It was indeed one of the “best-est,” if not the very bestest fire that ever was seen, for it was built of driftwood from some old copper-bottomed wreck and the flickering flames were pale blue-y green like a robin’s egg, deep green-y blue like a peacock’s breast, yellow as star-shine and sunset clouds, while underneath glowed a deep red, with now and then a purple bloom upon it.
“I picked up the wood on the shore this morning,” said Mr. McLean, looking at the fire with satisfaction, “and brought it up with the oil on the car with Jenny Lind. It must have come from the wreck of the old Hamburg.”
“When was she wrecked, Father?” asked Ronald.
“Oh, long ago, before our time. It was on a night just like this, probably,” looking with a shiver at the blank, white-covered windows. “The Captain of the Hamburg was steering straight for us, they say, hoping to catch sight of the Light through the mist, but his aim was too good and he sent his ship right into the hundred-foot channel between the islands and a sunken rock did the rest. The men were all saved, I believe, but the good ship lies there still, or most of it, only the water is so deep that you can’t even see the topmasts.
“God help the poor folk at sea, to-night!” sighed Mrs. McLean, “and we so cozy here!”
It was the usual evening party at the Lighthouse, Margaret McLean knitting, her husband smoking and reading his book, and Lesley and Ronald playing checkers at the table. Nothing could have been more secure or peaceful, for Jim Crow was there, perched on a chair-back in the corner, half-asleep, and it was known that Jenny Lind was safely reposing in her stable, after a delightful day spent in doing next to nothing.
The fog had been lying about in thin trails across the sky for many hours, but had waited till night to mass its forces together into a thick blanket, white as a roll of cotton and as dense. The Light, so Father said, could hardly be seen a hundred yards from the tower, so the steam fog-signal had been started and was sending out its long shrieks of melancholy warning, “Dan—ger! Dan—ger-r-r! Keep awa-a-a-y! Keep a-w-a-a-a-a-y!”
It was well that the little family had its own resources on such a night, for though the Lighthouse tender brought letters and papers only once in two months, there were a number of well-selected books on hand and these could always be read and re-read. There was a Government cable, of course, to the mainland, but it was not supposed to be used save for danger, death, disaster, doctors, and drugs, and the longing for a daily paper could not be classed under any of these heads.
“A-a-a-a-h! A-a-a-a-h!” groaned the fog-signal and Mrs. McLean looked up from her work. “Did you happen to notice, Father,” she asked, “in the last ‘San Francisco Chronicle’ we had, that story about the eight-year-old boy out in Wyoming that an eagle tried to carry off?”
“Yes, I believe I spoke of it at the time. What makes you think of it now?”