AT nine o'clock Thursday evening Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax had bade farewell to their friends at Moorlow. At nine o'clock Friday morning the train whirled by on its way to Sandy Hook, and then they waved good-bye from the car windows, as they had promised, to Regie and Harry¹ and Nan, who, seated on a pile of railroad ties, had been watching and waiting for the train a long half hour. At nine o'clock Saturday morning Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax went on board the Alaska, which some one has called “the greyhound of the sea,” and a half hour later the good ship steamed out into the Bay.
 
“Well, I suppose you've seen the last of 'em,” said Captain Murray, joining the little party just as the train had disappeared, and looking closely at Regie to see how he was taking it.
 
“The last for a while, I suppose, sir,” said Regie, in a firm little voice, but nevertheless gazing very wistfully down the track in the direction of the vanishing train. “I would have given a good deal,” he added, “to have seen the big ship they are going on.”
 
“You would? Well, why not?” said the captain. “Yes, why not?” looking from one puzzled face to the other in an amused sort of fashion.
 
“Oh!” said Harry, “do you mean that you'll take us to the Highland² Light?”
 
“Of course I do. Where else, to be sure? We can drive over with Dobbin early to-morrow morning. I'll take the glass along, and we'll have a good look at the Alaska, every one of us. What time does she leave the dock, Reginald?” for the honest captain believed in calling people and things by their right names.
 
“Half-past nine, sir,” said Regie, promptly³, for he was well posted on all the details of the projected journey.
 
“Then she'll round the Hook about eleven.”.
 
“Is the lighthouse very high?” asked Regie, his face aglow⁴ with excitement.
 
“High enough to see a long way out to sea,” answered the captain.
 
“I was not thinking of that,” said Regie, rather ruefully. “I was thinking I could not climb up so very many stairs with these crutches⁵.”
 
“But you can go up mighty⁶ easy without them. See! just like this,” and Captain Murray caught Regie in his arms as easily as Regie himself would have lifted a kitten. “Bring the crutches, Nan,” he added, “there's no use in staying here any longer.”
 
“I believe Papa and Mamma Fairfax would like to know we were looking at them,” said Regie, with his arms clasped firmly round the captain's neck. “They could not see us, but they could know we were there.”
 
“To be sure,” said the captain, making use of those three monosyllables on every possible occasion; “and we'll stop at the railroad station on our way home now, and telegraph them to be on the lookout⁷ for us.”
 
“You're a magnificent captain!” said Regie, never hesitating to express honest admiration⁸.
 
“I'm glad you think so,” replied the captain, tightening¹⁰ his hold of the warm-hearted little fellow, “but unfortunately your saying so does not make it true.”
 
“But, papa, it is true,” said Nan, loyally, catching¹¹ hold of her father's coat, and trudging¹² along by his side. “All the men say so at the Life-saving Station, and I guess they ought to know.”
 
“None of them have ever been to sea with me, Nan.”
 
“They know about you all the same,” said Harry, with a significant shake of his head; for he was very proud of his tall father, and of his handsome weather-beaten face.
 
They had reached the little Gothic railroad station, and Captain Murray sat Regie down on the operator's table while he wrote this telegram on one of the yellow paper blanks:—
 
“Mr. Curtis Fairfax,
 
“No. —, Wall St., New York.
 
“The children will wave you good-bye from the Highland Light at eleven o'clock to-morrow, rain or shine.
 
“Epher Murray.”
 
In two hours back came this answer:—
 
“Captain Epher Murray,
 
“Moorlow, New Jersey¹³.
 
“Good for you. Keep a sharp lookout for special signals.
 
“C. Fairfax.”
 
“A sharp lookout for special signals!” the words kept ringing in the children's ears.
 
“What can he mean to do—my darling old Papa Fairfax?” thought Regie, as he dropped off into a sound sleep that night.
 
At eight o'clock the next morning, Sister Julia and Regie and Nan climbed into the back seat of Cap-. tain Murray's waggon¹⁴, while Harry took the place beside his father in front.
 
 
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Faithful old Dobbin broke straightway into a canter, bound for the “Highland Light,” and fortunately for the party there was no “rain,” but plenty of “shine” instead.
 
Down the fine boulevard they went, past the fine houses, through Sea Bright, with its queer medley¹⁵ of summer cottages, hotels, and fishermen's huts; then crossing and recrossing the track again and again, because the drive on that narrow strip of land between the ocean and the Shewsbury river constantly accommodates itself to the curves of the railroad; over the rickety Highland Bridge, stopping to pay toll¹⁶ on the draw; past the bevy¹⁷ of cottages, where a number of actors and actresses have established a little colony of their own; up the steep hill, with the great seams washed in the road by the heavy rains, but wide enough and deep enough to seem more like the work of an earthquake; finally coming to a halt at the gate which opens on the rear of the grand old lighthouse.
 
“Why, how do you do, captain? Want to show the youngsters through the light?” asked the keeper, appearing in the doorway¹⁸ at the sound of the waggon wheels.
 
