Ay, ay!" and Twitt sighed profoundly--"Poor wild ne'er-do-weel Tom! He lies deep down enough now with the waves flowin' over 'im an' 'is little 'Kiddie' clasped tight in 'is arms.

For they never separated 'em,--death 'ad locked 'em up too fast together for that.

An' they're sleepin' peaceful,--an' there they'll sleep till--till 'the sea gives up its dead.'" Helmsley could not speak,--he was too deeply moved.

The sound of the in-coming tide grew fuller and more sonorous, and Twitt presently turned to look critically at the heaving waters.
"There's a cry in the sea to-day,"-- he said,--"M'appen it'll be rough to-night." They were silent again, till presently Helmsley roused himself from the brief melancholy abstraction into which he had been plunged by the story of Tom o' the Gleam's funeral.
"I think I'll go down on the shore for a bit,"-- he said; "I like to get as close to the waves as I can when they're rolling in." "Well, don't get too close,"-- said Twitt, kindly--"We'll be havin' ye washed away if ye don't take care! There's onny an hour to tea-time, an' Mary Deane's a punctooal 'ooman!" "I shall not keep her waiting--never fear!" and Helmsley smiled as he said good-day, and jogged slowly along his favourite accustomed path to the beach.

The way though rough, was not very steep, and it was becoming quite easy and familiar to him.