Two days passed by—two woesome weary days.
Then the dead were buried. All save John. It seemed that Eppie could not bear to part with the mortal remains of the little man she had loved so well in life.
But the wee bit coffin was screwed down at last, and next day it would be consigned to its long home in the mould.
Willie had come down, and both he and Sandie were living at the cosy little inn, whose landlady, though kind and good-natured, was such a gossip.
That night Sandie had just paid his last visit to poor John’s cottage, and said good-night to Eppie. Willie and he had gone for a walk along the shore.
It was about eleven o’clock, and a most beautiful night. A gentle breeze was blowing from the west. The gladsome moon made a great triangular silvery wake upon the waters, and the wavelets laughed and lisped as they broke upon the soft golden sands.
“Look! look!” cried Willie, clutching Sandie’s arm and pointing almost fearfully seawards.
It was certainly something to marvel at. First one broad-sailed boat, then another, and then a third glided slowly into the silvery wake of the moon, looking as black as death against the shimmer of the moonlit sea.
“Sandie!” gasped Willie, “do our eyes deceive us? Or are they phantom boats?”
“No, no,” cried Sandie, recovering his self-possession, “they are part of the fleet that, being driven out to sea, have succeeded in weathering the gale. Come, let us bring the joyful tidings to those honest fisher-folks.”