so comely, showing her thick knit stockings, and her feet well protected in calfskin laces, with heels a trooper might not despise; and then, she spreads her little table with a heartiness that adds its value to simple goodness,—­her invitingly clean cups and saucers, and knives and forks, as she spreads them, look so cheerful.  The kettle begins to sing, and the steam fumes from the spout, and the hardy wrecker brings his bottle of old Jamaica, and his sugar; and such a bowl of hot punch was never made before.  “Come now,” he says, “ye’re in my little place; the wrecker as don’t make the distressed comfortable aneath his ruf ’s a disgrace to the craft.”  And now he hands each a mug of steaming punch, which they welcomely receive, a glow of satisfaction bespreading his face, telling with what sincerity he gives it.  Ere they commenced sipping, the good dame brought pilot bread and set it before them; and while she returned to preparing her supper the wrecker draws his wooden seat by their side, and with ears attentive listens to the passenger as he recites the disaster.

“Only two out of twenty-seven saved-a sorry place that gulf!” he exclaims; “you bear away, wife.  Ah, many a good body’s bones, too, have whitened the beach beside us; many ’s the bold fellow has been dashed upon it to die unknown,” he continues, with serious face.  “And war ner onny wemen amang ye, good man?” interposes the good dame.

“Seven; they have all passed into eternity!” rejoins the seaman, who, till then, had been a mute looker-on.

“Poor souls! how they mun’ ’ave suffered!” she sighs, shaking her head, and leaning against the great fire frame, as her eyes fill with tears.  The wrecker must needs acquaint Tom Dasher, bring him to his aid, and, though the storm yet rages, go search the beating surf where roll the unfortunates.  Nay, the good dame will herself execute the errand of mercy, while he supplies the strangers with dry clothes; she will bring Tom hither.  She fears not the tempest while her soul warms to do good; she will comfort the distressed who seek shelter under her roof.  With the best his rough wardrobe affords does the wrecker clothe them, while his good wife, getting Tom up, relates her story, and hastens back with him to her domicile.  Tom is an intrepid seafarer, has spent some seven years wrecking, saved many a life from the grasp of the grand Bahama, and laid up a good bit of money lest some stormy day may overtake him and make the wife a widow.

“This is a hard case, Stores!” says Tom, addressing himself to our wrecker, as with sharp, hairy face, and keen black eyes, his countenance assumes great seriousness.  Giving his sou’-wester a cant back on his head, running his left hand deep into the pocket of his pea-jacket, and supplying his mouth with tobacco from his right, he stands his tall figure carelessly before the fire, and in a contemplative mood remains silent for a few minutes.

“Aye, but somethin’ mun’ be done, Tom,” says the first wrecker, breaking silence.