“Ah, man! she’s a good woman, and everybody loves and looks up to her.  And she’s worth loving, too, because she’s so kind,” adds the good dame, significantly canting her head.

Daylight was now breaking in the east, and as there seemed no chance of making a search on the bank that day, such was the fierceness of the wind, the two men drank again of the punch, spread their blankets before the fire, lay their hardy figures down, and were soon in a profound sleep.  The woman, more watchful, coiled herself in a corner of the room on some sail-cloth, but did not sleep.

At ten o’clock they were aroused by the neighbours, who, in great anxiety, had come to inform them of an event they were already conscious of,—­adding, however, as an evidence of what had taken place, that sixteen male and three female bodies, borne to the rips at the point, had been thrown upon the shore.  The denizens of the point were indeed in a state of excitement; a messenger had been sent into the town for the coroner, which said functionary soon spread the news about, creating no little commotion among the inhabitants, many of whom repaired to the scene of the disaster.

When it became known that two witnesses to the dire misfortune had been spared to tell the tale, and were now at Stores’ house, the excitement calmed into sympathy.  The wrecker’s little village resounded with curious enquiries, and few were they who would be satisfied without a recital of the sad tale by the rescued men.

Carefully they brought the dead bodies from the shore, and laid them in an untenanted house, to await the coroner’s order.  Among them was the slender form of Franconia, the dark dress in which she was clad but little torn, and the rings yet remaining on her fingers.  “How with fortitude she bore the suffering!” said the rescued passenger, gazing on her blanched features as they laid her on the floor:  the wrecker’s wife covered her with a white sheet, and spread a pillow carefully beneath her head.

“Yes!” returns the unfortunate seaman, who stood by his side, “she seemed of great goodness and gentleness.  She said nothing, bore everything without a murmur; she was Higgins’ pet; and I’ll lay he died trying to save her, for never a braver fellow than Jack Higgins stood trick at a wheel.”

The coroner arrives as the last corpse is brought from the sand:  he holds his brief inquest, orders them buried, and retires.  Soon, three ladies-Stores’ wife tells us they are of the Humane Society-make their appearance in search of the deceased.  They enter Stores’ house, greet his good dame familiarly, and remain seated while she relates what has happened.  One of the three is tall and stately of figure, and dressed with that quiet taste so becoming a lady.  And while to the less observing eye no visible superiority over the others is discernible, it is evident they view her in such a light, always yielding to her counsels.  Beneath a silk bonnet trimmed with great neatness,