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He became weary of himself, of his vineyard, and more so of the world from which he lived removed. One day it was rumoured that the aged keeper of the lighthouse of Isolotto had died, and that a substitute was wanted. In his present frame of mind it seemed to him that it would be a desirable thing to go and live there in the midst of the sea, with his pipe, his books, and his papers. To those who said to him invariably, "Ah, Master Andrea, you'll soon see what a charming life that is!" he would reply, coldly, that it was a matter of indifference where he lived. Nevertheless, he felt vaguely that a change was coming in his life, if no more than the new sensation that he had a daily duty to perform—a lamp to light! He sought and obtained the post, and to Isolotto he went.

For several years he lived contentedly, speaking to no one save once a week, for a few minutes on Sunday mornings, when the sailors brought him his provisions; and during this long term he had never omitted to light the lamp, except on the night when the fishermen of Roccamarina had so anxiously watched the sea and asked one another, "Is Master Andrea dead or ill?"

None of these anxious watchers could have guessed what unaccustomed thing it was that had happened to the keeper of the lighthouse of Isolotto.

Two days previously, whilst the furious waves lashed the rock of the lighthouse as though it would be dashed to pieces, Master Andrea had been awakened in the middle of the night by the unusual sound of a human voice—a weak cry, which seemed close to him.

He rose hurriedly, and listened with attention. He descended to the platform, but he could see nothing. For a moment he thought he must have been dreaming; but no, that was not possible. Some one must have cried for help, thinking to save himself upon that rock, to which the light had guided him.

Master Andrea grew anxious. "Who's there?" he shouted. He seemed to hear a sigh. Again he listened; and then determined to examine the rock. Lantern in hand, he hurried round it, and, to his surprise, discovered on a slant a child lying drenched to the skin, and to all appearance dead. He had been cast up by the storm.

"Was it indeed the storm?" he asked himself. "No," he thought, "some one must have placed him there for safety—his father or his mother; but whoever had done so had disappeared—had, no doubt, been drowned."

An hour later the little one was lying in the bed of Master Andrea, well warmed and wrapped in blankets, and was slowly recovering consciousness and vital heat. He turned round with a sigh, opened his eyes, and looked up, saying in a weak voice, "Papa!" A hand tenderly stroked his