CHAPTER III. — INTRODUCING IMOGEN AND BOB

“Imogen!” said Star, looking up from her book, “I don't believe you have been listening!”

Imogen looked up meekly, but made no attempt to deny the charge.

“Youmustlisten!” said the child, sternly. “First place, it's beautiful: and besides, it's very rude not to listen when people reads. And you oughtnotto be rude, Imogen!” After which short lecture, Star turned to her book again,—a great book it was, lying open on the little pink calico lap,—and went on reading, in her clear childish voice:

“'Over hill, over dale,Thorough bush, thorough brier,Over park, over pale,Thorough flood, thorough fire,I do wander everywhere,Swifter than the moony sphere;And I serve the fairy queen,To dew her orbs upon the green:'

Do you know what a fairy is, Imogen?” asked Star, looking up again suddenly.

But this time it was very evident that Imogen (who was, in truth, a large white cow, with a bell round her neck) was paying no attention whatever to the reading; for she had fairly turned her back, and was leisurely cropping the short grass, swaying her tail in a comfortable and reflective manner the while.

Star sprang to her feet, and seizing the delinquent's horns, shook them with all her might.

“How dare you turn your back when I am reading?” she cried. “I'm just ashamed of you! You're a disgrace to me, Imogen. Why, you are as ignorant as a—as—as a lobster! and you a great cow with four whole legs. A—a—ah! shame on you!”

Imogen rubbed her head deprecatingly against the small pink shoulder, and uttered a soft and apologetic “moo;” but Star was not ready to be mollified yet.

“And you know it's myownbook, too!” she continued, reproachfully. “My own Willum Shakespeare, that I love more—well, no! notmorethan I love you, Imogen, but just as much, and almost nearly half as much as I love Daddy Captain.

“But after all,” she added, with a smile flitting over her frowning little face, “after all, you poor dear, youareonly a cow, and I don't suppose you know.” And then she hugged Imogen, and blew a little into one of her ears, to make her wink it, and the two were very friendly again.

“Perhaps you would like to know, Imogen,” said Star, confidentially, seating herself once more on the ground, “whyI am so fond of Willum Shakespeare. So I will tell you. It is really part ofmystory, but Daddy Captain didn't get as far as that last night, so I think I will tell it to you. Well!” she drew a long breath of enjoyment, and, clasping her hands round her knees, settled herself for a “good talk.”

“Well, Imogen: you see, at first I was a little baby, and didn't know anything at all. But by and by I began to grow big, and then Daddy Captain said to himself, 'Here's a child,' he says, 'and a child of gentlefolks, and she mustn't grow up in ignorance, and me doing my duty by her poor pa and ma,' he says. So he rows over to the town, and he goes to the minister (the same minister who came over here before), and he says, 'Good morning, Minister!' and the minister shakes him by the hand hearty, and says, 'Why, Captain January!' he says, 'I'm amazing glad to see you. And how is the child?' And Daddy says, 'The child is a-growing with the flowers,' he says; 'and she's a-growing like the flowers. Show me a rose that's as sweet and as well growed as that child,' he says, 'and I'll give you my head, Minister.' That's the way Daddy talks, you know, Imogen. And then he told the minister how he didn't want the child (that was me, of course) to grow up in ignorance, and how he wanted to teach me. And the minister asked him was he qualified to teach. 'Not yet, I ain't!' says Daddy Captain, 'but I'm a-going to be. I want a book, or maybe a couple of books, that'll edicate me in a manner all round!' he says. 'I couldn't do with a lot of 'em,' he says, ''cause I ain't used to it, and it makes things go round inside my head. But I think I could tackle two if they was fustrate,' he says. The minister laughed, and told Daddy he wanted a good deal. Then he asked him if he had the Good Book. That's the Bible, you know, Imogen. Daddy Captain won't let me read that to you, because you are a beast that perish. Poor dear!” she leaned forward and kissed Imogen's pink nose. “And Daddy saidof coursehe had that, only the letters weren't so clear as they used to be, somehow, perhaps along of getting wet in his weskit pocket, being he carried it along always. So the minister gave him anew bigBEAUTIFUL Bible, Imogen! It isn't so newnow, but it's just as big and beautiful, and I love it. And then he thought for a long time, the minister did, walking about the room and looking at all the books. The whole room was full of books, Daddy says, all on shelves, 'cept some on the floor and the table and the chairs. It made his head go round dreadful to see them all, Daddy says (I mean Daddy's head), and think of anybody reading them. He says he doesn't see how in creation the minister manages to keep his bearings, and look out for a change in the wind, and things thathaveto be done, and read all those books too.Well!” she kissed Imogen's nose again, from sheer enjoyment, and threw her head back with a laugh of delight. “I'm coming to it now, Imogen!” she cried. “At last the minister took down a big book—OH! you precious old thing, how I love you!” (this apostrophe was addressed to the quarto volume which she was now hugging rapturously), “and said, 'Well, Captain January, here's the best book in the world,nextto the Good Book!' he says. 'You'll take this,' he says, 'as my gift to you and the child; and with these two books to guide you, the child's edication won't go far wrong!' he says; and then he gave Daddy the dictionary, too, Imogen; but I sha'n't tell you about that, because it's a brute, and I hate and 'spise it. But—well!so, you see,thatwas the way I got my Willum Shakespeare, my joy and my pride, my—”

At this moment a shadow fell upon the grass, and a deep, gruff voice was heard, saying, “Star, ahoy!” The child started up, and turned to meet the newcomer with a joyous smile. “Why, Bob!” she cried, seizing one of his hands in both of hers, and dancing round and round him. “Where did you come from? Why aren't you on the boat?”

