It was twilight when Mrs. McLean crept down the stair to find her husband and Stumpy anxiously awaiting her. The old sailor had made two trips to the shore during the afternoon to see that no thievish rabbit, goat, or sea-bird had made off with the stores, but he could find no rest until he had heard the last news of the day from the “little children of his heart,” as he called them in his caressing Spanish way.
“They’ll do now, Father,” said Margaret, thankfully, leaning wearily against her husband’s arm. “They’re awake and calling for supper and they’ve told me all about it. Ronnie only did what he has always done since we let him use a rod and line, but he says he never felt such a tug as that fish gave him, ‘since he lived in this country.’”
Here she half-laughed and choked, and so did both her hearers.
Just then a little head appeared at the window above, “Mummy, Daddy, sing ‘Eternal Father,’ won’t you, and you too, Stumpy? It’s most evening now. Les’ and I will sing up here—”
“Eternal Father! strong to save,
Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,
Who bidst the mighty ocean deep
Its own appointed limits keep:
O hear us when we cry to Thee
For those in peril on the sea!