Shifting Winds | Page 4

at the horrified clock, and
remarked to her little girl Tottie, that "Uncle John must have found
work on the shore, for he was long of coming," when a heavy tread was
heard in the little porch outside the door.
"Hold yer noise," said Mrs Gaff sternly.
Billy obeyed, not by any means in consequence of the command, but
because he was curious to know who was about to enter, and meant to
resume yelling immediately after his curiosity on this point should be
satisfied.
The door opened, and a strong-built seaman stepped into the room, and
looked at the family with a quiet smile on his sunburnt face. His hair
and garments were dripping with water, as if he had just walked out of
the sea.
On beholding him the family rose and stood for a moment speechless.
Billy sat down on the floor in that prompt manner which is peculiar to
young children when they lose their balance; simultaneously with the
shock of being seated the word "faither" burst from his lips. Mrs Gaff
uttered a suppressed cry, and ran into the wet man's arms. Tottie and
the Bu'ster each ran at a leg, and hugging it violently, squeezed a
cataract of salt water into their respective bosoms.
"Stephen, lad, is't you?" said the wife, raising her head for a moment
and looking up in the man's face.
"Ay, dear lass, wrecked again; but safe home, thank God."
Mrs Gaff was not wont to give way to the melting mood, but she could

not restrain a few tears of joy. Tottie, observing this, cried from
sympathy; and the Bu'ster, not to be outdone, willed, began, and
carried into execution, a series of true British cheers, that could not
have been surpassed, perhaps could not have been equalled, by any boy
of his age in or out of the Royal Navy.
CHAPTER TWO.
WRECKED, RESCUED, AND RESUSCITATED--MRS. NIVEN
RECEIVES A SURPRISE, ALSO THE GIFT OF A CHILD.
On the same dark tempestuous night of which I write, a little ship was
wrecked on the east coast of England.
She had sailed from the antipodes, had weathered many a gale, had
crossed the great ocean in safety, had sighted the lights and the cliffs of
"home," and was dashed to pieces at last on the rocks within two hours'
sail of the port to which she was bound.
Hundreds of ships, great and small, were wrecked on the coasts of
Britain during that memorable gale. The little ship to which I refer was
one of the many in regard to which the newspapers said, "she was
dashed to pieces, and all hands perished."
But in this particular case all hands had not perished: two lives had
been spared, unknown to journalists and coastguardsmen.
It was the dead of night when the vessel struck. The spot was lonely, at
least a mile distant from human habitations. No anxious eyes on shore
saw her quiver as each successive billow lifted her up and hurled her
cruelly down; no sorrowing ear heard the shriek of despair that rose
above the yelling storm, when, in little more than ten minutes, the
vessel broke up, and left the crew and passengers to perish within sight
of their native land.
There was one man among the number who did not shriek, who did not
despair. He was not a hero of romance whose soul raised him above the
fear of sudden death--no, he was only a true-hearted British tar, whose

frame was very strong, whose nerves were tightly strung and used to
danger. He had made up his mind to save his life if he could; if he
should fail--what then? He never thought of "what then," because, in
regard to terrestrial matters, he had not been accustomed to cast his
thoughts so far in advance of present exigencies.
Just before the ship broke up, this man was standing on the lee bulwark,
holding by the shrouds of the mainmast, the lower part of which was
still standing. A lady and gentleman clung to each other, and to the
rigging close beside him. They were husband and wife. Both were
comparatively young, and up to that night had been full of hope and
high spirits. The husband with his right arm encircled his wife, and
grasped the rigging; with his left, he pressed their little girl to his breast
over which flowed the fair hair of the little one, drenched and
dishevelled.
The father was a brave man and strong, but his face was very pale, for
he felt that courage and strength could not avail to save both wife and
child in such a raging sea. An occasional upward glance of his eye
seemed to indicate that he sought comfort from God in his extremity.
"You'll never