'and dick, though pale as any ghost,

had only said to me,

"we're all right now, old lad."'

author of 'john halifax.'

miss neale was rather in a hurry to get home that afternoon, so she and celestina did not linger at the tea-table as they sometimes did. by half-past four they had gone, for on miss neale's account tea had been ordered half an hour earlier than usual.

rosalys disappeared—mamma wanted her, she said. so bridget was left alone, for rough had begun school some time ago. he rode over every morning, and got home again about six.

'i wonder if papa is in,' thought biddy idly, for a moment or two half inclined to see if she might pay him a visit in the study. but then she remembered that he had been out all day, and that he was not [152]expected home till dinner-time. there were not many very poor people at seacove, but there were a great many young men and boys always about the wharf, and some fishermen and their families living half-way between the little town and a fishing village called portscale, some way along the coast. at portscale there was a beautiful old church, and a vicar younger and much more active than dr. bunton. mr. vane and he had made friends at once, and to-day they had arranged to visit some of these outlying neighbours together, for even though mr. vane was not at all strong and had come to seacove for a rest, he was far too good and energetic not to do all he possibly could.

biddy felt very cross when she remembered that her father was out. she strolled to the window; it was still bright and sunny—a sudden thought struck her. she hurried upstairs to the room where her hat and jacket were lying as she had just taken them off—her boots were still on her feet, and in less time than it takes me to tell, for biddy could be quick if she chose, a sturdy little figure might have been seen trotting down the sandy path which led to the shore.

'if they leave me alone i'm forced to amuse my[153]self and do things alone,' she said to herself, as a sort of excuse to her own conscience, which was trying, poor thing, to make itself heard, reminding her too that there were plenty of things she could have done comfortably at home in the nursery, where jane dodson was not bad company when allowed to talk in her own slow way. there were to-morrow's lessons in the first place—pleasant, easy lessons to do alone, and not too much of them; and there was the kettle-holder she was making for grandmamma's birthday! but no, biddy refused to listen. she was determined to carry out the wild scheme she had got in her head—'it will be nice to put celestina down,' she said to herself.

a very few minutes' quick walking, or running rather, for biddy could run too when she chose, brought her to the end, or the beginning, whichever you like to call it, of the long rough road, so to speak, of stones, stretching far out to sea. biddy had gone some way along it two or three times when out with the others; it was a very interesting place to walk along, as the outgoing tide left dear little pools, which held all sorts of treasures in the way of seaweed and tiny crabs and jellyfish, besides which, the scrambling over the pools and picking one's way was [154]very exciting, especially when there was a merry party of three or four together. biddy found it amusing enough even by herself, for some little time, that is to say. but after a while she got rather tired of not being able to walk straight on, and once or twice sharp stones cut and bruised her feet, and she wished she had some one's hand to take to steady her. she was very eager to get to the other end of the tongue, or ridge of stones, for once there she felt sure it would be but easy walking over sand to the lighthouse. for the lighthouse as you will have guessed, was her destination!

'i daresay the sand'll be rather wet,' she thought; 'it must be the wetness that celestina thought was water, for it shines just like water sometimes. i'll run over it very quick and my boots are thick. what fun it'll be to tell celestina i've been to the lighthouse all by myself!'

but the stones grew rougher and rougher. the tongue was not really more than half a mile long, but it seemed much more. several times before she got to the end of it biddy looked back with a half acknowledged thought that perhaps it would be best to give up the expedition after all—no one need know she had tried it. but behind her by this time [155]the rough stones seemed a dreary way, and in front it did not now look far. she felt as if she could not go back, and she had a sort of vague hope that somehow or other the nice old man celestina had told her of would help her to get home an easier way. perhaps he would take her round in a boat!

