Even the old Eagle, the daily boat, a stout,
clumsy, dowdy packet that would bear any
rude treatment, did not ply. The colony
seemed a city of the dead, the little streets
were empty. Sharp faces, with a pinched and
desolate expression, peered out from the little
windows hopelessly.

The way in which this change affected
Mr. Dacres was almost pitiable. He lay in a
chair, on a sofa, in the most miserable state of
despondency, asking, over and over again, had
he been born for this sort of thing—a man of
his genius, wit, and parts. What was to
become of him? the bright hours of life
passing away, the prizes slipping from him,
and he would die in this miserable "expatriation."
Mr. Vivian came over again and again.
Lucy was delighted with her new friend; to
her the state of the weather was a purely
indifferent thing. Happy those independent of
such paltry influences! He was well read, fond
of music, poetry, and what not; and Lucy, at
her humble instrument, was happy to play and
even sing for him, according to the instruction
received at Miss Pringle's from M. Pontet, the
master at that establishment.

"I ought to be gone to-day," said the colonel,
"and yet I shall confess I am not sorry for this
forced delay—"

"But why must you go? " said Lucy; "you
might stay for the week, at least."

"I shall be here again very soon," he said.
"I must come by this way shortly." And he
sighed and looked down.

"Why?" said Dacres, looking at him
curiously, as if he were a witness.

"There is a dismal beat," said the officer,
coldly, "on which I must walk—for many
years, I dare say."

It came to be the third day. The night had
been very stormy indeed, and tenants of the
"little crockery" houses of the town (so an
indignant colonist called them) were kept
awake by angry roaring and moaning, and the
sound of tiles bursting from the roof and
clattering noisily down the street. When the
dawn came, the streets were as clean and dry
as though sweepers had been at work all night;
the slate-colour had gone, and it was very dark
and gloomy. There was a mysterious stillness
along that flat, sandy, dismal track, which,
for many miles, edges the French coast. The
long avenue made by the two wooden piers
was strained and cracking; and the fishermen,
standing about idly, prophesied it would not bear
much more. None of the boats were out.
There was the Hélène, belonging to this port,
and which was due in a day or two. Every one
knew Captain Muret; none better than Madame
Muret, in an old nightcap, who harangued the
fishermen, now and again, that he would never
put out in such weather. Muret had risen from
the ranks, was the only fisherman of the place
who was actually commander and part owner of
a brig some three hundred tons burden. No
wonder they had interest in Muret, or thought
that the Hélène was the only vessel in the trade.

Captain Filby was out on this day. Strange
to say, his spirits were not affected by this
weather. He did not call it a "hole of a
place." He seemed rather to get respect for
it. "A fine, bracing, hearty day, like one of
our honest English gales. I didn't think they
had it in 'em. To see these creatures skulking
and shivering about; they're only half men."
Captain Filby even trudged vigorously to the
top of the cliffs, and looked down over the
tremendous scene, to where an awful black
heavy curtain, charged with horror and
destruction, was hanging over the English coast.
"How they're catching it over there! " he
said. As he was looking, and holding on to
his hat, he saw a black object far out at sea; it
was coming on fast, and growing larger. "A
ship, I declare," he said, and got out his glass.

He watched it for a long time, and saw that
it was a brig, labouring to keep well out. She
had suffered a great deal, and her "poles"
were bare enough.

"You won't do it, my lads," said the captain,
coolly, " even if you are British; which I doubt.
You have a finicking look about you."

The captain came down leisurely, walked
round by the port, and recognised a thin
gendarme who was shivering in a doorway, feeling
every blast of the wind like a stab, and told him
there was a ship off the coast. Presently a
motley crowd went down to the pier, and under
shelter of a wall peeped out at the solitary
vessel. It was now in far closer. Never is the
struggle that rages between man and nature
brought to such a satisfactory issue as in a storm.
It is a fair battle, and in most instances, if not
surprised, man wins. The boat was drawing
nearer and nearer, and a clever young fisherman,
with sharp eyes, made out, as it had been
suspected from the first, that it was the
Hélène, the cherished boat with Captain Muret
on board. That news soon spread, and
servants rushing up-stairs into dismal little rooms,
with a dramatic tossing of arms and appeals to
the "bon Dieu!" and tragic faces over the
"poor children" who were being "assassinated"
on the water. Tourlou, the oldest fisherman,
said, confidently, that in about half an hour or
forty minutes it would be all over!

Our Lucy was sitting in their little drawing-
room with her mamma. "Papa Harco" was
in bed, "not well; but I suppose it will end,
one of these days!" He had "something on
his chest," he thought. Vivian was there, as
usual, now reading, now talking, while Lucy
and her mamma worked. It was about four
o'clock, and Papa Harco was "thinking of
getting upon his legs," when with tears pouring
down her cheeks the little landlady opposite
burst in, and said that there was the most
hideous misery going on down at the port; that
the "poor children" were there in close on
shore, perishing before our eyes; and that
Jaques and the whole town was up there, looking
on, and could do nothing.

"What!" said Vivian, excited, "is she gone
ashore?"