“Boat's aground!” replied the person addressed as Bob. He spoke in short, jerky sentences. He was dressed as a seafaring man; had wide, helpless-looking brown eyes, an apologetic smile, and a bass voice of appalling depth and power. “Boat's aground,” he repeated, seating himself on the grass and looking about for a stem of grass long enough to put in his mouth. “Hard and fast. Waiting for tide to turn; thought I'd come, pass time o' day.”

“And how came you to run her aground?” inquired the child, severely. “A pretty pilot you are! Why, I could steer her myself better than that.”

“Fog!” replied the man, in a meek and muffled roar. Then finding a bit of sorrel, he fell upon it with avidity, and seemed to think he had said enough.

“H'm!” said Star, with a disdainful little sniff. “You'd better get Daddy to steer your boat.Hedoesn't mind fog. Are there many people on board?” she added, with an air of interest.

“Heaps!” replied Bob, succinctly. Then, after a pause of meditative chewing: “Like to go aboard? take ye—boat—Cap'n willin'.”

“No, I don't want to go aboard, thank you!” said Star. “I don't like people. But you might just row me round her once, Bob,” she added. “I think I should likethat. But we must wait till Daddy comes, of course.”

“Cap'n round?” inquired Bob.

“He's setting the lobster-pots,” replied the child. “He'll be back soon. Bob,” she added, irrelevantly, a moment after, “I never noticed before that you looked like Imogen. Why, you are the very image of her, Bob! Your eyes and your expression areexactlythe same.” Bob raised his eyes and surveyed Imogen with a critical air. “Fine cow!” he said at last. “D'no's I mind—'f she doosn't.”

“Isn'tshe a fine cow?” cried little Star, patting the meek and graceful head of her favourite. “I don't believe there's another such cow in the world. Iknowthere isn't! I think,” she added, “I will take a little ride on her, while we are waiting for Daddy Captain. Will you put me up, please, Bob?”

The obedient Bob lifted her as if she were a ball of thistle-down, and set her on the broad back of the good cow, who straightway began to pace sedately along the bit of meadow, following the guidance of the small hands which clasped her horns. Ah! who will paint me that picture, as my mind's eye sees it? The blue of sky and sea, the ripples breaking in silver on silver sand, the jewelled green, where the late dandelions flecked the grass with gold; and in the midst the lovely, laughing child, mounted on the white cow, tossing her cloudy golden hair, and looking back with eyes of delight towards her companion.

The beauty of it all filled the eyes and the heart of Captain January, as he came up among the rocks. He paused, and stood for some time in silence, watching the little well-beloved figure. “Wal!” he said, “if that ain't one of the young-eyed cherubims, then I never seed one, that's all.”

At this moment Star caught sight of him. “O Daddy,” she cried. “My Daddy Captain, I'm having such a fine ride! It isn'tquiteas high as a heaven-kissing hill, but it's a heaven-kissing cow, for Imogen is reallyveryhigh. Dear Daddy, won't you come and try it? there's plenty of room!”

“Thanky, Peach Blossom!” said the Captain, advancing, and greeting the apologetic Bob with a hearty shake of the hand. “Thanky kindly, but I don't believe I will try it. Ridin' was never, so as to say, in my line. I'm stiddy enough on my own pins, but defend me from tryin' to git about on another critter's. And how's all with you, Bob? and why ain't you aboard theHuntress?”

Bob in the fewest possible words related the mishap which had befallen the boat, and asked if he might take Missy out to see her.

“To be sure! to be sure!” said Captain January. “That'll be a nice trip for ye, Honeysuckle. Put on your bunnit and go with Bob. He'll take good care of ye, Bob will.”

And so, by what seemed the merest chance, that lovely afternoon, little Star went with Bob Peet, in his old black boat, to see the steamerHuntressaground on a sand-bank off the main shore.

The sea lay all shining and dimpling in the afternoon light, and not a cloud was to be seen overhead. Here and there a white gull was slowly waving his wings through the clear air, and little fish came popping their heads out of the water, just for the pleasure of popping them back again. Star dipped her hands in the blue crystal below, and sang little snatches of song, being light of heart and without a care in the world. They were no nursery songs that she sang, for she considered herself to have outgrown the very few Mother Goose ditties which Captain January had treasured in his mind and heart ever since his mother sang them to him, all the many years ago. She was tired of:

“Jacky Barber's coming to town:Clear away, gentlemen! clear away, gentlemen!One foot up and t'other foot down,Jacky Barber's coming to town.”

But she loved the scraps of sea-song that the old Captain still hummed over his work: “Baltimore,” and “Blow a Man Down,” and half a dozen other salt-water ditties: and it might have been strange to less accustomed ears than Bob Peet's to hear the sweet child-voice carolling merrily:

“Boney was a warrior,Weigh! heigh! oh!Boney was a warrior,John Francois!Boney whipped the Rooshians,Weigh! heigh! oh!Boney whipped the Prooshians,John Francois!Boney went to Elba,Weigh! heigh! oh!” etc.

Bob's oars kept time with the song, and his portentous voice thundered out the refrain with an energy which shook the little skiff from stem to stern. By the time that “Boney” was safely consigned to his grave in sunny France, they were nearing the flats on which the steamerHuntresslay, quietly awaiting the turn of the tide.

