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 stars, until the day dawned and the cheerless sun rose over the sleeping town.

Very pitiful was it to see how the old man's soul struggled with a vain effort to glean comfort from his faith. Every text that rose to his heart seemed to wound it afresh.

"As arrows are in the hand of a mighty man, so are children of the youth.... They shall not be ashamed.... Oh, Absalom, my son, my son.... For thy sake I have borne reproach; shame hath covered my face.... I am poor and needy; make haste unto me, O God.... Hide not Thy face from Thy servant, for I am in trouble.... Set thine house in order.... Oh, God, Thou knowest my foolishness.... The waters have overwhelmed me, the streams have gone over my soul, the proud waters have gone over my soul."

Thus hour after hour, tottering feebly at Mona's side, leaning sometimes on the girl's arm, the old man poured forth his grief. At one moment, as they stood by the ruined end of the pier, and Danny's gorse fire glowed red over the Lockjaw Creek, and the moon broke through a black rain-cloud over the town, the sorrowing man turned calmly to Mona and said, with a strange resignation: "I will be quiet. Christian is dead. Surely I shall quiet myself as a child that is weaned of its mother. Yes, my soul is even as a weaned child."

Just then two of the police who had been on the cliff-head came up and spoke.

"They have escaped us so far, sir," he said, "but we are certain to have them. The fire yonder was lit to warn them. Your fishing-boat, the Ben-my-Chree, has