound to manage it somehow," said Betty.

"How much I should like to know what was really the true story of that poor unfortunate child," said Elsie, reflectively, and sighing as she spoke.

"It—like the story of the Man in the Iron Mask—is a mystery that will never be satisfactorily cleared up until the Judgment Day," remarked her father.

"Oh, do tell us about it," the children cried in eager chorus.

"All of you older ones have certainly some knowledge of the French Revolution, in which Louis XVI. and his beautiful queen lost their lives?" Mr. Dinsmore said, glancing about upon his grandchildren; "and have not forgotten that two children survived them—one sometimes called Louis XVII., as his father's lawful successor to the throne, and a daughter older than the boy.

"These children remained in the hands of their cruel foes for some time after the beheading of their royal parents. The girl was finally restored to her mother's relatives, the royal family of Austria; but the boy, who was most inhumanly treated by his jailer, was supposed to have died in consequence of that brutal abuse, having first been reduced by it to a state of extreme bodily and mental weakness.

"That story (of the death of the poor little dauphin, I mean, not of the cruel treatment to which he was subjected) has, however, been contradicted by another; and I suppose it will never be made certain in this world which was the true account.

"The dauphin was born in 1785, his parents were beheaded in 1793; so that he must have been about eight years old at the time of their death.

"In 1795 a French man and woman, directly from France, appeared in Albany, New York, having in charge a girl and boy; the latter about nine years old, and feeble in body and mind.

"The woman had also a number of articles of dress which she said had belonged to Marie Antoinette, who had given them to her on the scaffold.

"That same year two Frenchmen came to Ticonderoga, visited the Indians in that vicinity, and placed with them such a boy as the one seen at Albany—of the same age, condition of mind and body, etc.

"He was adopted by an Iroquois chief named Williams, and given the name of Eleazer Williams.

"He gradually recovered his health, and at length the shock of a sudden fall into the lake so far restored his memory that he recollected some scenes in his early life in the palaces of France. One thing he recalled was being with a richly dressed lady whom he addressed as 'mamma.'

"Some time later—I cannot now recall the exact date—a Frenchman died in New Orleans (Beranger was his name), who confessed on his death-bed that he had brought the dauphin to this country and placed him with the Indians of Northern New York. He stated that he had taken an oath of secrecy, for the protection of the lad, but could not die without confessing the truth."

"I'm inclined to think the story of the dauphin's death in France was not true," remarked Betty.

"Didn't Beranger's confession arouse inquiry, grandpa?" asked Zoe. "And did Eleazer Williams hear of it?"

"I think I may say yes to both your queries," Mr. Dinsmore answered. "Eleazer's story was published in the newspapers some years ago, and I remember he was spoken of as a very good Christian man, a missionary among the Indians; it was brought out in book form also under the title 'The Lost Prince: A Life of Eleazer Williams.'

"Eleazer himself stated that in 1848 he had an interview, on board a steamer from Buffalo, with the Prince de Joinville, who then told him he was the son of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette, and tried to induce him to sign away his right to the throne of France, and that he refused to do so.

"In his published statement he said he thought the Prince would not deny having made that communication. But the Prince did deny that, though he acknowledged that the interview had taken place."

"Did Eleazer ever try to get the throne, grandpa?" asked Max.

"No, he never urged his claim; and I dare say was happier as an obscure Indian missionary than he would have been as King of France. He died at the age of seventy."

"Poor Marie Antoinette!" sighed Elsie; "I never could read her story without tears, and the very thought of her sorrows and sufferings makes my heart ache."

"I don't think I ever read it," said Zoe, "though I have a general idea what it was."

"We have Abbott's life of her at Ion," said Elsie. "I'll get it for you when we go home."

Harold stepped to the window. "It is raining very little now, if at all," he said, "and the sea must be in a fine rage; let us go and have a look at it"

"Oh, yes, let's go!" cried Betty, springing to her feet; "but I'm afraid we've missed the finest of it, for the wind isn't blowing half so hard as it was an hour ago."

"Don't be discouraged," said Captain Raymond, sportively; "the waves are often higher than ever after the wind has subsided."

"Oh, papa, may I go too?" Grace said, in a pleading tone.

"Yes; if you put on your waterproof cloak and overshoes it will not hurt you to be out for a short time," answered the indulgent father. "Lulu, don't go without yours."

All were eager for the sight; there was a moment of hasty preparation, and they trooped out and stood upon the edge of the high bank at the back of their cottages gazing upon the sea in its, to most of them, new and terrible aspect; from shore to horizon it was one mass of seething, boiling waters; far out in the distance the huge waves reared their great foam-crested fronts and rushed furiously toward the shore, rapidly chasing each other in till with a tremendous crash and roar they broke upon the beach, sending up showers of spray, and depositing great flakes of foam which the wind sent scudding over the sand; and each, as it retreated, was instantly followed by another and another in unbroken, endless succession.

Half a mile or more south of 'Sconset there is a shoal (locally called "the rips") where wind and tide occasionally, coming in opposition, cause a fierce battle of the waves, a sight well worth a good deal of exertion to behold.

"Wind and tide are having it out on the rips," the captain presently remarked. "Let us go down to the beach and get the best view we can of the conflict."

"Papa, may we go too?" asked Lulu, as the older people hastily made a move toward the stairway that led to the beach; "oh, do please let us!"

Grace did not speak, but her eyes lifted to his, pleaded as earnestly as Lulu's tongue. He hesitated for an instant, then stooped, took Grace in his arms, and saying to Lulu, "Yes, come along; it is too grand a sight for me to let you miss it," hurried after the others.

Violet had not come out with the rest, her attention being taken up with her babe just at that time, and he would give her the sight afterward on taking the children in.

On they went over the wet sands—Mr. Dinsmore and his wife, Edward and his, Betty holding on to Harold's arm, Rose and Walter helped along by Herbert and Bob.

To Max Raymond's great content and a little to the discomfiture of her sons, who so delighted in waiting upon and in every way caring for her, Elsie had chosen him for her companion and escort, and with Lulu they hastened after the others and just ahead of the captain and Grace, who brought up the rear.

The thunder of the surf prevented any attempt at conversation, but now and then there was a little scream, ending with a shout of laughter from one or another of the feminine part of the procession, as they were overtaken by the edge of a wave and their shoes filled with the foam, their skirts wetted by it. Not a very serious matter, as all had learned ere this, as salt water does not cause one to take cold.

Arrived at the spot from where the very best view of the conflict could be had, they stood long gazing upon it, awestruck and fascinated by the terrific grandeur of the scene. I can best describe it in the words of a fellow-author far more gifted in that line than I.

"Yonder comes shoreward a great wave, towering above all its brethren. Onward it comes, swift as a race-horse, graceful as a great ship, bearing right down upon us. It strikes 'The Rips,' and is there itself struck by a wave approaching from another direction. The two converge in their advance, and are dashed together—embrace each other like two angry giants, each striving to mount upon the shoulder of the other and crush its antagonist with its ponderous bulk. Swift as thought they mount higher and higher, in fierce, mad struggle, until their force is expended; their tops quiver, tremble, and burst into one great mass of white, gleaming foam; and the whole body of the united wave, with a mighty bound, hurls itself upon the shore and is broken into a flood of seething waters—crushed to death in its own fury.