Star knew the great white boat well, for twice a day she went thundering past Light Island, churning the quiet blue water into foam with her huge paddles, on her way to and from the gay summer city which all the world came to visit. Nearly every day the child would run out on the south rocks to wave a greeting to some of her acquaintances among the crew; for she knew them all, from the black-bearded captain down to the tiniest cabin-boy; and they, for their part, were always eager—good souls!—for a smile or a nod from the “Star of Light Island.” Not a man of them but envied Bob Peet his privilege of going when he pleased to the lighthouse rock. For Captain January was not fond of visitors, and gave them no encouragement to come, Bob Peet being the single exception to the rule. The Captain liked Bob because he was not “given to clatter,” and “knew how to belay his jaw.”

“I do love to see a man belay his jaw!” said Captain January, unconsciously quoting the words of another and a more famous captain, the beloved David Dodd. So Bob was free to come and go as he liked, and to smoke his pipe in sociable silence for hours at a time, within the walls of Storm Castle.

“Stop here, Bob!” said Star, with an imperious motion of her hand. “I don't want to go any nearer.” The obedient Bob lay on his oars, and both looked up at the great boat, now only a few yards away. The decks were crowded with passengers, who leaned over the railings, idly chatting, or watching the water to see if the tide had turned.

“Sight o' folks,” said Bob Peet, nodding towards the after-deck, which seemed a solid mass of human beings.

“Yes,” said the child, speaking half to herself, in a low tone. “It's just like the Tower of Babel, isn't it? I should think they would be afraid. 'And the Lord scattered them abroad from thence upon the face of all the earth.' And it's sostupid!” she added, after a moment's pause. “Why don't they stay at home? Haven't they any homes to stay at? Who takes care of their homes while they go sailing about like loons?”

“Folks likes to v'yage,” said Bob Peet, with mild toleration. “Heaps—nothin' t' do—hot spells—v'yages.” He added, with an approach to a twinkle in his meek and cow-like eyes, “Try it—some day—git tired of ol' Cap'n—ol' rock—pooty soon—take ye—v'yage—”

His speech was interrupted by a sudden and violent dash of water in his face.

“Take that!” cried Star, panting with fury, and flinging the water at him with all her small might. “I wish it was sharp stones, instead of just water. I wish it was needles, and jagged rocks, and quills upon the fretful porkypine, so I do! How dare you say such things to me, Bob Peet? How dare you?” She paused, breathless, but with flashing eyes and burning cheeks; while Bob meekly mopped his face and head with a red cotton handkerchief, and shook the water from his ears, eyeing her the while with humble and deprecatory looks.

“No offence,” he muttered, in apologetic thunder-rumble. “Poor ol' Bob—eh, Missy? Sorry, beg pardon! Never no more. Didn't mean it—nohow!”

The tempest subsided as suddenly as it rose, and Star, with a forgiving nod, took out her own little handkerchief and daintily wiped a few drops from her victim's forehead.

“You're so stupid, Bob,” she said, frankly, “that I suppose I ought not to get angry with you, any more than I would with Imogen, though even she provokes me sometimes. So I forgive you, Bob. But if you ever say such a thing again as my getting tired of Daddy, I'll kill you. So now you know!”

“Jes' so!” assented Bob. “Nat'rally!Tob' sure!”

The sudden splashing of the water had caught many eyes on the deck of theHuntress, and people admired the “playfulness” of the pretty child in the little boat. One pair of eyes, however, was sharper than the rest.

“Just look at that child, Isabel!” said a tall, bronzed gentleman who was leaning over the taff-rail. “She is a perfect little fury! I never saw a pair of eyes flash so. Very fine eyes they are, too. A very beautiful child. Isabel! why, my dear, what is the matter? You are ill—faint! let me—”

But the lady at his side pushed his arm away, and leaned forward, her eyes fixed upon Star's face.

“George,” she said, in a low, trembling voice, “I want to know who that child is. Imustknow, George! Find out for me, dear, please!”

As she spoke, she made a sign towards the boat, so earnest, so imperative, that it caught Star's wandering gaze. Their eyes met, and the little child in the pink calico frock, and the stately lady in the India shawl, gazed at each other as if they saw nothing else in the world. The gentleman looked from one to the other in amazement.

“Isabel!” he whispered, “the child looks like you. What can this mean?”

But little Star, in the old black boat, cried, “Take me away, Bob! take me home to my Daddy Captain!Quick! do you hear?”

“Jes' so” said Bob Peet. “Nat'rally!”

A gray day! soft gray sky, like the breast of a dove; sheeny gray sea, with gleams of steel running across; trailing skirts of mist shutting off the mainland, leaving Light Island alone with the ocean; the white tower gleaming spectral among the folding mists; the dark pine-tree pointing a sombre finger to heaven; the wet, black rocks, from which the tide had gone down, huddling together in fantastic groups as if to hide their nakedness.

On the little beach two men were slowly pacing up and down, up and down, one silent, the other talking earnestly. Old men, both, with white, reverend hair: one slender and small, the other a son of Anak, big and brawny,—Captain January and the minister.

It was the minister who had been speaking. But now he had done, and they took a few turns in silence before the Captain spoke in reply.