“Want to do more than that,” answered Captain Murray, lifting his little party out one by one; “want to see the Alaska off for Europe.”
 
“Friends on board?”
 
“This little chap's father and mother.”
 
“Oh, that's it, is it?” said the keeper. “But what's happened the little fellow?” glancing at Regie's crutches.
 
“He fell from a cherry tree a few week ago,” Sister Julia explained, as they walked towards the house.
 
“Stealing cherries, eh?” chuckled¹⁹ the man, giving Regie a significant little nudge.
 
“Indeed, I wasn't,” answered Regie, with some indignation.
 
“Why, Reginald, he is only joking,” Sister Julia said, reprovingly.
 
“Of course I was,” said the keeper. “Such a bright little fellow as you look to be ought to know when a man's joking.”
 
“Yes, I know I ought,” Regie answered, blushing. “I spoke²⁰ before I thought; you must excuse me, Mr. Keeper.”
 
“'Mr. Keeper,'” laughed the man, “well! that's a new name for Joe Canfield; but I like it, and you're a mighty honest little fellow. When you're ready to go up, you can leave your crutches below here, and I'll carry you over every one of those blessed stairs myself.”
 
“You'd better let papa do that,” said Nan, “he's pretty heavy, and we wouldn't have anything happen to him for the world.”
 
“Do you think I would drop him, little one? Never you fear; I could carry you both as well as not;” whereupon Nan started to travel briskly up the stairs, as if to show him she was quite equal to doing her own climbing.
 
“Bide a bit, miss,” called the keeper. “You won't be able to sight the Alaska for a half hour yet. If you want to understand about the light you'd better look about down here first.” Then he led the way into a room on the ground floor, where the oil for the lights was stored, the little party following him closely, with the exception of Captain Murray, whom the children were glad to have go “on watch” in the balcony of the light, for fear, by any chance, the Alaska should be sighted ahead of time.
 
“I suppose you have noticed before you came in, ma'am,” said Keeper Canfield, addressing Sister Julia, “that this lighthouse has two towers and two lights? The dwellings²¹ for the keepers' families are in between 'em, and there we live as cosy²² and comfortable as can be. If you have time when you come down you must take a peep at our baby. Have you ever seen a lighthouse baby?” he added, turning to Nan.
 
“Never,” said Nan, seriously.
 
“Well, a lighthouse baby is worth seeing, for somehow or other they look brighter than ordinary babies. It seems as though they were born with a notion that their two eyes must cheer us old codgers on life's great sea, just as the lights in the tower there cheer the sailors.”
 
The children looked wonderingly up at their guide, not quite sure whether he were in earnest or no.
 
“Now, you see,” he continued, “this is the room where we store the oil, and how much do you suppose we burn in a year? Forty-five hundred gallons! We burn mineral oil, that is, oil that comes out from the ground through the oil wells.”
 
The room in which they were standing²³ was flanked with wooden boxes, each containing a full oil-can, and everything was scrupulously²⁴ neat, for not a speck²⁵ of dust was to be seen anywhere.
 
“Now I guess we had better go up,” said the keeper, when a good many questions had been asked and answered, “and we'll go easy, so as not to lose our breath;” then, taking Regie's crutches in one hand, he lifted him into his arms.
 
“And, Nan,” said Sister Julia, “you had better take hold of my hand, for fear your little head should grow dizzy on this winding²⁶ flight.”
 
Of course Harry was half-way up before the rest of the party had even started.
 
The keeper landed Regie safely right inside the light itself, and indeed it was large enough to hold them all. What a marvellous place it was! It seemed as though they were in a beautiful crystal house, for they were surrounded by tier after tier of glass prisms, so arranged as to project the light from the lantern against a series of brass²⁷ reflectors at the back, and they, in turn, throw the light twenty-five miles out to sea.
 
The children were too much awed²⁸ by the wonderful contrivance to even speak, until Harry slipped out of the light and peered in at them through the glass. It made him look very funny—eyes, nose, mouth, every feature appeared to be drawn²⁹ out lengthwise by the prisms.
 
“Why, Harry Murray!” cried Nan, “you're a disgrace to the family. I never saw anything so ugly in all my life!”
 
“I wish you could come out here and have a look at yourself, then,” Harry called back. “Your head is about two inches high, and two feet wide. You could stand in a bandbox, you are so short, but it would take a dozen of 'em to hold you the other way!”
 
Nan and Harry were so much amused with these ridiculous distortions that Reginald was the only one who really paid attention to the keeper's description of the lantern, but he listened sagely³⁰, and plied⁹ questions fast enough to atone³¹ for the indifference³² of the others. Harry might be partially³³ excused for his inattention, on the ground that he had been through the light two or three times before. As for Nan, it must be confessed that she was not of an inquiring turn of mind.
 
“There's one sad thing about this light,” said the keeper to Reginald, who sat on a little stool with his crutches laid across his knees. “There's one very sad thing, and that is, that some sailors do not understand what it is for at all. They seem to be fascinated by it, and they steer³⁴ straight for it, and of course there's no help in the end, but that they all get wrecked³⁵ on the bar.”
 