"All over the shoal the waves leap up in pinnacles, in volcanic points, sharp as stalagmites, and in this form run hither and yon in all possible directions, colliding with and crashing against others of equal fury and greatness—a very carnival of wild and drunken waves; the waters hurled upward in huge masses of white. Sometimes they unite more gently, and together sweep grandly and gracefully along parallel with the shore; and the cavernous hollows stretch out from the shore so that you look into the trough of the sea and realize what a terrible depth it is. The roar, meanwhile, is horrible. You are stunned by it as by the roar of a great waterfall. You see a wave of unusual magnitude rolling in from far beyond the wild revelry of waters on 'The Rips.' It leaps into the arena as if fresh and eager for the fray, clutches another Bacchanal like itself, and the two towering floods rush swiftly toward the shore. Instinctively you run backward to escape what seems an impending destruction. Very likely a sheet of foam is dashed all around you, shoe-deep, but you are safe—only the foam hisses away in impotent rage. The sea has its bounds; 'hitherto shalt thou come, but no farther.'"[A]

[Footnote A: A. Judd Northrup, in "Sconset Cottage Life."]



CHAPTER VI.

She is peevish, sullen, froward, Proud, disobedient, stubborn, lacking duty; Neither regarding that she is my child, Nor fearing me as If I were her father.

—Shakespeare.

A day or two of bright, breezy weather had succeeded the storm, and another "squantum" had been arranged for; it was to be a more pretentious affair than the former one, other summer visitors uniting with our party; and a different spot had been selected for it.

By Violet's direction the maid had laid out, the night before, the dresses the two little girls were to wear to the picnic, and they appeared at the breakfast-table already attired in them; for the start was to be made shortly after the conclusion of the meal.

The material of the dresses was fine, they were neatly fitting and prettily trimmed, but rather dark in color and with high necks and long sleeves; altogether suitable for the occasion, and far from unbecoming; indeed, as the captain glanced at the two neat little figures, seated one on each side of him, he felt the risings of fatherly pride in their attractiveness of appearance.

And even exacting, discontented Lulu was well enough pleased with her mamma's choice for her till, upon leaving the table and running out for a moment into the street to see if the carriages were in sight, she came upon a girl about her own age, who was to be of the company, very gayly apparelled in thin white tarletan and pink ribbons,

"Good-morning, Sadie," said Lulu. "What a nice day for the 'squantum,' isn't it?"

"Yes; and it's most time to start, and you're not dressed yet, are you?" glancing a trifle scornfully from her own gay plumage to Lulu's plainer attire.

The latter flushed hotly but made no reply. "I don't see anything of the carriages yet," was all she said; then darting into the cottage occupied by their family, she rushed to her trunk, and throwing it open, hastily took from it a white muslin, coral ribbons and sash, and with headlong speed tore off her plain colored dress and arrayed herself in them.

She would not have had time but for an unexpected delay in the arrival of the carriage which was to convey her parents, brother and sister and herself to the "squantum" ground.

As it was, she came rushing out at almost the last moment, just as the captain was handing his wife into the vehicle.

Max met her before she had reached the outer door. "Lu, Mamma Vi says you will need a wrap before we get back; probably even going, and you're to bring one along."

"I sha'n't need any such thing! and I'm not going to be bothered with it!" cried Lulu, in a tone of angry impatience, hurrying on toward the entrance as she spoke.

"Whew! what have you been doing to yourself?" exclaimed Max, suddenly noting the change of attire, while Grace, standing in the doorway, turned toward them with a simultaneous exclamation, "Why, Lulu—" then broke off, lost in astonishment at her sister's audacity.

"Hush, both of you! can't you keep quiet?" snapped Lulu, turning from one to the other; then as her father's tall form darkened the doorway, and a glance up into his face showed her that it was very grave and stern, she shrank back abashed, frightened by the sudden conviction that he had overheard her impertinent reply to her mamma's message, and perhaps noticed the change in her dress.

He regarded her for a moment in silence, while she hung her head in shame and affright; then he spoke in tones of grave displeasure, "You will stay at home to-day, Lulu; we have no room for disrespectful, disobedient children—"

"Papa," she interrupted, half pleadingly, half angrily, "I haven't been disobedient or disrespectful to you."

"It is quite the same," he said; "I require you to be obedient and respectful to your mamma; and impertinence to her is something I will by no means allow or fail to punish whenever I know of it. Sorry as I am to deprive you of an anticipated pleasure, I repeat that you must stay at home; and go immediately to your room and resume the dress she directed you to wear to-day."

So saying he took Grace's hand and led her to the carriage, Max following after one regretful look at Lulu's sorely disappointed face.

Grace, clinging about her father's neck as he lifted her up, pleaded for her sister. "Oh, papa, do please let her go; she hasn't been naughty for a long while, and I'm sure she's sorry and will be good."

"Hush, hush, darling!" he said, wiping the tears from her eyes, then placing her by Violet's side.

"What is wrong?" inquired the latter with concern; "is Gracie not feeling well?"

"Never mind, my love," the captain answered, assuming a cheerful tone; "there is nothing wrong except that Lulu has displeased me, and I have told her she cannot go with us to-day."

"Oh, I am sorry!" Violet said, looking really pained; "we shall all miss her. I should be glad, Levis, if you could forgive her, for—"

"No, do not ask it," he said hastily; adding, with a smile of ardent affection into the azure eyes gazing so pleadingly into his; "I can scarcely bear to say no to you, dearest, but I have passed sentence upon the offender and cannot revoke it."

The carriage drove off; the others had already gone, and Lulu was left alone in the house, the one maid-servant left behind having already wandered off to the beach.

"There!" cried Lulu, stamping her foot with passion, then dropping into a chair, "I say it's just too bad! She isn't old enough to be my mother, and I won't have her for one; I sha'n't mind her! Papa had no business to marry her. He hardly cares for anybody else now, and he ought to love me better than he does her; for she isn't a bit of relation to him, while I'm his own child.

"And I sha'n't wear dowdy, old-womanish dresses to please her, along with other girls of my size that are dressed up in their best. I'd rather stay at home than be mortified that way, and I just wish I had told him so."

She was in so rebellious a mood that instead of at once changing her dress in obedience to her father's command, she presently rose from her chair, walked out at the front door and paraded through the village streets in her finery, saying to herself, "I'll let people see that I have some decent clothes to wear."

Returning after a little, she was much surprised to find Betty Johnson stretched full length on a lounge with a paper-covered novel in her hand, which she seemed to be devouring with great avidity.

"Why, Betty!" she exclaimed, "are you here? I thought you went with the rest to the 'squantum.'"

"Just what I thought in regard to your highness," returned Betty, glancing up from her book with a laugh. "I stayed at home to enjoy my book and the bath. What kept you?"

"Papa," answered Lulu with a frown; "he wouldn't let me go."

"Because you put on that dress, I presume," laughed Betty. "Well, it's not very suitable, that's a fact. But I had no idea that the captain was such a connoisseur in matters of that sort."

"He isn't! he doesn't know or care if it wasn't for Mamma Vi," burst out Lulu vehemently. "And she's no business to dictate about my dress either. I'm old enough to judge and decide for myself."

"Really, it is a great pity that one so wise should be compelled to submit to dictation," observed Betty with exasperating irony.

Lulu, returning a furious look, which her tormentor feigned not to see, then marching into the adjoining room, gave tardy obedience to her father's orders anent the dress.

"Are you going in this morning?" asked Betty, when Lulu had returned to the little parlor.

"I don't know; papa didn't say whether I might or not."

"Then I should take the benefit of the doubt and follow my own inclination in the matter. It's ten now; the bathing hour is eleven; I shall be done my book by that time, and we'll go in together if you like."

"I'll see about it," Lulu said, walking away.

She went down to the beach and easily whiled away an hour watching the waves and the people, and digging in the sand. When she saw the others going to the bath-houses she hastened back to her temporary home.

As she entered Betty was tossing aside her book. "So here you are!" she said, yawning and stretching herself. "Are you going in?"

