“Yes; as my name is Tom Dasher, there must.  We must go to the beach, and see what it’s turned up,—­what there is to be seen, an’ the like o’ that.”  Then, turning to the strangers, he continued, “Pity yer skipper hadn’t a headed her two points further suthard, rounded the point just above here a bit, and made a lee under the bend.  Our craft lies there now,—­as snug as Tompkins’ wife in her chamber!”

“Yes, but, Tom! ye dinna think as the poor folks could know all things,” speaks up the woman, as Tom was about to add a few items more, merely to give the strangers some evidence of his skill.

“Aye, aye,—­all right; I didn’t get the balance on’t just then,” returned Tom, nodding his head with an air of satisfaction.

A nice supper of broiled fish, and toast, and tea, and hot rum punch-of which Tom helped himself without stint-was set out, the strangers invited to draw up, and all partook of the plain but cheering fare.  As daylight was fast approaching, the two wreckers dispatched their meal before the others, and sought the spot on the beach described as where the fatal wreck took place, while the good dame put the shipwrecked to sleep in the attic, and covered them with her warmest rugs and blankets.

Not a vestige of the wreck was to be seen-not a fragment to mark the spot where but a few hours before twenty-five souls were hurried into eternity.  They stood and stood, scanning over the angry ocean into the gloom:  nothing save the wail of the wind and the sea’s roar greeted their ears.  Tom Dasher thinks either they have been borne out into the fathomless caves, or the men are knaves with false stories in their mouths.

Stores,—­for such is our good man’s name-turning from the spot, says daylight will disclose a different scene; with the wind as it is the bodies will be drawn into the eddy on the point, and thrown ashore by the under-current, for burial.  “Poor creatures! there’s no help for them now;” he adds, sighing, as they wend their way back to the cabin, where the good dame waits their coming.  Their search was in vain; having no news to bring her, she must be contented until morning.  If the bodies wash ashore, the good woman of the Humane Society will come down from the town, and see them decently buried.  Stores has several times spoken of this good woman; were she a ministering angel he could not speak of her name with more reverence.  For years, he tells us, has she been a harbinger of good, ever relieving the sick and needy, cheering the downcast, protecting the unfortunate.  Her name has become a symbol of compassion; she mingles with the richest and the poorest, and none know her but to love and esteem her.  “And she, too, is an American lady!” Stores says, exultingly.  And to judge from his praise, we should say, if her many noble deeds were recorded on fair marble, it would not add one jot to that impression of her goodness made on the hearts of the people among whom she lives.