“Minister,” he said,—and his voice was strangely altered from the gruff, hearty tone which had greeted his guest fifteen minutes before. “Minister, I ain't a man that's used to hearin' much talk, and it confuses my mind a bit. There's things inside my head that seems to go round and round, sometimes, and put me out. Now, if it isn't askin' too much, I'll git you to go over them p'ints again. Slow, like! slow, Minister, bearin' in mind that I'm a slow man, and not used to it. This—this lady, she come to your house yisterday, as ever was?”

“Yesterday,” assented the minister; and his voice had a tender, almost compassionate tone, as if he were speaking to a child.

“And a fine day it were!” said Captain January. “Wind steady, sou'west by sou'. Fog in the mornin', and Bob Peet run theHuntressaground on the bank. I never liked fog, Minister! 'Give me a gale,' I'd say, 'or anythin' short of a cyclone,' I'd say, 'but don't give me fog!' and see now, how it's come about! But it lifted, soon as the harm were done. It lifted, and as fine a day as ever you see.”

The minister looked at him in some alarm, but the old man's keen blue eyes were clear and intelligent, and met his gaze openly.

“You're thinkin' I'm crazy, minister, or maybe drunk,” he said, quietly; “but I ain't neither one. I'm on'y takin' it by and large. When a man has been fifteen year on a desert island, ye see, he learns to take things by and large. But I never see good come of a fog yet. Amen! so be it! And so Cap'n Nazro brought the lady to your house, Minister?”

“Captain Nazro came with her,” said the minister, “and also her husband, Mr. Morton, and Robert Peet, the pilot. Mrs. Morton had seen little Star in Peet's boat, and was greatly and painfully struck by the child's likeness to a beloved sister of hers, who had, it was supposed, perished at sea, with her husband and infant child, some ten years ago.”

“Ten year ago,” repeated Captain January, passing his hand across his weather-beaten face, which looked older, somehow, than it was wont to do. “Ten year ago this September. 'He holdeth the waters in the hollow of His hand.' Go on, Minister. The lady thought my little Star, as the Lord dropped out of the hollow of His hand into my arms ten year ago, had a look of her sister.”

“She was so strongly impressed by it,” the minister continued, quietly, “that, failing to attract Peet's attention as he rowed away, she sent for the captain, and begged him to give her all the information he could about the child. What she heard moved her so deeply that she became convinced of the child's identity with her sister's lost infant. As soon as Peet returned after putting Star ashore, she questioned him even more closely. He, good fellow, refused to commit himself to anything which he fancied you might not like, but he told her of my having performed the last rites over the mortal remains of the child's parents, and Mr. Morton wisely counselled her to go at once to me, instead of coming here, as she at first wished to do. After my interview with her, I am bound to say—”

“Easy now, Minister!” interrupted Captain January. “I'm an old man, though I never knowed it till this day. Easy with this part!”

“I am bound to say,” continued the minister, laying his hand kindly on his companion's arm, “that I think there is little doubt of Star's being Mrs. Morton's niece.”

“And what if she be?” exclaimed the old sailor, turning with a sudden violence which made the gentle minister start back in alarm. “What if she be? what have the lady done for her niece? Did she take her out o' the sea, as raged like all the devils let loose, and death itself a-hangin' round and fairly howlin' for that child? did she stand on that rock, blind and deef and e'ena'most mazed with the beatin' and roarin' and onearthly screechin' all round, and take that child from its dead mother's breast, and vow to the Lord, as helped in savin' it, to do as should be done by it? Has she prayed, and worked, and sweat, and laid awake nights, for fear that child's fingers should ache, this ten years past? Has she—” the old man's voice, which had been ringing out like a trumpet, broke off suddenly. The angry fire died out of his blue eyes, and he bowed his head humbly. “I ask yer pardon, Minister!” he said, quietly, after a pause. “I humbly ask yer pardon. I had forgotten the Lord, ye see, for all I was talkin' about Him so glib. I was takin' my view, and forgettin' that the Lord had His.Hetakes things by and large, and nat'rally He takes 'em larger than mortal man kin do. Amen! so be it!” He took off his battered hat, and stood motionless for a few moments, with bent head: nor was his the only silent prayer that went up from the little gray beach to the gray heaven above.

“Well, Minister,” he said, presently, in a calm and even cheerful voice, “and so that bein' all clear to your mind, the lady have sent you to take my—to take her niece—the little lady (and a lady she were from her cradle) back to her. Is that the way it stands?”

“Oh, no! no indeed!” cried the kind old minister. “Mrs. Morton would do nothing so cruel as that, Captain January. She is very kind-hearted, and fully appreciates all that you have done for the little girl. But she naturally wants to see the child, and to do whatever is for her best advantage.”

“For the child's advantage. That's it!” repeated Captain January. “That's somethin' to hold on by. Go on, Minister!”

“So she begged me to come over alone,” continued the minister, “to—to prepare your mind, and give you time to think the matter well over. And she and Mr. Morton were to follow in the course of an hour, in Robert Peet's boat. He is a very singular fellow, that Peet!” added the good man, shaking his head. “Do you think he is quite in his right mind? He has taken the most inveterate dislike to Mr. and Mrs. Morton, and positively refuses to speak to either of them. I could hardly prevail upon him to bring them over here, and yet he fell into a strange fury when I spoke of getting some one else to bring them. He—he is quite safe, I suppose?”

“Wal, yes!” replied Captain January, with a half smile. “Bob's safe, if anyone is. Old Bob! so he doosn't like them, eh?”

At that moment his eye caught something, and he said, in an altered voice, “Here's Bob's boat coming now, Minister, and the lady and gentleman in her.”

