Pat the Lighthouse Boy

by Evelyn Everett-Green

"Yes, Prince Rupert, he did," answered Pat. "I don't quite know how it was; but there was a big black thing floating in the water, too. I saw it, and a great wave came and carried it right against Jim. I think it might have hit you, perhaps, only Jim saw it coming, and turned over so that it came against him instead, and a big wave broke all over him then, and I couldn't see what happened. But I know he got hurt then, for after that he couldn't help himself a bit; and father and mother could only pull you both in, for Jim never let go of you. And it seemed like as if you were both dead at first. But mother took care of you, and father took care of Jim, and you both got better. But Jim has to lie in bed, and his side hurts him dreadfully when he moves. But you can run about and play. I'm so glad you weren't hurt, too. Do you remember being washed into the water?"

But the child did not answer the question. He seemed to be watching the gull at his queer play; but he was evidently thinking of something else, for he turned presently to Pat, and said with a lip that quivered a little—

"I don't like Jim to be hurted in getting me out. Where does Jim live?"

"In there," answered Pat, indicating the lighthouse behind. "When he was well, he helped father to take care of her—the big lamp, you know, that you went to see last night. He can't help now, because he's ill. But when he gets better he will again."

"I'd like to go and see Jim," said the child, suddenly scrambling to his feet. "I fink Jim must be a very good man. I'll go and tell him so."

"Yes, do!" answered Pat eagerly. "I'm sure he would like it. I tell him about you every day, Prince Rupert. He likes to hear about you, I know, though he can't talk hardly at all. You must talk to him. He can't say hardly anything himself. It hurts him so; and mother says he mustn't."

"I'll talk," answered the little prince serenely. "I can talk very well, if I like. I've heard people say so, though they don't always understand when I do. Why didn't you take me to see Jim before?"

"I don't know. I didn't think perhaps you'd care to come. You see, he has only a poor little dark room, and you are a little prince." Pat's loving admiration was betrayed in every word he spoke, and in the glance of his smiling eyes. He thought Rupert looked prettier than ever with his golden curls blowing about in the breeze, and his little face, with the peach bloom tanned by the kisses of the sunbeams which had been caressing it these past days. His own stylish little sailor suit had been neatly mended, too, and had not suffered so very much by the long immersion in salt water. The child had an air of refinement and sovereignty about him of which Pat's sensitive Irish nature was keenly conscious. He felt he could lay down his life for this princely child; and understood very well now how it was that real kings and princes in history had got hundreds and thousands of followers to go with them to victory or death. Sometimes before, his mother's stories had puzzled him. He did not quite understand how men had been so easily led to fight against fearful odds. But it was no puzzle to him now. The spirit of hero-worship had entered into his being, and had made many things plain that had perplexed him before.

"If I am a prince, princes must be good," said the golden-haired child, suddenly straightening himself out, and looking at Pat with a new expression in his eyes. It was as if some sudden memory were coming back to him—a memory of something or somebody almost forgotten hitherto. Pat held his breath to watch and listen. "I know that's right. She said so. I remember quite well. She said, 'If you are a prince, you must be a good one,' and she kissed me, and took me in her arms. The sea was all shining over there, just like it shines now. Was it here she said it, Pat?"

Pat shook his head. He was almost as curious as his mother would have been to know who the "she" was whose words the child has just quoted.