"Yes; if papa is angry I'll tell him he should have forbidden me if he didn't want me to do it."

They donned their bathing-suits and went in with the crowd; but though no mishap befell them and they came out safely again, Lulu found that for some reason her bath was not half so enjoyable as usual.

She and Betty dined at the hotel where the family had frequently taken their meals, then they strolled down to the beach and seated themselves on a bench under an awning.

After a while Betty proposed taking a walk.

"Where to?" asked Lulu.

"To Sankaty Lighthouse."

"Well, I'm agreed; it's a nice walk; you can look out over the sea all the way," said Lulu, getting up. But a sudden thought seemed to strike her; she paused and hesitated.

"Well, what's the matter?" queried Betty.

"Nothing; only papa told me I was to stay at home to-day."

"Oh, nonsense! what a little goose!" exclaimed Betty; "of course that only meant you were not to go to the 'squantum'; so come along."

Lulu was by no means sure that that was really all her father meant, but she wanted the walk, so suffered herself to be persuaded, and they went.

Betty had been a wild, ungovernable girl at school, glorying in contempt for rules and daring "larks." She had not improved in that respect, and so far from being properly ashamed of her wild pranks and sometimes really disgraceful frolics, liked to describe them, and was charmed to find in Lulu a deeply interested listener.

It was thus they amused themselves as they strolled slowly along the bluff toward Sankaty.

When they reached there a number of carriages were standing about near the entrance, several visitors were in the tower, and others were waiting their turn.

"Let us go up too," Betty said to her little companion; "the view must be finer to-day than it was when we were here before, for the atmosphere is clearer."

"I'm afraid papa wouldn't like me to," objected Lulu; "he seemed to think the other time that I needed him to take care of me," she added with a laugh, as if it were quite absurd that one so old and wise as herself should be supposed to need such protection.

"Pooh!" said Betty, "don't be a baby; I can take care of myself and you too. Come, I'm going up and round outside too; and I dare you to do the same."

Poor proud Lulu was one of the silly people who are not brave enough to refuse to do a wrong or unwise thing if anybody dares them to do it.

"I'm not a bit afraid, Miss Johnson; you need not think that," she said, bridling; "and I can take care of myself. I'll go."

"Come on then; we'll follow close behind that gentleman, and the keeper won't suppose we are alone," returned Betty, leading the way.

Lulu found the steep stairs very hard to climb without the help of her father's hand, and reached the top quite out of breath.

Betty too was panting. But they presently recovered themselves. Betty stepped outside just behind the gentleman who had preceded them up the stairs, and Lulu climbed quickly after her, frightened enough at the perilous undertaking, yet determined to prove that she was equal to it.

But she had advanced only a few steps when a sudden rush of wind caught her skirts and nearly took her off her feet.

Both she and Betty uttered a cry of affright, and at the same instant Lulu felt herself seized from behind and dragged forcibly back and within the window from which she had just emerged.

It was the face of a stranger that met her gaze as she looked up with frightened eyes.

"Child," he said, "that was a narrow escape; don't try it again. Where are your parents or guardians, that you were permitted to step out there with no one to take care of you?"

Lulu blushed and hung her head in silence. Betty, who had followed her in as fast as she could, generously took all the blame upon herself.

"Don't scold her, sir," she said; "it was all my doing. I brought her here without the knowledge of her parents, and dared her to go out there."

"You did?" he exclaimed, turning a severe look upon the young girl (he was a middle-aged man of stern aspect). "Suppose I had not been near enough to catch her, and she had been precipitated to the ground from that great height—how would you have felt?"

"I could never have forgiven myself or had another happy moment while I lived," Betty said, in half tremulous tones, "I can never thank you enough, sir, for saving her," she added, warmly.

"No, nor I," said the keeper. "I should always have felt that I was to blame for letting her go out; but you were close behind, sir, and the other gentleman before, and I took you to be all one party, and of course thought you would take care of the little girl."

"She has had quite a severe shock," the gentleman remarked, again looking at Lulu, who was very pale and trembling like a leaf. "You had better wait and let me help you down the stairs. I shall be ready in a very few moments."

Betty thanked him and said they would wait.

While they did so she tried to jest and laugh with Lulu; but the little girl was in no mood for such things; she felt sick and dizzy at the thought of the danger she had escaped but a moment ago. She made no reply to Betty's remarks, and indeed seemed scarcely to hear them.

She was quite silent, too, while being helped down the stairs by the kind stranger, but thanked him prettily as they separated.

"You are heartily welcome," he said; "but if you will take my advice you will never go needlessly into such danger again."

With that he shook hands with her, bowed to Betty, and moved away.

"Will you go in and rest awhile, Lu?" asked Betty.

"No, thank you; I'm not tired; and I'd rather be close by the sea. Tell me another of your stories, won't you? to help me forget how near I came to falling."

Betty good-naturedly complied, but found Lulu a less interested listener than before.

The "squantum" party were late in returning, and when they arrived Betty and Lulu were in bed; but the door between the room where Lulu lay and the parlor, or sitting-room, as it was indifferently called, was ajar, and she could hear all that was said there.

"Where is Lulu?" her father asked of the maid-servant who had been left behind.

"Gone to bed, sir," was the answer.

Then the captain stepped to the chamber door, pushed it wider open, and came to the bedside.

Lulu pretended to be asleep, keeping her eyes tight shut, but all the time feeling that he was standing there and looking down at her.

He sighed slightly, turned away, and went from the room; then she buried her face in the pillows and cried softly but quite bitterly.

"He might have kissed me," she said to herself; "he would if he loved me as much as he used to before he got married."

Then his sigh seemed to echo in her heart, and she grew remorseful over the thought that her misconduct had grieved as well as displeased him.

And how much more grieved and displeased he would be if he knew how she had disregarded his wishes and commands during his absence that day!

And soon he would be ordered away again, perhaps to the other side of the world; in danger from the treacherous deep and maybe from savages, too, in some of those far-away places where his vessel would touch; and so the separation might be for years or forever in this world; and if she continued to be the bad girl she could not help acknowledging to herself she now was, how dared she hope to be with her Christian father in another life? She had no doubt that he was a Christian; it was evident from his daily walk and conversation; and she was equally certain that she herself was not.

And what a kind, affectionate father he had always been to her; she grew more and more remorseful as she thought of it; and if he had been beside her at that moment would certainly have confessed all the wrong-doing of the day and asked forgiveness.

But he was probably in bed now; all was darkness and silence in the house; so she lay still, and presently forgot all vexing thought in sound, refreshing sleep.

When she awoke again the morning sun was shining brightly, and her mood had changed.

The wrong-doings of the previous day were the merest trifles, and it would really be quite ridiculous to go and confess them to her father; she supposed, indeed was quite sure, that ha would be better pleased with her if she made some acknowledgment of sorrow for the fault for which he had punished her; but the very thought of doing so was so galling to her pride that she was stubbornly determined not to do anything of the kind.

She was thinking it all over while dressing, and trying hard to believe herself a very ill-used, instead of naughty, child. It was a burning shame that she had been scolded and left behind for such a trifling fault; but she would let "papa" and everybody else see that she didn't care; she wouldn't ask one word about what kind of a time they had had (she hoped it hadn't been so very nice); and she would show papa, too, that she could do very well without caresses and endearments from him.

Glancing from the window, she saw him out on the bluff back of the cottage; but though her toilet was now finished, she did not, as usual, run out to put her hand in his, and with a glad good-morning hold up her face for a kiss.

She went quietly to the dooryard looking upon the village street, and peeped into the window of the room where Grace was dressing with a little help from Agnes, their mamma's maid.

"Oh, Lu, good-morning," cried the little girl. "I was so sorry you weren't with us yesterday at the 'squantum;' we had ever such a nice time; only I missed you very much."