“They must have come much more rapidly than I did,” said the minister, “and yet my boy rows well enough. Compose yourself, January! this is a heavy blow for you, my good friend. Compose yourself! Things are strangely ordered in this world. 'We see through a glass darkly'!”

“Not meanin' to set my betters right, Minister,” said Captain January, “I never seed as it made any difference whether a man seed or not, darkly or howsumdever, so long as the Lord madeHisviews clear. And He's makin' 'em!” he added. “He's makin' 'em, Minister! Amen! so be it!” And quietly and courteously, ten minutes later, he was bidding his visitors welcome to Light Island, as if it were a kingdom, and he the crownless monarch of it. “It's a poor place, Lady!” he said, with a certain stately humility, as he helped Mrs. Morton out of the boat. “Good anchorage for a shipwrecked mariner like me, but no place for ladies or—or them as belongs to ladies.”

“O Captain January!” cried Mrs. Morton, who was a tall, fair woman, with eyes like Star's own. “What shall I say to you? I must seem to you so cruel, so heartless, to come and ask for the child whom you have loved and cared for so long. For that is what I have come for! I must speak frankly, now that I see your kind, honest face. I have come to take my sister's child, for it is my duty to do so.” She laid both hands on the old man's arm, and looked up in his face with pleading, tearful eyes.

But Captain January's face did not move as he answered, quietly, “It is your duty, Lady. No question o' that, to my mind or any. But,” he added, with a wistful look, “I'll ask ye to do it easy, Lady. It'll be sudden like for the—for the young lady. And—she ain't used to bein' took sudden, my ways bein' in a manner slow. You'll happen find her a little quick, Lady, in her ways, she bein' used to a person as was in a manner slow, and havin' to be quick for two, so to say. But it's the sparkle o' gold, Lady, and a glint o' diamonds.”

But the lady was weeping, and could not answer; so Captain January turned to her husband, who met him with a warm grasp of the hand, and a few hearty and kindly words.

“And now I'll leave ye with the minister for a minute, Lady and Gentleman,” the Captain said; “for Bob Peet is a-signallin' me as if he'd sprung a leak below the water line, and all hands goin' to the bottom.”

Bob, who had withdrawn a few paces after beaching his boat, was indeed making frantic demonstrations to attract the Captain's attention, dancing and snapping his fingers, and contorting his features in strange and hideous fashion.

“Well, Bob,” said the old man, walking up to him, “what's up with you, and why are ye h'istin' and lowerin' your jib in that onarthly fashion?”

Bob Peet seized him by the arm, and led him away up the beach. “Cap'n,” he said, looking round to make sure that they were out of hearing of the others, “I can't touch a lady—not seamanly! But 'f you say the word—knock gen'l'm'n feller—middle o' next week. Say the word, Cap'n! Good's a meal o' vittles t' me—h'ist him over cliff!”

And where was little Star, while all this was going on down on the beach? Oh, she had been having a delightful afternoon. It was cloudy, and Daddy was going to be busy, so she had determined to spend an hour or so in her own room, and enjoy all the delights of “dressing up.” For the great chest that had been washed ashore from the wreck, the day after she herself had come to the island, was full of clothes belonging to her “poor mamma;” and as we have seen, the little woman was fully inclined to make use of them.

Beautiful clothes they were; rich silks and velvets, with here and there cloudy laces and strange webs of Eastern gauze. For she had been a beautiful woman, this poor mamma, and it had been the delight of Hugh Maynard, her proud and fond husband, to deck his lovely wife in all rare and precious stuffs. Some of them were stained with sea-water, and many of the softer stuffs were crumpled and matted hopelessly, but that mattered little to Star. Her eyes delighted in soft, rich colours, and she was never weary of turning them over and over, trying them on, and “playing s'pose” with them.

“S'pose,” she would say, “my poor mamma was going to a banquet, like the Capulet one, or Macbeth's. Oh, no! 'cause that would have been horrid, with ghosts and daggers and things. S'pose it was the Capulets! Then she would put on this pink silk. Isn't it pretty, and soft, and creamy? Just like the wild roses on the south side of the meadow, that I made a wreath of for Imogen on her birthday. Dear Imogen! it wassobecoming to her. Well, so my poor mamma put it on—so! and then she paced through the hall, and all the lords turned round and said, 'Mark'st thou yon lady?' 'Cause she was so beautiful, you know.Thisis the way she paced!” and then the little creature would fall to pacing up and down the room, dragging the voluminous pink folds behind her, her head thrown back, and a look of delighted pride lighting up her small face.

It was the funniest little place, this room of Star's, the queerest, quaintest little elfin bower! It was built out from the south side of the tower, almost like a swallow's nest, only a swallow's nest has no window looking out on the blue sea. There was a little white bed in a corner, and a neat chest of drawers, and a wash-stand, all made by Captain January's skilful hands, and all shining and spotless. The bare floor was shining too, and so was the little looking-glass which hung upon the wall. And beside the looking-glass, and above it, and in fact all over the walls, were trophies and wonders of all kinds and descriptions. There was the starfish with ten legs, pinned up in sprawling scarlet; and there, beside him, the king of all the sea-urchins, resplendent with green and purple horns. And here were ropes of shells, and branches of coral, and over the bed a great shining star, made of the delicate gold-shells. That was Daddy's present to her on her last birthday. Dear Daddy! There, sitting in the corner, was Mrs. Neptune, the doll which Captain January had carved out of a piece of fine wood that had drifted ashore after a storm. Her eyes were tiny black snail-shells, her hair was of brown sea-moss, very thick and soft (“though as for combing it,” said Star, “it is im-possible!”), and a smooth pink shell was set in either cheek, “to make a blush.” Mrs. Neptune was somewhat battered, as Star was in the habit of knocking her head against the wall when she was in a passion; but she maintained her gravity of demeanour, and always sat with her back perfectly straight, and with an air of protest against everything in general.

