of this there was little fear, as she knew from Nancy, that all the cutter’s boats were on board when she entered the harbour.  Lilly, who thought it a delight to be one moment sooner in her father’s arms, had taken the watch on the beach, and there the little girl remained perched upon a rock, at the foot of which the waves now only sullenly washed, for the night was beautifully calm and clear.  To a passer on the ocean she might have been mistaken for a mermaid who had left her watery bower to look upon the world above.

What were the thoughts of the little maiden as she remained there fixed as a statue?  Did she revert to the period at which her infant memory could retrace silken hangings and marble halls, visions of splendour, dreamings of courtly state, or was she thinking of her father, as her quick ear caught the least swell of the increasing breeze?  Was she, as her eye was fixed as if attempting to pierce the depths of the ocean, wondering at what might be its hidden secrets, or as they were turned towards the heavens, bespangled with ten thousand stars, was she meditating on the God who placed them there?  Who can say?—­but that that intellectual face bespoke the mind at work is certain, and from one so pure and lovely could emanate nothing but what was innocent and good.

But a distant sound falls upon her ear; she listens, and by its measured cadence knows that it is the rowers in a boat:  nearer it comes and more distinct, and now her keen eye detects the black mass approaching in the gloom of night.  She starts from the rock ready to fly up to the cave to give notice of an enemy, or, if their anticipated friends, to fly into the arms of her father.  But her alarm is over, she perceives that it is the lugger, the boat dashes into the cove, and the first who lands strains her to his bosom.

“My dearest Lilly, is all well?”

“Yes, all is well, father; but you are well come.”

“Run up, dearest, and let the women be ready to assist.  We have that here which must soon be out of sight.  Is the Father Innis here?”

“Since Thursday last.”

“’Tis well, dear; you may go.  Quick, my lads, and beach the cargo:—­see to it, Ramsay; I must at once unto the cave.”  Having given these directions, the father of Lilly commenced his ascent over the rough and steep rocks which led up to the cavern, anxious to obtain what information could be imparted relative to the treachery which had led to their narrow escape two nights preceding.

He was met by Alice, who cordially embraced him; but he appeared anxious to release himself from her endearments, that he might at once enter upon matters to him of more serious importance.  “Where is the Father Innis, my dear?” said he, disengaging himself from her arms.

“He sleeps, Robert, or, at least, he did just now, but probably he will rise now that you are come.  But in the meantime, I have discovered who the traitor is.”