"Your sympathy was wasted, Grace," returned Lulu, with a grand air. "I had a very pleasant time at home."

"Dar now, you's done finished, Miss Gracie," said Agnes, turning to leave the room; then she laughed to herself as she went, "Miss Lu she needn't think she don't 'ceive nobody wid dem grand airs ob hers; 'spect we all knows she been glad nuff to go ef de cap'n didn't tole her she got for to stay behin'."

Grace ran out and joined her sister at the door. "Oh, Lu, you would have enjoyed it if you had been with us," she said, embracing her. "But we are going to have a drive this morning. We're to start as soon as breakfast is over, and only come back in time for the bath; and papa says you can go too if you want to, and are a good girl; and you—"

"I don't want to," said Lulu, with a cold, offended air. "I like to be by myself on the beach; I enjoyed it very much yesterday, and shall enjoy it to-day; I don't need anybody's company."

Her conscience gave her a twinge as she spoke, reminding her that she had passed but little of her day alone on the beach.

Grace gazed at her with wide-open eyes, lost in astonishment at her strange mood; but hearing their father's step within the house, turned about and ran to meet him and claim her morning kiss.

"Where is your sister?" he asked when he had given it.

"The little one is asleep, papa," she answered gayly; "the other one is at the door there."

He smiled. "Tell her to come in," he said; "we are going to have prayers."

Lulu obeyed the summons, but took a seat near the door, without so much as glancing toward her father.

When the short service was over Grace seated herself upon his knee, and Max stood close beside him, both laughing and talking right merrily; but Lulu sat where she was, gazing in moody silence into the street.

At length, in a pause in the talk, the captain said, in a kindly tone, "One of my little girls seems to have forgotten to bid me good-morning."

"Good-morning, papa," muttered Lulu, sullenly, her face still averted.

"Good-morning, Lucilla," he said; and she knew by his tone and use of her full name that he was by no means pleased with her behavior.

At that moment they were summoned to breakfast.

Lulu took her place with the others and ate in silence, scarce lifting her eyes from her plate, while everybody else was full of cheerful chat.

A carriage was at the door when they left the table.

"Make haste, children," the captain said, "so that we may have time for a long drive before the bathing hour."

Max and Grace moved promptly to obey, but Lulu stood still.

"I spoke to you, Lulu, as well as to the others," her father said, in his usual kindly tone; "you may go with us, if you wish."

"I don't care to, papa," she answered, turning away.

"Very well, I shall not compel you; you may do just as you please about it," he returned. "Stay at home if you prefer it. You may go down to the beach if you choose, but nowhere else."

"Yes, sir," she muttered, and walked out of the room, wondering in a half-frightened way if he knew or suspected where she had been the day before.

In fact, he did neither; he believed Lulu a more obedient child than she was, and had no idea that she had not done exactly as he bade her.

This time she was so far obedient that she went nowhere except to the beach, but while wandering about there she was nursing unkind and rebellious thoughts and feelings; trying hard to convince herself that her father loved her less than he did his other children, and was more inclined to be severe with her than with them. In her heart of hearts she believed no such thing, but pretending to herself that she did, she continued her unlovely behavior all that day and the next, sulking alone most of the time; doing whatever she was bidden, but with a sullen air, seldom speaking unless she was spoken to, never hanging lovingly about her father, as had been her wont, but rather seeming to avoid being near him whenever she could.

It pained him deeply to see her indulging so evil a temper, but he thought best to appear not to notice it. He did not offer her the caresses she evidently tried to avoid, and seldom addressed her; but when he did speak to her it was in his accustomed kind, fatherly tones, and it was her own fault if she did not share in every pleasure provided for the others.

In the afternoon of the second day they were all gathered upon the beach as usual, when a young girl, who seemed to be a new-comer in 'Sconset, drew near and accosted Betty as an old acquaintance.

"Why, Anna Eastman, who would have expected to see you here?" cried Betty, in accents of pleased surprise, springing up to embrace the stranger.

Then she introduced her to Elsie, Violet, and Captain Raymond, who happened to be sitting near, as an old school friend.

"And you didn't know I was on the island?" remarked Miss Eastman laughingly to Betty, when the introductions were over.

"I hadn't the least idea of it. When did you arrive?"

"Several days since—last Monday; and this is Friday. By the way, I saw you on Tuesday, though you did not see me."

"How and where?" asked Betty in surprise, not remembering at the moment how she had spent that day.

"At Sankaty Lighthouse; I was in a carriage out on the green in front of the lighthouse, and saw you and that little girl yonder (nodding in Lulu's direction) come out on the top of the tower; then a puff of wind took the child's skirts, and I fairly screamed with fright, expecting to see her fall and be crushed to death; but somebody jerked her back within the window just in time to save her. Weren't you terribly frightened, dear?" she asked, addressing Lulu.

"Of course I was," Lulu answered in an ungracious tone; then rose and sauntered away along the beach. "What did she tell it for, hateful thing!" she muttered to herself; "now papa knows it, and what will he say and do to me?"

She had not ventured to look at him; if she had she would have seen his face grow suddenly pale, then assume an expression of mingled sternness and pain.

He presently rose and followed her, though she did not know it till he had reached her side and she felt him take her hand in his. He sat down, making her sit by his side.

"Is this true that I hear of you, Lulu?" he asked.

"Yes, papa," she answered in a low, unwilling tone, hanging her head as she spoke, for she dared not look him in the face.

"I did not think one of my children would be so disobedient," he said, in pained accents.

"Papa, you never said I shouldn't go to Sankaty Lighthouse," she muttered.

"I never gave you leave to go, and I have told you positively, more than once, that you must not go to any distance from the house without express permission. Also I am sure you could not help understanding, from what was said when I took you to the lighthouse, that I would be very far from willing that you should go up into the tower, and especially outside, unless I were with you to take care of you. Besides, what were my orders to you just as I was leaving the house that morning?"

"You told me to change my dress immediately and to stay at home."

"Did you obey the first order?"

Lulu was silent for a moment; then as her father was evidently waiting for an answer, she muttered, "I changed my dress after a while."

"That was not obeying; I told you to do it immediately," he said in a tone of severity, "What did you do in the mean time?"

"I don't want to tell you," she muttered.

"You must; and you are not to say you don't want to do what I bid you. What were you doing?"

"Walking round the town."

"Breaking two of your father's commands at once. What next? give me a full account of the manner in which you spent the day."

"I came in soon and changed my dress; then went to the beach till the bathing hour; then Betty and I went in together; then we had our dinner at the hotel and came back to the beach for a little while; then we went to Sankaty."

"Filling up the whole day with repeated acts of disobedience," he said.

"Papa, you didn't say I mustn't go in to bathe, or that I shouldn't take a walk."

"I told you to stay at home, and you disobeyed that order again and again. And you have been behaving very badly ever since, showing a most unamiable temper. I have overlooked it, hoping to see a change for the better in your conduct without my resorting to punishment; but I think the time has now come when I must try that with you."

He paused for some moments. Wondering at his silence, she at length ventured a timid look up into his face.

It was so full of pain and distress that her heart smote her, and she was seized with a sudden fury at herself as the guilty cause of his suffering.

"Lulu," he said, with a sigh that was almost a groan, "what am I to do with you?"

"Whip me, papa," she burst out; "I deserve it. You've never tried that yet, and maybe it would make me a better girl, I almost wish you would, papa," she went on in her vehement way; "I could beat myself for being so bad and hurting you so."