at last she got to the end of the stones, and then, oh joy! there lay before her a beautiful smooth stretch of ripple-marked sand—how delightful it was to run along it, so firm and pleasant it felt to her tired little feet. the lighthouse seemed still a good way off—farther than she had expected, but at first, in the relief of having got off the stones, she almost felt as if she could fly. she did get over the ground pretty quickly for some minutes, and even when she began to go more slowly she kept up a pretty good pace. and at last she saw the queer building—it reminded her a little of an old pigeon-house at grandmamma's, for it was not a very high lighthouse—almost close to her. but, celestina had spoken truly, between it and her there lay a good-sized piece of water, stretching up to the rocks, or great rough stones round the base of the lighthouse—a sort of lake which evidently was always there, filled up afresh by each visit of the tide.

bridget gasped. but she was determined enough [156]once she had made up her mind. she went close up to the water; it did not look at all deep and her skirts were very short. down she sat on the sand, less dry than it looked, and pulled off her shoes and stockings, tying them up into a bundle as she had seen tramps do in the country. then lifting her frock as high as she could, in she plunged. oh, how cold it was! but the water did not come up very high, not over her knees, though now and then a false step wetted her pretty badly. she was shivering all over, but on she waded, till within a few yards only of the sort of little shore surrounding the lighthouse, when—what was the matter with the sand, what made it seem to go away from her all at once? she plunged about, but on all sides it seemed to be sloping downwards; higher and higher rose the water, till it was above her waist, and still every movement made it rise.

'i'm drowning,' screamed biddy. 'oh, help me, help me! man in the lighthouse, can't you hear me? oh, oh, oh!'

biddy fortunately had good lungs and her screams carried well. but the water kept rising, or rather she kept slipping farther down. she was losing her head now, and had not the sense to stand still, and she was [157]partly stupefied by cold. it would have gone badly with her but for—what i must now tell you about.

it was what would be called, i suppose, a curious coincidence, the sort of chance, so to say—though 'chance' is a word without real meaning—that many people think only happens in story-books, in which i do not at all agree, for i have known in real life far stranger coincidences than i ever read of—well, it was by a very fortunate coincidence that that very afternoon bridget's father happened to be at the lighthouse. he had gone out there by a sudden thought of mr. mildmay's, the portscale clergyman i told you of, who had mentioned in talking that he had not been there for some time.

'and it is a very fine mild day,' he said. 'it doesn't take twenty minutes in a boat. if you don't think it would hurt you, mr. vane?'

mr. vane was delighted. there was a good deal of the boy about him still; he loved anything in the shape of a bit of fun, and he loved boating. so off the two came, and were most pleasantly welcomed by old tobias and his second-in-command at the lighthouse. and by another happy chance, just as biddy began to wade, mr. vane had come to the side of the lantern-room looking over in her direction.[158]

'what can that be, moving slowly through that bit of water?' he said to tobias. 'i am rather near-sighted. is it a porpoise?'

'nay, nay, sir, not at this season,' replied the old man; 'besides it's far too shallow for anything like that, though there is a deepish hole near the middle.'

he strolled across to where mr. vane was standing as he spoke, and stared out where his visitor pointed to. then suddenly he flung open one of the glazed doors and stepped on to the round balcony—perhaps that is not the right word to use for a lighthouse, but i do not know any other—outside, followed by mr. vane. just then biddy's screams came shrilly through the clear afternoon air, for it was a still day, and out at the lighthouse, when there was no noise of wind and waves, there was certainly nothing else to disturb the silence except perhaps the cry of a sea-gull overhead, or now and then the sound of the fishermen's voices as they passed by in their boats. and just now the waves were a long way out and the winds were off i know not where—all the better for the poor silly child, who, having got herself into this trouble, could do nothing but scream shrilly and yet more shrilly in her terror.

old tobias turned and looked at mr. vane.[159]

'it's a child, 'pon my soul, it's a child,' he exclaimed, and he sprang inside again and made for the ladder leading downstairs. but quick as he was, his visitor was before him. people talk of the miraculous quickness of a mother's ears; a father's, i think, are sometimes quite as acute, and bridget's father loved dearly his self-willed, tiresome, queer-tempered little girl. long before he got to the top of the ladder he knew more than old tobias, more than any of them—mr. mildmay or young williams, the other lighthouse man—had any idea of. he knew that the voice which had reached him was that of his own biddy, and before tobias could give him a hint, or ever a word had been said as to what was best to do, he had pulled off his coat, tossed away his hat, and was up to his waist in the water. for though not so deep close round the lighthouse as at the dangerous place where biddy had lost her head, this salt-water lake even at low tide was never less than two or three feet in depth at the farther side.

