“If I'm not very much mistaken,” he said (and in the matter of weather Captain Murray seldom was mistaken), “we are in for a pretty heavy storm. We shall need to be on the look out, every man of us at the Station, the whole night through. Give us a hearty7 supper, Mollie, that'll keep a fellow well braced8 till morning.”
“Do I ever put you off with a poor supper, Epher?” asked Mrs. Murray, reproachfully, pausing a moment in her mixing of some gingerbread in a large yellow bowl.
“Never with a poor supper, mother, only you know what I mean. Give us sort of an extra touch to-night.”
Mrs. Murray knew as well as could be what her good husband meant by “an extra touch,” and soon the waffle-iron was taken from its hook and Harry9 was on his way to the cellar to fill the maple10 syrup11 cup. It was one of those nights when a cosy, comfortable home seems doubly comfortable and cosy, and very reluctantly Captain Murray put on his great coat to go back to the Station as soon as supper was over. The rain was falling in torrents12 now, and as he opened the sitting-room13 door, a gust14 of wind whipped in, sending the papers on the table whirling to the floor and overturning the lamp, which fortunately went out as it fell. When order was again restored, Sister Julia began reading a bright little story aloud to the children by way of cheering them up a bit. Even Harry was quite overawed by the violence of the storm, for by this time it was violent. The wind was blowing a gale15 now, and it had grown so cold that the fire had to be constantly replenished16 to keep the room comfortably warm. At nine o'clock the children went upstairs, and were glad enough to hurry into bed, for on such a night as this it was impossible to heat the upper story of the little cottage.
“I'm glad there's a great big lighthouse at the Highlands,” Regie called out after he had gotten into bed.
“So am I,” answered both Nan and Harry, and with this comforting thought in mind they all fell asleep. But Sister Julia and Mrs. Murray scarcely closed their eyes the whole night long. Sometimes it seemed as though the little cottage could not hold its own against such a terrific blow. At daybreak Mrs. Murray came up to Sister Julia's room, to find her already dressed.
“I think there's something wrong at the Station,” she said. “Hereward and Ned have been barking and bounding about in the most excited fashion for the last half-hour. Then, when the wind dies down for a second, I think I can hear the voices of the men calling to each other.”
“Yes, and look here,” answered Sister Julia, pressing her white face close to the pane17; “I imagine I can discover the masts of a schooner18 near the beach.”
“Yes, surely; there must have been a wreck19,” and Mrs. Murray threw open the window to see more clearly. “Hark!” she added, “now don't you hear the men?”
“Of course I do,” cried Sister Julia; “and I can stand it no longer. I must bundle up and go down and see for myself.”
“Oh! my child, you ought never to go,” exclaimed Mrs. Murray, but at the same time she helped her to hurry into her heavy ulster. “Oh, dear! I've a good mind to go with you; but no, it will not do to leave the children. Send one of the men up though, as soon as possible, to let me know what has happened, and that you have reached the Station without being blown away.”
So out into the storm went Sister Julia, and Hereward and Ned were at her side in an instant. The rain had ceased falling, but the wind still blew a hurricane, and in walking from the cottage to the station all her strength was needed to bear up against it. She had gone but a little way before she discovered that a schooner had run ashore20, and she tried to quicken her steps, fearing and yet anxious to know the truth. Just here I would tell my young reader that this story, so far as it relates to the work done that morning by the Life-saving crew, is every word true. Somebody, whom I choose to call Captain Murray, could show you a letter, sent, in company with a gold medal, from the Government at Washington, and written in appreciation21 of his gallant22 services and those of his brave crew, and in which you could read a graphic23 narration24 of all that happened that eventful November morning.
As Sister Julia neared the Station she heard the men shouting to each other in such cheery tones that she felt sure no lives could have been lost, and her heart grew lighter25. The crew were at some sort of work down on the beach, and unnoticed by anyone she entered the Station from the landward side. The large room was empty, but the door stood open into the kitchen, and there what a strange sight met her eyes! Four men were huddled26 round the stove trying to get a little warmth into their half-frozen bodies. On one blanket on the floor, covered by another, lay a poor woman, who looked half-dead; and seated on a stool near her was Captain Murray, endeavouring to remove the dripping clothing from a screaming baby lying across his knees.
“God bless you!” he exclaimed, looking up and discovering Sister Julia, “you've come in the nick of time. We've just brought these poor wretches27 in from the wreck yonder, and I've sent Burton up to the house to get some dry duds for the woman and this baby,” and he laid the soaking little specimen28 of humanity in Sister Julia's arms.
“Now, my hearties,” he said cheerily, turning to the men, “hurry up to the loft29, strip off your wet clothing, wrap yourselves in the blankets you'll find there, and turn into the
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