He made no answer to that, but presently said in moved tones, "What if I had come back that night to find the dear little daughter I had left a few hours before in full health and strength, lying a crushed and mangled corpse? killed without a moment's time to repent of her disobedience to her father's known wishes and commands? Could I have hoped to have you restored to me even in another world, my child?"

"No, papa," she said, half under her breath; "I know I wasn't fit to go to heaven, and that I'm not fit now; but would you have been really very sorry to lose such a bad, troublesome child?"

"Knowing that, as you yourself acknowledge, you were not fit for heaven, it would have been the heaviest blow I have ever had," he said. "My daughter, you are fully capable of understanding the way of salvation, therefore are an accountable being, and, so long as you neglect it, in danger of eternal death. I shall never be easy about you till I have good reason to believe that you have given your heart to the Lord Jesus, and devoted yourself entirely to His blessed service."

He ceased speaking, gave her a few moments for silent reflection, then setting her on her feet, rose, took her hand, and led her back toward the village.

"Are you going to punish me, papa?" she asked presently, in a half-frightened tone.

"I shall take that matter into consideration," was all he said, and she knew from his grave accents that she was in some danger of receiving what she felt to be her deserts.



CHAPTER VII.

"The rod and reproof give wisdom: but a child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame."—Prov. 29: 15.

Lulu hated suspense; it seemed to her worse than the worst certainty; so when they had gone a few steps farther she said, hesitating and blushing very deeply, "Papa, if you are going to punish me as—as I—said I 'most wished you would, please don't let Mamma Vi or anybody know it, and—"

"Certainly not; it shall be a secret between our two selves," he said as she broke off without finishing her sentence; "if we can manage it," he added a little doubtfully.

"They all go down to the beach every evening, you know, papa," she suggested in a timid, half-hesitating way, and trembling as she spoke.

"Yes, that would give us a chance; but I have not said positively that I intend to punish you in that way."

"No, sir; but—oh, do please say certainly that you will or you won't."

The look he gave her as she raised her eyes half fearfully to his face was very kind and affectionate, though grave and judicial. "I am not angry with you," he said, "in the sense of being in a passion or out of patience—not in the least; but I feel it to be my duty to do all I possibly can to help you to be a better child, and noticing, as I have said, for the last two or three days what a wilful, wicked temper you were indulging, I have been considering very seriously whether I ought not to try the very remedy you have yourself suggested, and I am afraid I ought indeed. Do you still think, as you told me a while ago, that this sort of punishment might be a help to you in trying to be good?"

Lulu hesitated a moment, then said impetuously, and as if determined to own the truth though it were to pass sentence upon herself, "Yes, papa, honestly I do; though I don't want you to do it one bit. But," she added, "I sha'n't love you any less if you whip me ever so hard, because I shall know you don't like to do it, and wouldn't except for the reason you've given."

"No, indeed, I should not," he said; "but you are to stay behind to-night when the others go to the beach."

"Yes, papa, I will," she answered submissively, but with a perceptible tremble in her voice.

Grace and Max were coming to meet them, so there was no opportunity to talk any more on the subject, and she walked on in silence by her father's side, trying hard to act and look as if nothing was amiss with her, clinging fast to the hand in which he had taken hers, while Grace took possession of the other.

"You ought to have three hands, papa," laughed Max a little ruefully.

"Four," corrected Grace; "for some day little Elsie will be wanting one."

"I shall have to manage it by taking you in turn," the captain said, looking down upon them with a fatherly smile.

Violet and some of the other members of their party were still seated where they had left them on the benches under the awning just out of reach of the waves, and thither the captain and his children bent their steps.

Sitting down by his wife's side, he drew Grace to his knee and Lulu close to his other side, keeping an arm round each while chatting pleasantly with his family and friends.

Lulu was very silent, constantly asking herself, and with no little uneasiness, what he really intended to do with her when, according to his direction, she should stay behind with him after tea while the others returned to the beach.

One thing she was determined on—that she would if possible obey the order without attracting any one's notice. Everybody must have seen how badly she had been behaving, but the thought of that was not half so galling to her pride as the danger of suspicion being aroused that punishment had been meted out to her on account of it.

Max watched her curiously, and took an opportunity, on their return to the house, to say privately to her, "I'm glad you've turned over a new leaf, Lu, and begun to behave decently to papa; I've wondered over and over again in the last few days that he didn't take you in hand in a way to convince you that he wasn't to be trifled with. It's my opinion that if you'd been a boy you'd have got a trouncing long before this."

"Indeed!" she cried, with an angry toss of her head; "I'm glad I'm not a boy if I couldn't be one without using such vulgar words."

"Oh, that isn't such a very bad word," returned Max, laughing; "but I can tell you, from sad experience, that the thing is bad enough sometimes; I'd be quaking in my shoes if I thought papa had any reason to consider me deserving of one."

"I don't see what you mean by talking so to me," exclaimed Lulu, passionately; "but I think you are a Pharisee—making yourself out so much better than I am!"

The call to supper interrupted them just there, and perhaps saved them from a down-right quarrel.

Lulu had no appetite for the meal, and it seemed to her that the others would never have done eating; then that they lingered unusually long about the house before starting for their accustomed evening rendezvous—the beach; for she was on thorns all the time.

At last some one made a move, and catching a look from her father which she alone saw or understood, she slipped unobserved into her bedroom and waited there with a fast beating heart.

She heard him say to Violet, "Don't wait for me, my love; I have a little matter to attend to here, and will follow you in the course of half an hour."

"Anything I can help you with?" Violet asked.

"Oh, no, thank you," he said, "I need no assistance."

"A business letter to write, I presume," she returned laughingly. "Well, don't make it too long, for I grudge every moment of your time."

With that she followed the others, and all was quiet except for the captain's measured tread, for he was slowly pacing the room to and fro.

Impatient, impetuous Lulu did not know how to endure the suspense; she seemed to herself like a criminal awaiting execution. Softly she opened the door and stepped out in front of her father, stopping him in his walk.

"Papa," she said, with pale, trembling lips, looking beseechingly up into his face, "whatever you are going to do to me, won't you please do it at once and let me have it over?"

He took her hand and, sitting down, drew her to his side, putting his arm around her.

"My little daughter," he said very gravely, but not unkindly, "my responsibility in regard to your training weighs very heavily on my mind; it is plain to me that you will make either a very good and useful woman, or one who will be a curse to herself and others; for you are too energetic and impulsive, too full of strong feeling to be lukewarm and indifferent in anything.

"You are forming your character now for time and for eternity, and I must do whatever lies in my power to help you to form it aright; for good and not for evil. You inherit a sinful nature from me, and have very strong passions which must be conquered or they will prove your ruin. I fear you do not see the great sinfulness of their indulgence, and that it may be that I am partly to blame for that in having passed too lightly over such exhibitions of them as have come under my notice: in short, that perhaps if I had been more justly severe with your faults you would have been more thoroughly convinced of their heinousness and striven harder and with greater success to conquer them.

"Therefore, after much thought and deliberation, and much prayer for guidance and direction, I have fully decided that I ought to punish you severely for the repeated acts of disobedience you have been guilty of in the last few days, and the constant exhibition of ill-temper.

"It pains me exceedingly to do it, but I must not consider my own feelings where my dear child's best interests are concerned."

"Is it because I asked you to do it, papa?" she inquired. "I never thought you would when I said it."

"No; I have been thinking seriously on the subject ever since you behaved so badly the day of the 'squantum,' and had very nearly decided the question just as I have fully decided it now. I know you are an honest child, even when the truth is against you; tell me, do you not yourself think that I am right?"

"Yes, sir," she answered, low and tremulously, after a moment's struggle with herself. "Oh, please do it at once, so it will be over soon!"

"I will," he said, rising and leading her into the inner room; "you shall not have the torture of anticipation a moment longer."

