by Anonymous
end o' the canal."
"And ye've never been here once since you put up the bit of marble slabto mark the spot where _she_ lies?"
Ransey knew his mother was referred to, and turned aside to hide thetears.
"Never since," says Tandy.
"Ah, cap'en, many's the one as asks me about that slab. And the oldsquire himself stopped here one day and got all the story from me. Andwhen I'd finished, never a word he said. He just heaved a biggish sortof a sigh, and went trotting on.
"But come in, Ransey, Babs, and Bob, and all. The night's going to bechilly, and an air of the fire will do the children good.
"Sammy, just take the horse round to the stable. We'll have a bit o'frost to-night, I thinks."
Ransey runs on board for a few minutes to touch up the fire, put on theguard, and make down the beds; then he joins the group around the cosyparlour fire.
The kindly landlady, as plump and rosy as her husband, makes very muchof the children, and the supper she places before them is a right heartyone, nor is Bob himself forgotten.
A very quiet and pleasant evening is spent, then good-nights are said,and the seafaring folks, as they humorously call themselves, go on boardto bed.
Sammy is already sound asleep beneath the tarpaulin, and Ransey takeshis little sister below to bed at once.
But father stops on deck a little while, to think and muse.
How still the night is! Not a breath of wind now; not a sound save thedistant melancholy hooting of an owl as he flies low across the fields,the champ-champing of the horse in the stable, and an occasional plashin the canal as some great frog leaps off the bank.
Nothing more.
But high above shine God's holy stars. There may be melancholy in theold sailor's heart as he gazes skywards, but there is hope as well, forthese little points of dazzling light bear his thoughts away to betterworlds than this.
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It is early morning again, and soon the barge is well on its way.
But when it is stopped in the middle of a somewhat lonesome moor, andTandy takes his children on shore, the boy knows right well where theyare going, though innocent little Babs doesn't.
"Father," he says presently, as they are near to a clump of tall trees,"isn't it just _here_ where mother was laid?"
The rough weather-beaten old sailor uncovers his head.
He points to a spot of the canal that is gleaming bright in the rays ofthe morning sun.
"Just down there, dear boy," he says. "The coffin was leaded; it couldnever rise."
The last words are spoken apparently to himself, as he turns sadly awaytowards the trees.
Still holding Ransey's hand, and with Babs in his arms, he points to thetallest, strongest tree of all. It is a beautiful beech.
And there, about eight feet from the ground, and evidently let deeplyinto the tree, is a small and lettered slab of marble.
The bark has begun to curl in a rough lip over its edge all round as ifto hold it more firmly in its place.
POOR MARY. She has gone on. _Feby. 19th--82_.
The letters were not over-well formed. Perhaps they were cut by Tandy'sown hand. What mattered it? The little tablet was meant but for _his_eyes. Simplicity is best.
"Poor Mary! She has gone on."
And the words are written not only there upon the marble, but upon thehonest sailor's heart.
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End of Book One.
Book 2--CHAPTER ONE.
"JUST THREE YEARS SINCE RANSEY WENT TO SEA."
"O father," said Babs one autumn evening, "aren't _you_ frightened atthe roaring of the sea?"
Tandy and his child were sitting together, that autumn evening, in thebest parlour. They were waiting for the postman to come round thecorner; and as the waves were making a clean breach over the black,smooth rocks down yonder, and the spray was dashing high over the roadand rattling like hail upon the panes of glass in the little cottagewindow, the postman would be wearing his waterproof cape to-night tokeep the letters dry.
Babs had been watching for a man in a glittering oilskin, veryanxiously, too, with her little face close to the glass, when a biggerwave than any she had yet seen rolled green and spumy and swiftly acrossthe boulders, till meeting the resistance offered by the cliff it roseinto the air for twenty feet at least, then broke like a waterfall onthe asphalt path which was dignified by the name of esplanade.
No wonder she rushed back from the window, and now stood trembling byher father's side.
He took her gently on his knee.
Though five years have elapsed since the night they had visited mother'stree, and she is now eight years of age, she is but a little thing. Ay,and fragile.
As she sits there, with one arm about his neck, he looks at her, andtalks to her tenderly. She has her mother's eyes.
But how lonely he would be, he cannot help thinking, if anythinghappened to his little Nelda--to Babs. The thought causes him to shiveras he sits there in his easy-chair by the fire, for chill is the breezethat blows from off the sea to-night.
"Daddy!"
"Yes, dear."
"To-morrow, when it comes, will make it just three years since Ranseywent to sea."
"Three years? Yes, Babs, so it will. Oh, how quickly the time hasflown! And how good your memory is, darling!"
"Flown quickly, father? Oh, I think every one of those years has beenmuch, much longer than the other. And I think," she added, "lazy postiewill never come to-night. But I dreamt, daddy, we would have a letterfrom Ransey, and it is sure to come."
Three years. Yes, and years do fly fast away when men or women getelderly.
Those years though--ay, and the whole five--had been very busy ones withRansey Tansey, very eventful, I might almost say.
Old Captain Weathereye had proved a right good friend to Ransey. Nordid he take the least degree of credit to himself for being so.
"The boy has got the grit in him," he told Miss Scragley, "and just aspice of the devil; and without that, I can assure you, madam, no boy isgoing to get well on in this world."
Miss Scragley didn't care to swallow this doctrine quite; but Eedie,whom Ransey looked upon as a kind of fairy, or goddess, immeasurablybetter than himself, took the captain's view of the matter.
"Oh, yes," she astonished Miss Scragley by exclaiming, "the devil iseverywhere, auntie. Mr Smith himself said so in the church. He is inroaring lions and in lambs when they lie down together, and in littleboys, and then they are best and funniest."
Miss Scragley sighed.
"It is a world of sin and sorrow," she murmured.
"A world of fiddlesticks, madam!" cried Weathereye. "I tell you, it isa splendid world, a grand old world; but you've got to learn how to takeyour own part in it. Take my word for it, Miss Scragley, the worldwasn't made for fools. Fools have got to take a back seat, and justlook on, while men of grit do the work and enjoy the reward. Ahem!"
"I've got to make a man of that lad," he went on, "and, what's more, I'mdoing it. He needs holy-stoning--I'm holy-stoning him. He may want alittle polishing after, but rubbing against the world will do that."
"You're very good, Captain Weathereye; you will be rewarded, if not inthis world, in the next--"
"Tut--tut--tut," cried the old sailor impatiently, and it must beadmitted somewhat brusquely, "women folks will talk, especially whenthey don't know what to say; but pray keep such sentiments andplatitudes as these for your next Dorcas meeting, madam. Reward,indeed! Next world, forsooth! I tell you that I'm having it in _this_.I live my own early days over again in the boy's youth. It is moralmeat and drink for the old--well, the middle-aged, like myself, ahem!--to mingle with the young and get interested, not so much in theirpursuits, because one's joints are too stiff for that, but in theirhopes and aspirations for the future which is all before them. Everhear these lines, Miss Scragl
ey?
"`In the lexicon of youth That fate reserves for a bright manhood, There is no such word as fail.'
"I'd have them printed on the front page of every copybook laid before achild in school, and I'd have him to learn them as soon as he can lisp."
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Well, right happy years these had been for Ransey Tansey, and littleBabs as well, to say nothing of gentle Eedie. As the world began tosmile upon Tandy himself, he tried to do all he could for his children'scomfort. Even the little cottage at the foot of the hill was made moreship-shape, and furnished with many a comfort it had previously lacked.
Tandy was a man of a speculative turn of mind, and moreover inventive.His speculations, however, did not succeed