Mrs. Brand was a delicate, little old woman—­so little and so old that people sometimes wondered how it was possible that she could be the mother of such a stalwart son.  She was one of those kind, gentle, uncomplaining, and unselfish beings, who do not secure much popularity or admiration in this world, but who secure obedient children, also steadfast and loving friends.  Her favourite book was the Bible; her favourite hope in regard to earthly matters, that men should give up fighting and drinking, and live in peace; her favourite theory that the study of truth was the object for which man was created, and her favourite meal—­tea.

Ruby was her only child.  Minnie was the daughter of a distant relation, and, having been left an orphan, she was adopted by her.  Mrs. Brand’s husband was a sailor.  He commanded a small coasting sloop, of which Ruby had been the mate for several years.  As we have said, Ruby had been prevailed on to remain at home for some months in order to please his mother, whose delicacy of health was such that his refusal would have injured her seriously; at least the doctor said so, therefore Ruby agreed to stay.

The sloop Penguin, commanded by Ruby’s father, was on a voyage to Newcastle at that time, and was expected in Arbroath every day.  But it was fated never more to cast anchor in that port.  The great storm, to which reference has been made in a previous chapter, caused many wrecks on the shores of Britain.  The Penguin was one of the many.

In those days telegraphs, railroads, and penny papers did not exist.  Murders were committed then, as now, but little was said, and less was known about them.  Wrecks occurred then, as now, but few, except the persons immediately concerned, heard of them.  “Destructive fires”, “terrible accidents”, and the familiar round of “appalling catastrophes” occurred then, as now, but their influence was limited, and their occurrence soon forgotten.

We would not be understood to mean that “now” (as compared with “then",) all is right and well; that telegraphs and railways and daily papers are all-potent and perfect.  By no means.  We have still much to learn and to do in these improved times; and, especially, there is wanting to a large extent among us a sympathetic telegraphy, so to speak, between the interior of our land and the sea-coast, which, if it existed in full and vigorous play, would go far to improve our condition, and raise us in the esteem of Christian nations.  Nevertheless, as compared with now, the state of things then was lamentably imperfect.

The great storm came and went, having swept thousands of souls into eternity, and hundreds of thousands of pounds into nonentity.  Lifeboats had not been invented.  Harbours of refuge were almost unknown, and although our coasts bristled with dangerous reefs and headlands, lighthouses were few and far between.  The consequence was, that wrecks were numerous; and so also were wreckers,—­a class of men, who, in the absence of an efficient coastguard, subsisted to a large extent on what they picked up from the wrecks that were cast in their way, and who did not scruple, sometimes, to cause wrecks, by showing false lights in order to decoy vessels to destruction.