Saved at Sea | Page 7

could not help watching her.
'God bless her, poor little thing!' said Mrs. Millar.
'God bless 'ou,' said the child. The words were evidently familiar to her.
'She must have heard her mother say so,' said Mrs. Millar, in a choking
voice.
When we had finished dinner, the child slipped down from her stool,
and ran to the sofa. Here she found my grandfather's hat, which she put
on her head, and my scarf, which she hung round her neck. Then she

marched to the door, and said, 'Tatta, tatta; Timpey go tatta.'
'Take her out a bit, Alick,' said Mrs. Millar. 'Stop a minute, though; I'll
fetch her Polly's hood.' So, to her great delight, we dressed her in
Polly's hood, and put a warm shawl round her, and I took her out.
Oh! how she ran, and jumped, and played in the garden. I never saw
such a merry little thing. Now she was picking up stones, now she was
gathering daisies ('day days, she called them), now she was running
down the path and calling to me to catch her. She was never still a
single instant!
[Illustration: AFTER THE STORM.]
But every now and then, as I was playing with her, I looked across the
sea to Ainslie Crag. The sea had not gone down much, though the wind
had ceased, and I saw the waves still dashing wildly upon the rocks.
And I thought of what lay beneath them, of the shattered ship, and of
the child's mother. Oh! if she only knew, I thought, as I listened to her
merry laugh, which made me more ready to cry than her tears had done.
CHAPTER V.
THE UNCLAIMED SUNBEAM.
My grandfather and Jem Millar were sitting over the fire in the little
watchroom in the lighthouse tower, and I sat beside them with the child
on my knee. I had found an old picture-book for her, and she was
turning over the leaves, and making her funny little remarks on the
pictures.
'Well, Sandy,' said Millar, 'what shall we do with her?'
'Do with her?' said my grandfather stroking her little fair head. 'We'll
keep her! Won't we, little lassie?'
'Yes,' said the child, looking up and nodding her head, as if she

understood all about it.
'We ought to look up some of her relations, it seems to me,' said Jem.
'She's sure to have some, somewhere.'
'And how are we to find them out?' asked my grandfather.
'Oh, the captain can soon make out for us what ship is missing, and we
can send a line to the owners; they'll know who the passengers was.'
'Well,' said my grandfather, 'maybe you're right, Jem; we'll see what
they say. But, for my part, if them that cares for the child is at the
bottom of that sea, I hope no one else will come and take her away
from us.'
'If I hadn't so many of them at home--'began Millar.
'Oh yes, my lad, I know that,' said my grandfather, interrupting him;
'but thy house is full enough already. Let the wee lassie come to Alick
and me. She'll be a nice little bit of company for us; and Mary will see
to her clothes and such like, I know.'
'Yes, that she will,' said her husband. 'I do declare she has been crying
about that child the best part of the day! She has indeed!'
My grandfather followed Jem's advice, and told Captain Sayers, when
he came in the steamer the next Monday, the whole story of the
shipwreck, and asked him to find out for him the name and address of
the owners of the vessel.
Oh, how I hoped that no one would come to claim my little darling. She
became dearer to me every day, and I felt as if it would break my heart
to part with her. Every night, when Mrs. Millar had undressed her, she
knelt beside me in her little white nightgown to 'talk to God,' as she
called praying. She had evidently learnt a little prayer from her mother,
for the first night she began of her own accord
'Jesus, Eppy, hear me.'

I could not think at first what it was that she was saying; but Mrs.
Millar said she had learnt the hymn when she was a little girl, and she
wrote out the first verse for me. And every night afterwards I let the
child repeat it after me,--
'Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me, Bless Thy little lamb to-night,
Through the darkness be Thou near me, Keep me safe till morning
light.'
I thought I should like her always to say the prayer her mother had
taught her. I never prayed myself--my grandfather had never taught me.
I wondered if my mother would have taught