216 FROM SPRING TO FALL. 



CHAPTER XII. 



WHEN THE NIGHT FALLS. 



" A safe passage over the bar for all craft coming 

 home ! " was my outspoken prayer as I stood on 

 the beach within half a mile of the lighthouse, 

 which was flashing its lights over the waters. 



The latter part of the day had closed in dirty, to 

 use the words of the old sea-dogs who were pacing 

 the shingle. A sea-fog had been partly broken up 

 by a breeze. This had died away, gone somewhere 

 else, they reckoned, and great banks of fog had 

 settled about the bar. The currents were most 

 dangerous ones, and when they meet from opposite 

 directions, the boil-up and whirl of the waters is 

 terribly bad under ordinary circumstances, but far 

 worse when the weather is foul. 