Though the punishment was severe beyond Lulu's worst anticipations, she bore it without outcry or entreaty, feeling that she richly deserved it, and determined that no one who might be within hearing should learn from any sound she uttered what was going on. Tears and now and then a half-suppressed sob were the only evidences of suffering that she allowed herself to give.

Her father was astonished at her fortitude, and more than ever convinced that she had in her the elements of a noble character.

The punishment over, he took her in his arms, laying her head against his breast. Both were silent, her tears falling like rain.

At length, with a heart-broken sob, "You hurt me terribly, papa," she said; "I didn't think you would ever want to hurt me so."

"I did not want to," he answered in moved tones; "it was sorely against my inclination, I cannot tell you how gladly I should have borne twice the pain for you if so I could have made you a good girl. I know you have sometimes troubled yourself with foolish fears that you had less than your fair share of my affection; but I have not a child that is nearer or dearer to me than you are, my darling. I love you very much."

"I'm so glad, papa; I 'most wonder you can," she sobbed; "and I love you dearly, dearly; I know I've not been acting like it lately, but I do, and just as much now as before. Oh, papa, you don't know how hard it is for me to be good!"

"I think I do," he said; "for I am naturally quite as bad as you are, having a violent temper, which would most certainly have been my ruin had I not been forced to learn to control it; indeed I fear it is from me you get your temper.

"I had a good Christian mother," he went on, "who was very faithful in her efforts to train her children up aright. My fits of passion gave her great concern and anxiety. I can see now how troubled and distressed she used to look.

"Usually she would shut me up in a room by myself until I had had time to cool down, then come to me, talk very seriously and kindly of the danger and sinfulness of such indulgence of temper, telling me there was no knowing what dreadful deed I might some day be led to commit in my fury, if I did not learn to rule my own spirit; and that therefore for my own sake she must punish me to teach me self-control. She would then chastise me, often quite severely, and leave me to myself again to reflect upon the matter. Thus she finally succeeded in so convincing me of the great guilt and danger of giving rein to my fiery temper and the necessity of gaining the mastery over it, that I fought hard to do so, and with God's help have, I think, gained the victory.

"It is the remembrance of all this, and how thankful I am to my mother now for her faithfulness, that has determined me to be equally faithful to my own dear little daughter, though unfortunately I lack the opportunity for the same constant watchfulness over my children."

"Oh, papa, if you only could be with us all the time!" she sighed. "But I never thought you had a temper. I've seen some people fly at their naughty children in a great passion and beat them hard; I should think if you had such a bad temper as you say, you'd have treated me so many a time."

"Very likely I should if your grandmother had not taught me to control it," he said; "you may thank her that you have as good a father as you have."

"I think I have the best in the world," she said, putting her arm round his neck; "and now that it's all over, papa, I'm glad you did punish me just so hard; for I don't feel half so mean, because it seems as if I have sort of paid for my naughtiness toward you."

"Yes, toward me; the account is settled between us; but remember that you cannot so atone for your sin against God; nothing but the blood of Christ can avail to blot out that account against you, and you must ask to be forgiven for His sake alone. We will kneel down and ask it now."

Violet glanced again and again toward the cottages on the bluff, wondering and a trifle impatient at her husband's long delay, but at length saw him approaching, leading Lulu by the hand.

There was unusual gravity, amounting almost to sternness, in his face, and Lulu's wore a more subdued expression than she had ever seen upon it, while traces of tears were evident upon her cheeks,

"He has been talking very seriously to her in regard to the ill-temper she has shown during the past few days," Violet said to herself. "Poor wayward child! I hope she will take the lesson to heart, and give him less trouble and anxiety in future."

He kept Lulu close at his side all the evening, and she seemed well content to stay there, her head on his shoulder, his arm around her waist, while she listened silently to the talk going on around her or to the booming of the waves upon the beach not many yards away.

When it was time for the children to retire, he took her and Grace to the house. At the door he bent down and kissed Grace good-night, saying, "I shall not wait to see you in your bed, but shall come in to look at you before I go to mine."

"May I have a kiss too, papa?" Lulu asked in a wishful, half-tremulous voice, as though a trifle uncertain whether her request would be granted.

"Yes, my dear little daughter, as many as you wish," he replied, taking her in his arms and bestowing them with hearty good-will and affection.

"I'm sorry—oh, very sorry for all my naughtiness, papa," she whispered in his ear while clinging about his neck.

"It is all forgiven now," he said, "and I trust will never be repeated."

Lulu was very good, submissive, and obedient during the remainder of her father's stay among them.

She was greatly distressed when, two weeks later, orders came for him to join his ship the following day. She clung to him with devoted, remorseful affection and distress in prospect of the impending separation, while he treated her with even more than his wonted kindness, drawing her often caressingly to his knee, and his voice taking on a very tender tone whenever he spoke to her.

It was in the evening he left them, for he was to drive over to Nantucket Town and pass the night there in order to take the early boat leaving for the mainland the next morning.

Mr. Dinsmore went with him, intending to go to Boston for a few days, perhaps on to New York also, then return to Siasconset.

Harold, Herbert, Bob, and Max set out that same evening for their camping ground; so that Mr. Edward Travilla was the only man of the party left to take care of the women and children.

However, they would all have felt safe enough in that very quiet spot, or anywhere on the island, without any such protection.

Lulu went to bed that night full of remorseful regret that through her own wilfulness she had lost many hours of her father's prized society, besides grieving and displeasing him.

Oh, if she could but go back and live the last few weeks over, how differently she would behave! She would not give him the least cause to be displeased with or troubled about her.

As often before, she felt a great disgust at herself, and a longing desire to be good and gentle like Gracie, who never seemed to have the slightest inclination to be quick-tempered or rebellious.

"She's so sweet and dear!" murmured Lulu half aloud, and reaching out a hand to softly touch the little sister sleeping quietly by her side; "I should think papa would love her ten times better than me; but he says he doesn't, and he always tells the truth. I wish I'd been made like Gracie; but I'm ever so glad he can love me in spite of all my badness. Oh, I am determined to be good the next time he's at home, so that he will enjoy his visit more. It was a burning shame in me to spoil this one so; I'd like to beat you for it, Lulu Raymond, and I'm glad he didn't let you escape."

Violet and her mother were passing the night together, and lying side by side talked to each other in loving confidence of such things as lay nearest their hearts. Naturally Vi's thoughts were full of the husband from whom she had just parted—for how long?—it might be months or years.

"Mamma," she said, "the more I am with him and study his character, the more I honor and trust and love him. It is the one trial of my otherwise exceptionally happy life, that we must pass so much of our time apart, and that he has such a child as Lulu to mar his enjoyment of—"

"Oh, dear daughter," interrupted Elsie, "do not allow yourself to feel otherwise than very kindly toward your husband's child; Lulu has some very noble traits, and I trust you will try to think of them rather than of her faults, serious as they may seem to you."

"Yes, mamma, there are some things about her that are very lovable, and I really have a strong affection for her, even aside from the fact that she is his child; yet when she behaves in a way that distresses him I can hardly help wishing that she belonged to some one else.

"You surely must have noticed how badly she behaved for two or three days. He never spoke to me about it, tried not to let me see that it interfered with his enjoyment (for he knew that that would spoil mine), but for all that I knew his heart was often heavy over her misconduct.

"Yet she certainly does love her father. How she clung to him after she had heard that he must leave us so soon, with a remorseful affection, it seemed to me."

"Yes, and though she shed but few tears in parting from him, I could see that she was almost heart-broken. She is a strange child, but if she takes the right turn, will assuredly make a noble, useful woman."