“Why, that's very queer,” said Reginald. “I should think a man wasn't fit to be a sailor at all unless he understood about lighthouses and things.”
 
“So it would seem,” said the keeper, with a shrug³⁶; “but I've thought sometimes that the trouble is with their steering³⁷ apparatus³⁸, and that the poor things are more to be pitied than blamed. The moment they come in sight of the light, their helms seem to get bewitched, and first thing they know their queer-rigged little crafts are headed straight for the light, and on they come, sort of in spite of themselves, and with death staring them right in the face.”
 
“Have there been many wrecks³⁹ lately?” asked Reginald, his eyes as large as saucers.
 
“Five last night.”
 
Regie stared at the man with a look that meant plainly, “I don't believe a word of it,” and the keeper laughed outright⁴⁰. Sister Julia, sitting at the top of the little flight of stairs just outside the lantern, watched him with an amused smile on her face; and Nan, who was listening now, was interested enough to wish that she had heard it all.
 
“You think that I am telling you a yarn⁴¹, don't you, youngster?” said the keeper to Regie, “but 'pon honour it is every word true. If you don't believe it, I'll show you the five little wrecks lying in a row on a bench in the yard, just as I picked 'em up this morning.”
 
“Picked 'em up!” said Regie, scornfully.
 
“Yes, sir, picked 'em up. The reason you don't understand me is because you spell sailor with an “o,” but in this case you must spell it with an “e”—sailers, you see—which is only another name for birds, you know.”
 
It was Regie's turn to laugh now. “You fooled me pretty well,” he said; but Nan looked more ready to cry.
 
“Do you mean,” said she, “that five little birds flew against this lantern last night, and killed themselves?”
 
“Five last night, and six the night before,” said the man, as though the truth must be told, no matter how unpleasant.
 
“Ship ahoy!” shouted Captain Murray from the tower balcony, where he had been on watch for the last half hour. All knew what that meant, and Sister Julia and Nan and Harry hurried down the little flight that led from the lantern to the balcony, and the keeper quickly caught Regie in his arms again.
 
“Where is she?” cried Regie, impatiently, as though he could hardly wait for an answer.
 
“You can see her with the naked eye,” replied the captain, “away off there in a direct line from the Hook. I knew her build and rig the moment she came in sight; but she's flying a queer sort of flag,” putting his glass to his eye.
 
“Perhaps it's the special signal Mr. Fairfax telegraphed us to look out for,” said sister Julia.
 
“Please let me have a look,” cried Reginald, almost pulling the glass from Captain Murray's hands in his eagerness. It took a moment to adjust it to his eyesight, and then he exclaimed, almost breathless with excitement. “Yes, there's a big red flag with some large yellow thing on it. Oh, I know, it's a flag from one of Papa Fairfax's warehouses⁴², and the yellow thing is a coffee canister; see, Captain Murray, see if it isn't.”
 
Captain Murray took the glass back again. “Yes, you're right, Reginald,” he said; “but there's something on the flag beside the canister, something that looks like letters.”
 
“Perhaps it is a message,” cried Rex, fairly wild with excitement. “Oh! please let me see if I can make them out.” Once again the glass was quickly re-adjusted to Regie's sight, while Nan and Harry pressed their faces close to his, as though being as close as possible to the glass was the next best thing to looking through it. “Yes, they are letters,” said Regie more calmly, “big white letters, and the first is a G, I think, and the next an O, but the flag waves so I cannot read the rest.”
 
“'Perhaps it's 'Good-bye,'” said Nan.
 
“Of course it is,” cried Regie, “I see the B now, and the E; but there's another word besides. Try, Nan, if you can make it out,” and Regie with much self-denial gave up his place at the glass.
 
Wind and tide seemed always to favour little Nan, for at that very moment a stiff breeze caught the flag and held it out bravely, so that she read “Good-bye, Regie,” as easily as from her spelling book at school.
 
Oh! how the message thrilled through and through Regie's excited little frame.
 
 
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To think that Papa Fairfax cared so much for him as to take all that trouble; and right then and there a prayer went silently up from Regie's full heart that he might never do anything to grieve him—never.
 
Quickly the glass was passed from one to another that all might have a look.
 
“Oh, if we only could signal back somehow!” said Sister Julia, earnestly.
 
“And what is to hinder, dear?” answered the keeper's wife, who had toiled⁴³ up to the tower with the baby in her arms.
 
“Daniel,” she added, turning to her husband, “run to the parlour and pull down the curtain from the double window. That's big enough for them to distinguish.”
 
Big enough for them to distinguish! you would have thought so could you have seen the great expanse of turkey red that floated from the tower a few minutes later.
 
“They see it! they see it!” shouted Harry, whose turn it was now at the glass. “They're dipping their colours.”
 
“So they are!” every one cried, for no glass was needed to discern that.
 
With happy, wistful eyes Regie watched the great Alaska till she was a mere⁴⁴ speck on the horizon; then the little party turned their faces homeward, and from that moment Regie looked eagerly forward to the day when they should come sailing back again.