In the window stood the great chest, at once a treasure-chamber and a seat; and over it hung one of the most precious things of Star's little world. It was a string of cocoanut-shells. Fifteen of them there were, and each one was covered with curious and delicate carving, and each one meant a whole year of a man's life. “For the nuts was ripe when we kem ashore, my good mate Job Hotham and me, on that island. So when the nuts was ripe agin, ye see, Jewel Bright, we knowed 'twas a year since we kem. So I took my jack-knife and carved this first shell, as a kind o' token, ye know, and not thinkin' there'd be so many to carve.” So the first shell was all covered with ships: fair vessels, with sails all set, and smooth seas rippling beneath them,—the ships that were even then on their way to rescue the two castaways. And the second was carved with anchors, the sign of hope, and with coils of rope, and nautical instruments, and things familiar to seamen's eyes. But the third was carved with stars, and sickle-curved moons, and broad-rayed suns, “Because, ye see, Peach Blossom, arthly hope bein' as ye might say foundered, them things, and what was above 'em, stayed where they was; and it stiddied a man's mind to think on 'em, and to make a note on 'em as fur as might be.” And then came one covered with flowers and berries, and another with fruits, and another with shells, and so on through the whole fifteen. They hung now in little Star's window, a strange and piteous record; and every night before the child said her prayers, she kissed the first and last shell, and then prayed that Daddy Captain might forget the “dreadful time,” and never, never think about it again.

So, on this gray day, when other things were going on out-of-doors, Star was having a “good time” in her room. She had found in the treasure-chest a short mantle of gold-coloured velvet, which made “a just exactly skirt” for her, the two ends trailing behind enough to give her a sense of dignity, but not enough to impede her movements. “For I am not a princess to-day!” she said; “I am delicate Ariel, and the long ones get round my feet so I can't run.” Then came a long web of what she called “sunshine,” and really it might have been woven of sunbeams, so airy-light was the silken gauze of the fabric. This my lady had wound round and round her small person with considerable art, the fringed ends hanging from either shoulder, and making, to her mind, a fair substitute for wings. “See!” she cried, running to and fro, and glancing backward as she ran. “They wave! they really do wave! Look, Mrs. Neptune! aren't they lovely? But you are envious, and that is why you look so cross. 'Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, under the blossom that hangs on the bough.'” She leaped and danced about the room, light and radiant as a creature of another world: then stopped, to survey with frowning brows her little blue stockings and stout laced boots. “Arielneverwore such things as those!” she declared; “if you say she did, Mrs. Neptune, you show your ignorance, and that is all I have to say to you.” Off came the shoes and stockings, and the little white feet were certainly much prettier to look at. “Now,” cried Star, “I will go down-stairs and wait for Daddy Captain, and perhaps he will think I am a real fairy. Oh, wouldn't that be fun? I amsureI look like one!” and down the stairs she flitted like a golden butterfly. Once in the kitchen, the housewife in her triumphed for a moment over the fairy: she raked up the fire, put on more wood, and swept the hearth daintily. “But Ariel did such things for Prospero,” she said. “I'm Ariel just the same, so I may as well fill the kettle and put some apples down to roast.” This was soon done, and clapping her hands with delight the “tricksy spirit” began to dance and frolic anew.

“'Come unto these yellow sands,And then take hands!'”

she sang, holding out her hands to invisible companions.

“'Courtesied when ye have, and kissed(The wild waves whist!)Foot it featly here and there.'

“Oh! foot it featly, and feat it footly, and dance and sing, and tootle-ty ting!” cried the child, as she flitted like a golden cloud about the room. Then, as she whirled round and faced the door, she stopped short. Her arms fell by her side, and she stood as if spellbound, looking at the lady who stood in the doorway.

The lady made no motion at first, but only gazed at her with loving and tender eyes. She was a beautiful lady, and her eyes were soft and blue, with a look of tears in them. But there was no answering softness in the starry eyes of the child: only a wide, wild look of wonder, of anger, perhaps of fear. Presently the lady, still silent, raised both hands, and kissed them tenderly to the child; then laid them on her breast, and then held them out to her with a gesture of loving appeal.

“I don't know whether you are a spirit of health or a goblin damned,” said Star; “but anyhow it isn't polite to come into people's houses without knocking,Ithink. I knowed you were a spirit when you looked at me yesterday, if youdidhave a red shawl on.”

“How did you know that I was a spirit?” asked the lady softly. “Oh, little Star, how did you know?”

“'Cause you looked like my poor mamma's picture,” replied the child, “that my poor papa had round his neck. Are you my mamma's spirit?”

The lady shook her head. “No, darling,” she said, “I am no spirit. But I have come to see you, little Star, and to tell you something. Will you not let me come in, Sweetheart?”

Star blushed, and hung her head for a moment, remembering Captain January's lessons on politeness and “quarter-deck manners.” She brought a chair at once, and in a more gracious tone said (mindful of Willum Shakespeare's lords and ladies), “I pray you sit!”