"I hope so, mamma; and that will, I know, repay him for all his care and anxiety on her account. No father could be fonder of his children or more willing to do or endure anything for their sake. Of course I do not mean anything wrong; he would not do wrong himself or suffer wrong-doing in them; for his greatest desire is to see them truly good, real Christians. I hope my darling, as she grows older, will be altogether a comfort and blessing to him."

"As her mother has been to me, and always was to her father," Elsie responded in loving tones.

"Thank you, mamma," Violet said with emotion; "oh, if I had been an undutiful daughter and given pain and anxiety to my best of fathers, how my heart would ache at the remembrance, now that he is gone. And I feel deep pity for Lulu when I think what sorrow she is preparing for herself in case she outlives her father, as in the course of nature she is likely to do."

"Yes, poor child!" sighed Elsie; "and doubtless she is even now enduring the reproaches of conscience aggravated by the fear that she may not see her father very soon again.

"She and Gracie, to say nothing of my dear Vi, will be feeling lonely to-morrow, and Edward, Zoe, and I have planned various little excursions, by land and water, to give occupation to your thoughts and pleasantly while away the time."

"You are always so kind, dearest mamma," said Violet; "always thinking of others and planning for their enjoyment."

"Oh, how lonely it does seem without papa! our dear, dear papa!" was Gracie's waking exclamation. "I wish he could live at home all the time like other children's fathers do! When will he come again, Lulu?"

"I don't know, Gracie; I don't believe anybody knows," returned Lulu sorrowfully. "But you have no occasion to feel half as badly about it as I."

"Why not?" cried Grace, a little indignantly, even her gentle nature aroused at the apparent insinuation that he was more to Lulu than to herself; "you don't love him a bit better than I do."

"Maybe not; but Mamma Vi is more to you than she is to me; though that wasn't what I was thinking of. I was only thinking that you had been a good child to him all the time he has been at home, while I was so very, very naughty that—"

Lulu broke off suddenly and went on with, her dressing in silence.

"That what?" asked Grace.

"That I grieved him very much and spoiled half his pleasure," Lulu said in a choking voice. Then turning suddenly toward her sister, her face flushing hotly, her eyes full of tears, bitterly ashamed of what she was moved to tell, yet with a heart aching so for sympathy that she hardly knew how to keep it back, "Gracie, if I tell you something will you never, never, never breathe a single word of it to a living soul?"

Grace, who was seated on the floor putting on her shoes and stockings, looked up at her sister in silent astonishment.

"Come, answer," exclaimed Lulu impetuously; "do you promise? I know if you make a promise you'll keep it. But I won't tell you without, for I wouldn't have Mamma Vi, or Max, or anybody else but you know, for all the world."

"Not papa?"

"Oh, Gracie, papa knows; it's a secret between him and me—only—only I have a right to tell you if I choose."

"I'm glad he knows, because I couldn't promise not to tell him if he asked me and said I must. Yes, I promise, Lulu. What is it?"

Lulu had finished her dressing, and dropping down on the carpet beside Grace she began, half averting her face and speaking in low, hurried tones. "You remember that morning we were all going to the 'squantum' I changed my dress and put on a white one, and because of that, and something I said to Max that papa overheard, he said I must stay at home; and he ordered me to take off that dress immediately. Well, I disobeyed him; I walked round the town in the dress before I took it off, and instead of staying at home I went in to bathe, and took a walk in the afternoon with Betty Johnson to Sankaty Lighthouse, and went up in the tower and outside too."

"Oh, Lulu!" cried Grace, "how could you dare to do so?"

"I did, anyway," said Lulu; "and you know I was very ill-tempered for two days afterward; so when papa knew it all he thought he ought to punish me, and he did."

"How?"

"Oh, Grace! don't you know? can't you guess? It was when he and I stayed back while all the rest went to the beach, that evening after Betty's friend told of seeing me at Sankaty."

Grace drew a long breath. "Oh, Lu," she said pityingly, putting her arms lovingly about her sister, "I'm so sorry for you! How could you bear it? Did he hurt you very much?"

"Oh, yes, terribly; but I'm glad he did it (though I wouldn't for anything let anybody know it but you), because I'd feel so mean if I hadn't paid somehow for my badness. Papa was so good and kind to me—he always is—and I had been behaving so hatefully to him.

"And he wasn't in a bit of a passion with me. I believe, as he told me, he did hate to punish me, and only did it to help me to learn to conquer my temper."

"And to be obedient, too?"

"Yes; the punishment was for that too, he said. But now don't you think I have reason to feel worse about his going away just now than you?"

"Yes," admitted Grace; "I'd feel ever so badly if I'd done anything to make dear papa sad and troubled; and I think I should be frightened to death if he was going to whip me."

"No, you wouldn't," said Lulu, "for you would know papa wouldn't hurt you any more than he thought necessary for your own good. Now let me help you dress, for it must be near breakfast time."

"Oh, thank you; yes, I'll have to hurry. Do you love papa as well as ever, Lu?"

"Better," returned Lulu, emphatically; "it seems odd, but I do. I shouldn't though if I thought he took pleasure in beating me, or punishing me in any way."

"I don't b'lieve he likes to punish any of us," said Grace.

"I know he doesn't," said Lulu. "And it isn't any odder that I should love him in spite of his punishments, than that he should love me in spite of all my naughtiness. Yes, I do think, Gracie, we have the best father in the world."

"'Course we have," responded Grace; "but then we don't have him half the time; he's 'most always on his ship," she added tearfully.

"Are you ready for breakfast, dears?" asked a sweet voice at the door.

"Yes, Grandma Elsie," they answered, hastening to claim the good-morning kiss she was always ready to bestow.

Lulu's heartache had found some relief in her confidence to her sister, and she showed a pleasanter and more cheerful face at the table than Violet expected to see her wear.

It grew brighter still when she learned that they were all to have a long, delightful drive over the hills and moors, starting almost immediately upon the conclusion of the meal.

The weather was charming, everybody in most amiable mood, and spite of the pain of the recent parting from him whom they so dearly loved, that would occasionally make itself felt in the hearts of wife and children, the little trip was an enjoyable one to all.

Just as they drew up at the cottage door on their return, a blast of Captain Baxter's tin horn announced his arrival with the mail, and Edward, waiting only to assist the ladies and children to alight, hurried off to learn if they had any interest in the contents of the mailbag.



CHAPTER VIII.

"Be not too ready to condemn The wrongs thy brothers may have done; Ere ye too harshly censure them For human faults, ask, 'Have I none?'"

—Miss Eliza Cook.

The little girls took up their station at the front door to watch for "Uncle Edward's" return.

Gracie presently cried out joyfully, "Oh, he's coming with a whole handful of letters! I wonder if one is from papa."

"I'm afraid not," said Lulu; "he would hardly write last night, leaving us so late as he did, and hardly have time before the leaving of the early boat this morning."

The last word had scarcely left her lips when Edward reached her side and put a letter into her hand—a letter directed to her, and unmistakably in her father's handwriting.

"One for you, too, Vi," he said gayly, tossing it into her lap through the open window.

"Excuse the unceremonious delivery, sister mine. Where are grandma and mamma? I have a letter for each of them."

"Here," answered his mother's voice from within the room; then as she took the missives from his hand, "Ah, I knew papa would not forget either mamma or me."

"Where's my share, Ned?" asked Zoe, issuing from the inner room, where she had been engaged in taking off her hat and smoothing her fair tresses.

"Your share? Well, really I don't know; unless you'll accept the mail-carrier as such," he returned sportively.

"Captain Baxter?" she asked in mock astonishment. "I'd rather have a letter by half."

"But you can't have either," he returned, laughing; "you can have the postman who delivered the letters here—nothing more; yours is 'Hobson's choice.'"

