"Papa," said Beryl, "that little girl keeps crying for her father. Do you know where he is?"
"Alas! Poor little thing," said Mr. Hollys, sadly, "her father is drowned, I fear. We never saw him after the vessel struck."
Beryl grew white, and clung to her father's arm with a sickening feeling of horror.
She had never realised before what death meant. How dreadful it seemed that that little girl upstairs should be crying for her father, and he lying dead beneath the waves.
She burst into tears, and turned away. Her father drew her back to him, kissing her, and uttering fond and soothing words; but Beryl wept long and bitterly. She never forgot the grief and horror of that night. In after years, it stood out clear and distinct in her history, as the night on which she had first tasted of the world's sorrows.
[CHAPTER III]
A FRIENDLESS SUFFERER
THE morning after the storm dawned so fresh and beautiful that it seemed as if Nature were anxious to atone for her wrath and passion of the previous night. The breeze was light and sportive; such clouds as the sky showed were hurrying out of sight as fast as possible; the sea, on which the sun was pouring his warm rays, though still high, no longer dashed on the shore with devouring rage, but only heaved and flowed with the buoyancy of full life.
But the brightness of the day could not make amends for the ruin which the storm had wrought. On every side were heard complaints of loss and disaster. Some of the fishermen had lost their boats, others their nets; and the loss of their means of livelihood was a serious calamity for these poor men to face, involving, as it did, want and starvation for their wives and families. But the greatest loss of all was the loss of life, and with sad hearts, the few who had been saved from shipwreck counted the number of their comrades who had gone down to death in the dark waters. Several bodies were washed ashore during the course of that day, along with pieces of the wreck—barrels, life-buoys, seamen's jerseys, and articles of various kinds belonging to the fittings of a ship. The drowned were handled with reverent pity by the kindly folk of Egloshayle, and decent burial given them in the churchyard. There were only a few in the Cornish village, and those persons of recognised bad character, who could rejoice in the spoil the sea brought them that day, and showed greedy haste in bearing it away.
The vessel so cruelly wrecked was a merchant ship from Montreal, bound for Swansea. She had carried no passengers save the lady and child now sheltered in Mr. Hollys' home, and the gentleman who had perished. The sailors shook their heads when they heard that the lady was still very ill. It would go hard with her, they feared, for she had been an invalid when she came on board, and they had understood that the gentleman was making this voyage mainly for the benefit of his wife's health.