The sun was not yet risen, and a mist hung over the sea, through which the signal-post at Castle Cornet, and the masts of the vessels in the roads, were the only objects visible; but there was a faint red streak in the sky, which grew brighter and brighter every moment, till the sunrise gun fired; and then the mist changed into a golden veil, which floated insensibly away, leaving every geranium-leaf outside the windows white with hoar-frost, just to tantalise the townsfolk more distant islands became just visible, mingling the blue of the sea and the violet of the sky so mysteriously in their delicate colouring, that they were scarcely distinguishable from either.  And then the carts began to roll along the quay, and work commenced on board the ships in the harbour, and the sailors’ cry as they hoisted the sails, mingled with the rattling of chains and the creaking of the cranes outside the stores.  At about nine o’clock up ran the ball at the signal-post, which announced the approach of the mail-boat, and as she steamed behind the Castle, and anchored in the roads, there were hasty embraces and shakes of the hand on the pier, and the passengers were rowed out to embark.  A few minutes, and the tinkling of a bell was heard from the shore; another—­one more; her wheels were turning, she was off for Southampton, and the passengers from Jersey were landing at the quay.

All this, and much more, might John Barker have seen, and probably he did see it, but found nothing beautiful or exciting in it.  He did not hold his breath as that cutter approached and ran between the pier-heads, her sail dipping in the wave which bore her in.  He saw it a dozen times that day, and had seen it a hundred times before, but never cared to see it again.  He worked sullenly on, exchanging few words with his fellow-labourers, till the twilight compelled them to shoulder their tools; and they then made their way, alas! to the many public-houses near, and one of them we must enter with John Barker, and see the Sixpence, that little messenger of good—­that talent committed to his care—­far worse than wasted by its responsible owner.  Happily, the payment was not long delayed, and glad shall we be to hide our eyes and stop our ears from all that goes on without in the till with our little friend.

It is about midnight, the noisy guests are gone, the people of the house are in bed, and we may now venture forth from our hiding-place to look through the chink in the door.  It is a clear frosty night.  The moon, just rising, is brightly reflected in the water.  The stars are looking silently down on the sleeping town.  Castle Cornet rises gloomily out of the sea.  The moonlit sky, which shows us its outline only, leaves much to the imagination.  We may fancy it a frowning fortress of modern days; or we may go back two hundred years, and think we see the ruin which told of its nine-years’ siege.  But we would rather think of Castle Cornet as we know it now, with its old keep standing as a monument of