Lulu, receiving her letter with a half-smothered exclamation of intense, joyful surprise, ran swiftly away with it to the beach, never stopping till she had gained a spot beyond and away from the crowd, where no prying eye would watch her movements or note if the perusal of her treasure caused any emotion.

There, seated upon the sand, she broke open the envelope with fingers trembling with eagerness. It contained only a few lines in Captain Raymond's bold chirography, but they breathed such fatherly love and tenderness as brought the tears in showers from Lulu's eyes—tears of intense joy and filial love. She hastily wiped them away and read the sweet words again and again; then kissing the paper over and over, placed it in her bosom, rose up, and slowly wended her way back toward the house, with a lighter, happier heart than she had known for some days.

She had not gone far when Grace came tripping over the sands to meet her, her face sparkling with delight as she held up a note to view, exclaiming, "See, Lu! papa did not forget me; it came inside of mamma's letter."

"Oh, Gracie, I am glad," said Lulu; "but it would be very strange for papa to remember the bad child and not the good one, wouldn't it?" she concluded, between a sigh and a smile.

"I'm not always good," said Grace; "you know I did something very, very bad last winter one time—something you would never do. I b'lieve you'd speak the truth if you knew you'd be killed for it."

"You dear little thing!" exclaimed Lulu, throwing her arm round Grace and giving her a hearty kiss; "it's very good in you to say it; but papa says I'm an honest child and own the truth even when it's against me."

"Yes; you said you told him how you had disobeyed him; and If it had been I, I wouldn't have ever said a word about it for fear he'd punish me."

"Well, you can't help being timid; and if I were as timid as you are, no doubt I'd be afraid to own up too; and I didn't confess till after that Miss Eastman had told on me," said Lulu. "Now let's sit down on the sand, and if you'll show me your letter, I'll show you mine."

Grace was more than willing, and they busied themselves with the letters, reading and rereading, and with loving talk about their absent father, till summoned to the supper-table.

Lulu was very fond of being on the beach, playing in the sand, wandering hither and thither, or just sitting gazing dreamily out over the waves; and her father had allowed her to do so, only stipulating that she should not go out of sight or into any place that looked at all dangerous.

"I'm going down to the beach," she said to Grace, when they had left the table that evening; "won't you go too?"

"Not yet," said Grace; "baby is awake, and looks so sweet that I'd rather stay and play with her a little while first."

"She does look pretty and sweet," assented Lulu, glancing toward the babe, cooing in its nurse's arms, "but we can see enough of her after we go home to Ion, and haven't the sea any more. I'll go now, and you can come and join me when you are ready."

Leaving the house, Lulu turned southward toward Sunset Heights, and strolled slowly on, gazing seaward for the most part, and drinking in with delight the delicious breeze as it came sweeping on from no one knows where, tearing the crests of the waves and scattering the spray hither and yon.

The tide was rising, and it was keen enjoyment to watch the great billows chasing each other in and dashing higher and higher on the sands below. Then the sun drew near his setting, and the sea, reflecting the gorgeous coloring of the clouds, changed every moment from one lovely hue to another.

Lulu walked on and on, wilfully refusing to think how great might be the distance she was putting between herself and home, and at length sat down, the better to enjoy the lovely panorama of cloud and sea which still continued to enrapture her with its ever-changing beauty.

By and by the colors began to fade and give place to a silvery gray, which gradually deepened and spread till the whole sky was fast growing black with clouds that even to her inexperienced eye portended a storm.

She started up and sent a sweeping glance around on every side. Could it be possible that she was so far from the tiny 'Sconset cottage that at present she called home? Here were Tom Never's Head and the life-saving station almost close at hand; she had heard papa say they were a good two miles from 'Sconset, so she must be very nearly that distance from home, all alone too, and with night and a storm fast coming on.

"Oh me! I've been disobedient again," she said aloud, as she set off for home at her most rapid pace; "what would papa say? It wasn't exactly intentional this time, but I should not have been so careless."

Alarmed at the prospect of being overtaken by darkness and tempest alone out in the wild, she used her best efforts to move with speed; but she could scarcely see to pick her steps or take a perfectly direct course, and now and again she was startled by the flutter of an affrighted night-bird across her path as she wandered among the sand dunes, toiling over the yielding soil, the booming of the waves and the melancholy cadences of the wind as it rose and fell filling her ears.

She was a brave child, entirely free from superstitious fears, and having learned that the island harbored no burglars or murderers, and that there was no wild beast upon it, her only fear was of being overtaken by the storm or lost on the moors, unable to find her way till day-break.

But, gaining the top of a sand-hill, the star-like gleam of Sankaty Light greeted her delighted eyes, and with a joyful exclamation, "Oh, now I can find the way!" she sprang forward with renewed energy, soon found the path to the village, pursued it with quickened steps and light heart, although the rain was now pouring down, accompanied with occasional flashes of lightning and peals of thunder, and in a few moments pushed open the door of the cottage and stepped into the astonished presence of the ladies of the party.

She had not been missed till the approach of the storm drove them all within doors; then perceiving that the little girl was not among them, the question passed from one to another, "Where is Lulu?"

No one could say where; Grace remembered that she had gone out intending to take a stroll along the beach, but did not mention in which direction.

"And she has never been known to stay out so late; and—and the tide is coming in," cried Violet, sinking pale and trembling into a chair. "Oh, mamma, if she is drowned, how shall I answer to my husband for taking so little care of his child?"

"My dear daughter, don't borrow trouble," Elsie said cheerfully, though her own cheek had grown very pale; "it was in my care he left her, not in yours."

"Don't fret, Vi," Edward said; "I don't believe she's drowned; she has more sense than to go where the tide would reach her; but I'll go at once to look for her, and engage others in the search also."

He started for the door.

"She may be out on the moors, Ned," called Zoe, running after him with his waterproof coat. "Here, put this on."

"No time to wait for that," he said.

"But you must take time," she returned, catching hold of him and throwing it over his shoulders; "men have to obey their wives once in awhile; Lu's not drowning; don't you believe it; and she may as well get a wetting as you."

Grace, hiding her head in Violet's lap, was sobbing bitterly, the latter stroking her hair in a soothing way, but too full of grief and alarm herself to speak any comforting words.

"Don't cry, Gracie; and, Vi, don't look so distressed," said Betty. "Lulu, like myself, is one of those people that need never be worried about—the bad pennies that always turn up again."

"Then she isn't fit for heaven," remarked Rosie in an undertone not meant for her sister's ear; "but I don't believe," she added in a louder key, "that there is anything worse the matter than too long a walk for her to get back in good season."

"That is my opinion, Vi," said Mrs. Dinsmore; and Elsie added, "Mine also."

No one spoke again for a moment, and in the silence the heavy boom, boom of the surf on the beach below came distinctly to their ears. Then there was a vivid flash of lightning and a terrific thunder crash, followed instantly by a heavy down-pour of rain.

"And she is out in all this!" exclaimed Violet in tones of deep distress. "Dear child, if I only had her here safe in my arms, or if her father were here to look after her!"

"And punish her," added Rosie. "It's my humble opinion that if ever a girl of her age needed a good whipping, she does."

"Rosie," said her mother, with unwonted severity, "I cannot allow you to talk in that way. Lulu's faults are different from yours, but perhaps no worse; for while she is passionate and not sufficiently amenable to authority, you are showing yourself both uncharitable and Pharisaical."

"Well, mamma," Rosie answered, blushing deeply at the reproof, "I cannot help feeling angry with her for giving poor Vi so much unnecessary worry and distress of mind. And I am sure her father must have felt troubled and mortified by the way she behaved for two or three days while he was here."