'i can swim,' was all mr. vane called out to the three hurrying after him. but so could mr. mildmay, and so could, of course, tobias and williams. and it was not so much the fear of his friend's drowning as the thought of the mischief that might [160]come to him, delicate as he was, from the chill and exposure, that made mr. mildmay shout after him, 'come back, i entreat you, vane; you are not fit for it,' while he struggled to drag off a very heavy pair of boots he had on—boots he had on purpose for rough shingly walking, but which he knew would weight him terribly in the water.

a touch on his arm made him start. it was tobias.

'stop you here, sir,' he said; 'bill's off, and he's the youngest and spryest,' and sure enough there was williams already within a few yards of mr. vane. 'i don't take it there's much danger of no drownding—and bill knows the deep part. but it's cold for the gentleman, so delicate as he is—we two had best stay dry and be ready to give 'em a hand when they get in. but it beats me, it do, to think what child could be such a fool as to try to cross that there water—such a thing's ne'er happened before.'

mr. mildmay did not like to give in, though he knew there was sense in what tobias said. he stood hesitating, one boot half off, but there was not long to wait. soon came a cheery cry from williams, 'all right, sir, all right,' and in almost less [161]time than it takes to tell it, the two men, half-swimming, half-wading, were seen returning, carrying between them a little dripping figure, with streaming hair, white face, and closed eyes.

it was thus that biddy paid her long thought-of visit to the lighthouse.

she was not drowned, nor anything approaching to it; she had only once, or twice perhaps, been thoroughly under the water; the whole had in reality passed very quickly, but not so had it seemed to biddy. unless you have ever been, or thought yourself in danger of drowning, you could not understand how in such a case seconds seem minutes, and minutes hours; and the ducking and the cold and the terror all combined had made things seem worse than they really were. bridget was almost quite unconscious by the time her father had got hold of her—perfectly stupefied any way; her clothes were heavy too, and she was at no time a light weight. altogether it was a very good thing indeed that strong hardy bill was close behind mr. vane, whose powers would not have held out very long. as it was, he was whiter even than biddy, his teeth chattering with cold and nervous excitement, when at last the whole party found them[162]selves safe in the living-room or kitchen of the lighthouse.

old tobias had hot blankets down before the fire and a steaming tumbler of brandy and water ready in no time. biddy, deposited in front of the grate, sat up and looked about her in a dazed sort of way. she felt as if she were dreaming.

'biddy,' said her father, 'you must take off the wettest of your things at once.'

biddy began to finger her garments.

'my frock's the worst,' she said; 'and oh, where's my hat gone?'

'never mind your hat, child,' said tobias. 'here, step this way,' and he led her to a sort of partition in the corner of the room, behind which was his own bed; 'take off your things, my dear, and get into bed with this blanket round you whiles i sees to the gentleman. you'll be none the worse of your drenching: salt water's a deal better for not catching cold. it's the gentleman we must see to. it's the new rector, and a delicate gentleman he is.'

biddy stared up at him.

'it's my papa,' she said.

it was the old man's turn to stare now.

'your papa!' he exclaimed. he had never [163]dreamt but that biddy was a seacove child, tempted out too far by the fine afternoon—a fisherman's or boatman's daughter. but however curious he was to hear more, he had too much sense to cross-question her just then.

'get into bed, missie, and get to sleep for a bit, while your things dry.'

biddy had had her share of weak brandy and water; she had never tasted it before, and it soon sent her to sleep.

tobias went back to mr. vane.

'she's all right, sir. i'd no notion as she was your young lady. was she awaitin' for you on the sands, or how?'

mr. vane shook his head.

'i know no more about it than you,' he said. but he still looked so white and faint that the lighthouse man and the others gave all their attention to getting him warmed and dried, and at last they got him to look a little better, though he declared he could not go to sleep.

'you can stay quiet any way,' said mr. mildmay. but mr. vane looked up anxiously.