The lady sat down, and taking the child's hand, drew her gently towards her. “Were you playing fairy, dear?” she asked, smoothing back the golden hair with loving touch.

Star nodded. “I was delicate Ariel,” she said. “I was footing it featly, you know, on these yellow sands. Sometimes I am Puck, and sometimes Titania; but Daddy likes Ariel best, and so do I. Did you ever play it?” she asked, looking up into the kindly face that bent over her.

The lady smiled and shook her head. “No, dear child,” she said, still with that motherly touch of the hand on the fair head. “I never thought of such a pretty play as that, but I was very happy as a child playing with my—with my sister. I had a dear, dear sister, Star. Would you like to hear about her?”

“Yes,” said Star, with wondering eyes. “Was she a little girl?”

“Such a lovely little girl!” said the lady. “Her hair was dark, but her eyes were like yours, Star, blue and soft. We played together always as children, and we grew up together, two loving, happy girls. Then my sister married: and by and by, dear, she had a little baby. A sweet little girl baby, and she named it Isabel, after me.”

“I was a little girl baby, too,” said Star, “but I wasn't named anything; I came so: just Star.”

“Little Isabel had another name,” said the lady. “Her other name was Maynard, because that was her father's name. Her father was Hugh Maynard. Have you ever seen or heard that name, my child?”

Star shook her head. “No!” she said; “my poor papa's name was H. M. It was marked on his shirt and han'k'chief, Daddy says. And my poor mamma's name was Helena, just like Helena in 'Midsummer Night's Dream.'” The motherly hand trembled, and the lady's voice faltered as she said, “Star, my dear sister's name was Helena, too. Is not that strange, my little one?”

The child looked curiously at her. “Where is your dear sister?” she asked. “Why do you cry when you say her name? is she naughty?”

“Listen, Star,” said the lady, wiping the tears from her eyes, and striving to speak composedly.

“My sister made a voyage to Europe, with her husband and her little baby. They spent the summer travelling in beautiful countries; and in the autumn, in September, Star, ten years ago this very year,—think of it, my dear!—they sailed for home. They came in a sailing-vessel, because the sea-voyage was thought good for your—for my sister. And—and—the vessel was never heard from. There was a terrible storm and many vessels were lost in it.”

“Just like my poor mamma's ship,” said the child. “Perhaps it was the same storm. Do you think—why do you look at me so?” she cried, breaking off suddenly.

But the lady put both arms round her and drew her close, close, while her tears fell fast on the golden hair. “My darling!” she cried, “my dear, dear little one! Itwasthe same storm; the same storm and the same ship. Your poor mamma was my own sweet sister Helena, and you are my niece, my little Isabel, my own, own little namesake. Will you love me, darling? will you love your Aunt Isabel, and let her care for you and cherish you as your sweet mother would have done?”

Star stood very still, neither returning nor repelling the lady's caresses. She was pale, and her breath came short and quick, but otherwise she showed no sign of agitation. Presently she put up her hand and stroked the lady's cheek gently. “Why do you cry?” she asked, quietly. “My poor mamma is in heaven. Don't you like her to be in heaven? Daddy says it is much nicer than here, and he knows.”

Mrs. Morton checked her tears, and smiled tenderly in the little wondering face, “Dear child!” she said, “I do like to have her in heaven, and I will not cry any more. But you have not told me whether you will love me, Star. Will you try, dear? and will you let me call you my little Isabel?”

“I will love you,” replied the child, “if Daddy Captain loves you; I will love you very much. But you must not call me that name, 'cause I'm notit. I am just Star.DoesDaddy love you?” she asked; and then, with a sudden note of anxiety in her voice, she exclaimed, “Where is Daddy? Where is my Daddy Captain? Did you see him when you came in?”

Her question was answered by the sound of voices outside; and the next moment the minister appeared, followed by Mr. Morton and Captain January. The old Captain hastened to place a chair for each of the gentlemen by the fireside, and then took his stand against the wall on the further side of the room. He held his weather-beaten cap in his hand, and turned it slowly round and round, considering it attentively. It might have been observed by one quick to notice trifles, that he did not look at the child, though no slightest motion of hers was lost upon him.

“George,” said Mrs. Morton, joyously, to her husband, “here is our little niece, dearest Helena's child. She is going to love me, she says, and she will love you, too. Star, my darling, this is your Uncle George. Will you not give him a kiss, and be his little girl as well as mine? We have two little girls at home, and you shall be the third.”

Star went obediently to Mr. Morton, who kissed her warmly, and tried to take her on his knee. “You are taller than our Grace,” he said, “but I don't believe you are as heavy, my dear. Grace is just your age, and I am sure you will be great friends.”

But Star slipped quietly from his arms, and, running to the Captain, took one of his hands in both of hers and kissed it. “I am Daddy Captain's little girl!” she said, looking round bravely at the others. “Why do you talk as if I belonged to you?” Then seeing the trouble in Mrs. Morton's face, she added, “Iwilllove you, truly I will, and I will call you Aunt Isabel; but I cannot belong to different people, 'cause I'm only just one. Just Captain January's Star.”

She looked up in the old man's face with shining eyes, but no tender, confident look returned her glance. The brown hand trembled between her two little white palms; the keen blue eyes were still bent fixedly upon the old woollen cap, as if studying its texture; but it was in a quiet and soothing tone that the Captain murmured:

“Easy, Jewel Bright! Easy, now! Helm steady, and stand by!”

There was a moment of troubled silence; and then the old minister, clearing his throat, spoke in his gentle, tranquil voice. “My dear child,” he said, “a very strange thing has come to pass; but what seems strange to us is doubtless clear and simple to the Infinite Wisdom above us. You have been a faithful and loving child, little Star, to your beloved guardian and friend here, and no father could have cared for you more tenderly than he has done. But the tie of blood is a strong one, my dear, and should not be lightly set aside. This lady is your own near relation, the sister of your dear dead mother. Through the merciful providence of God, she has been led to you, and she feels it her duty to claim you, in the name of your parents. We have considered the matter carefully, and we all feel that it is right that you should hereafter make your home with her and your uncle. This may be painful to you, my dear; but you are a good and intelligent child, and you will understand that if we give you pain now, it is to secure your future good and happiness.”

He paused; and all eyes, save those keen blue ones which were studying so carefully the texture of the battered woollen cap, turned anxiously on the child. A deep flush passed over Star's face; then vanished, leaving it deadly pale, a mask of ivory with eyes of flame. When she spoke, it was in a low, suppressed voice, wholly unlike her own.

“You may kill me,” said the child, “and take my body away, if you like. I will not go while I am alive.”

She turned her eyes from one to the other, as if watching for the slightest motion to approach her.

Mrs. Morton, in great distress, spoke next. “My darling, it grieves me to the heart to take you from your dear, kind Daddy. But think, my Star; you are a child now, but you will soon be a woman. You cannot grow up to womanhood in a place like this. You must be with your own people, and have companions of your own age. My children will be like your own sisters and brothers. My dear, if you could only know how they will love you, how we shall all cherish and care for you!”

“When I am dead?” asked Star. “It will make no difference to me, your love, for I shall be dead. I will not go alive.”

“Oh, Captain January!” cried Mrs. Morton, turning to the old man with clasped hands. “Speak to her! she will listen to you. Tell her—tell her what you said to me. Tell her that it is right for her to go; that you wish her to go!”

The old man's breathing was heavy and laboured, and for a moment it seemed as if he strove in vain for utterance: but when he spoke, his voice was still soothing and cheerful, though his whole great frame was trembling like a withered leaf. “Star Bright,” he said (and between almost every word he paused to draw the short, heavy breath), “I always told ye, ye 'member, that ye was the child of gentlefolks. So bein', 'tis but right that you should have gentle raisin' by them as is yer own flesh and blood. You've done your duty, and more than your duty, by me. Now 'tis time ye did your duty by them as the Lord has sent to ye. You'll have—my—my respeckful love and duty wherever you go, my dear, and you growin' up to be a beautiful lady, as has been a little wild lass. And you'll not forget the old Cap'n, well I know, as will be very comf'table here—”

But here the child broke out with a wild, loud cry, which made all the others start to their feet. “Do you want me to go?” she cried. “Look at me, Daddy Captain! youshalllook at me!” She snatched the cap from his hands and flung it into the fire, then faced him with blazing eyes and quivering lip. “Do you want me to go? Are you tired of me?”

Heavier and heavier grew that weight on Captain January's chest: shorter and harder came his breath. His eyes met the child's for a moment, then wavered and fell. “Why—honey—” he said, slowly, “I—I'm an old man now—a very old man. And—and—an old man likes quiet, ye see: and—I'd be quieter by myself, like; and—and so, honey—I—I'd like ye to go.”

“You lie!” cried the child; and her voice rang like a silver trumpet in the startled ears of the listeners. “You lie to me, and you lie to God: and youknowyou lie!”

The next moment she had sprung on to the low window-sill, then turned for an instant, with her little hands clenched in menace, and her great eyes flashing fire that fell like a burning touch on every heart. Her fantastic dress gleamed like a fiery cloud against the gray outside: her hair fell like a glory about her vivid, shining face. A moment she stood there, a vision, a flying star, trailing angry light, never to be forgotten by those who saw; then, like a flash, she vanished.

Captain January tottered to his old chair and sat down in it. “The child is right, Lady and Gentleman!” he said. “I lied! I lied to my God, and to the little child who loved me. May God and the child forgive me!” And he hid his face in his hands, and silence fell for a moment.

Then Mr. Morton, who had walked hastily to the window, and was doing something with his handkerchief, beckoned to his wife. “Isabel,” he said, in a low tone, “I will not be a party to this. It's an atrocious and vindictive outrage. I—I—you are not the woman I took you for, if you say another word to that old angel. Let him have the child, and send him one or two of your own into the bar—” but Isabel Morton, laughing through her tears, laid her hand over her husband's lips for a moment. Then going to the old man's chair, she knelt down by it, and took his two hands in hers.

“Captain January!” she said, tenderly. “Dear, dear Captain January! the lie is forgiven: I am very, very sure it is forgiven in heaven, as it will be forgiven in the child's loving heart. And may God never pardon me, if ever word or look of mine come again between you and the child whom God gave you!”

The gray evening was closing in around the lighthouse tower. The guests were gone, and Captain January sat alone beside the fire in his old armchair. The window was still open, for the air was soft and mild. The old man's hands were clasped upon his knee; his heart was lifted as high as heaven, in silent prayer and praise.

Suddenly, at the window, there was a gleam of yellow, a flitting shape, a look, a pause; then a great glad cry, and Star flitted like a ray of moonlight through the window, and fell on Captain January's breast.

“Daddy,” she said, breaking the long, happy silence, “dear Daddy, I am sorry I burned your horrid old cap!”

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