'my wife,' he said. 'she will be getting frightened, not about me merely, but the child.'[164]

'i will take the boat back at once and tell her,' said mr. mildmay; 'if williams can come with me, it won't take long. i'll run up to the rectory, and then we'll bring another man out to help to row us all back again. i'll bring some wraps too. you think you'll be fit to go home in an hour or so?'

'certainly,' said mr. vane decidedly. 'i could not stay here.'

mr. mildmay reached the rectory to find poor mrs. vane in a sad state of fright. biddy's absence had not been discovered for some time, as rosalys was busy with her mother, and rough had not come in from school, and everybody, if they thought about her at all, naturally thought she was with some one else. for a girl of seven or eight should surely be sensible enough to be left to herself for an hour in her own nursery or schoolroom! but once the hue and cry after her began, it really did seem as if there were cause for alarm. every one had some new idea to suggest, ending by rough, who, as he came riding in on his pony and heard the news, declared she must be hiding out of mischief.

but no—a very short search dispelled that possibility, and the pony had to be saddled again [165]for rough to set off as fast as he could to seacove to inquire if the truant had perhaps followed celestina home.

'and your father not in yet either,' said mrs. vane. 'oh, alie, what can be the matter? can something have happened to him that biddy has heard of, and that has made her run off to him—poor biddy, she is very fond of papa. but if she has run away out of mischief, alie—oh, could she be such a naughty, naughty girl?'

mrs. vane was dreadfully excited. alie had hard work to keep back her own tears.

'just as we were so happy about the doll-house for her too,' mrs. vane went on.

rosalys gave a little sob.

'i think perhaps she's at celestina's,' she said. but in less time than could have been expected back dashed rough. no, biddy was not, had not been at pier street, but celestina and her mother were following him as fast as they could to the rectory—celestina had an idea—she would explain it all—but she begged mrs. vane to send down to the shore; the sea was out, and it was still light enough to see any one there a good way off.

a party was at once despatched to the sands, in [166]vain, as we know, for by this time mr. mildmay had landed from his boat and was hurrying along to calm mrs. vane's anxiety. he arrived there a quarter of an hour or so after mrs. fairchild and her daughter, so celestina had had time to explain the idea which had struck her—we know what it was, and that it was the true one—and to relate to mrs. vane all her reasons for imagining it possible that self-willed, obstinate biddy had set out on her own account to walk to the lighthouse.

so when mr. mildmay appeared and told his strange story, his hearers were able to explain what to him and mr. vane had seemed a complete mystery.

'how could she be so naughty?' mrs. vane exclaimed. but alie touched her gently.

'only, dear mamma,' she whispered, 'think; she might have been drowned.'

'and so might your father, and as it is, i tremble to think what the consequences may be for him. i do feel as if i could not forgive bridget,' said mrs. vane excitedly.

mrs. fairchild was very, very sorry for her, but she was a brave woman. she managed to draw mrs. vane aside.[167]

'dear madam,' she said, 'i do feel for you. but we must be just. remember the child had no idea of what would be the result of her folly. it was really but a piece of childish folly or naughtiness. and it may be a lesson for all her life; it may be the turning-point for her—if—if only you would—if you can meet her—gently—if nothing is said to harden her.'

'i will try. i promise you i will try,' said mrs. vane very softly. 'but oh, mrs. fairchild, if it has made my husband ill!' and her voice broke.

'we must hope not—hope and pray,' said celestina's mother in a low voice.

'and there was something so interesting i wanted to tell you; i had a letter to-day from madame d'ermont—such a nice letter. and now all this has spoilt everything,' went on poor mrs. vane.

'never mind. you will tell me about it another time,' said mrs. fairchild soothingly. 'would it—excuse my suggesting it—would i be in the way if i stayed till they come? i have some experience as to chills and accidents of all sorts—and i would like to see how they are.'

'oh, thank you,' said mrs. vane fervently. 'i [168]should be most grateful. i have no one now with any head about me since my last maid left.'

and mrs. fairchild stayed—not that evening only, but all night, sending celestina home to explain matters to her father.