But it was extraordinarily difficult to find any clue to the missing family, and the long, miserable hours passed, and brought Mrs. Beauchamp no nearer to the twins. She trudged up and down the Parade, to the police station, and down the steps to the beach, over and over again, with feet so tired that they almost refused to carry her.

The wet pavement reflected the flickering gas-lamps. One by one the lights in the windows were put out, and late visitors hurried home. She clung to the policeman's solid tramp with a lingering hope, but she was growing desperate; and over everything was the fine rain, coming in gusts from a cloudy sky, wetting her hair, her face, and soaking her skirts. It was a miserable night, and the police inspector deeply sympathized with her. He went along the town road and cross-examined the policeman. He made inquiries and issued orders, and took upon himself to beg the pale, tired lady to go home and wait and see what turned up. But Mrs. Beauchamp felt that to sit at home doing nothing would be intolerable. She shook her head and turned again on to the Parade, and with her went Susie's light feet, so real, so active, that she almost saw the red jersey on a level with her shoulder, and those brown, defiant eyes. For it was of Susie that her mind was full—poor Susie, who had "often and often not wanted to go," but who had gone.

It was easier for little Dickie; all his life it would be easier for Dick than for this eager, forgetful, repentant daughter, whose passionate sorrow always came too late.

Mrs. Beauchamp leaned over the railing at the top, and looked down on to the sands, debating whether it was worth another effort. The group of fishermen still stood close under the shelter of the cliff; their gruff voices floated up to her, and gave her a feeling of companionship. She ran down on to the beach, but when she stood in front of them she felt it impossible to speak. One by one they rose awkwardly, and gazed at her in an embarrassing silence, but making no suggestion, so that it was she who spoke first.

"I have not found them; I cannot trace them anyhow. Can none of you help me?"

Her sweet, impatient voice appealed to them rather hopelessly, and there was no response.

"I'm willing to do what I can," one of them said at last. "At daylight I'll bring round my boat and go over the rocks. It's an ebb tide."

"Oh no," she said, and shuddered. "I can't sit still till daylight—indeed I cannot. It is only ten o'clock now."

"It's a fair offer, lady," said the man.

"But it is going to be a fine night," she pleaded. "The rain is over. If I could find the twins of whom my children speak! Can you not help me? You are at least men."

"Why, ma'am"—it was a new voice that answered her—"if it's children you want, I'll find them fast enough if they are on shore; it's only the sea that keeps her own. A set of lubberly men that can't help a lady in distress! That's not how the Royal Navy acts. And don't you cry, lady. Lads and lasses don't get mislaid as easy as that; bad halfpennies come back to their moorings. We'll knock at every door in the town before we give up."

He was an old man, but there was a very different note in his voice from the flabby sympathy of the other men. He put out his pipe with a horny thumb, and gave a rather contemptuous look round the lounging group of longshoremen. "Royal Navy" was written all over him—in his keen eyes, his upright carriage, and his kindly, respectful manner. At the confidence in his voice Mrs. Beauchamp's wavering hope steadied, but she suddenly felt the strain of the anxiety and fatigue. As she turned she stumbled over something small and black that the ebb-tide had left in the ridge of damp seaweed on the beach. She slipped and recovered herself, for the old man's hand was on her arm.

"Steady, ma'am," he said cheerfully; "it's only a bit of an old boot."

"A bit of a boot!" The object swam before Mrs. Beauchamp's eyes, her hands trembled. "It is a child's," she said, and there was anguish in her voice.

"Oh, well"—he picked it up and flung it on one side—"the sea don't give up boots without the feet they held. Wherever the little girl is, ma'am, she's gone without her boots. Carry on."

The Royal Navy, as the senior service, went first, and Mrs. Beauchamp stumbled after him; but there was new hope springing in her heart. His sturdy common-sense had infected her. Was it she only who doubted Susie—who had no confidence in her common-sense? The sea gives back only what it takes, and it had given back only Susie's empty boot.

Stumbling, dizzy, tired out, she still felt a divine peace at her heart as she heard the comfortable, steady steps beside her, and saw the fine, weather-beaten face, with its clear, keen eyes.

"You see, ma'am," he said, "longshoremen are good lads enough for sunshine and fair weather, but it's the Royal Navy you look to when it comes to foul weather and storm. That's where I got my training, and it stands by you. Maybe you'd like to rest a bit and let me go on? I'll knock at every door in the place before I give in, and I'll bring them children with me."

"No, oh no," she said. Her voice was hoarse with fatigue, but was undaunted. "I shall sail humbly in the wake of the Royal Navy. Only, tell me what you mean to do."

He stood for a moment under a lamp, and his keen eyes seemed to see through her. "I propose to begin with the first street out of the Parade," he said, "and so on, by sections. I'll go first where I'm known. There can't be such a rack of twins in the town that they can't be traced. Trust me, lady."

"I do! I do!" she said; "but I feel frightened."

"Where's your faith, ma'am?" he said, rather sternly.

"I am sure I don't know," she said, with a faint smile. "It may be the will—the will of—Providence—that the children should not come home."

The old man stood still again, and raised his cap from a silvery head.

"There's One above as won't let him go too far," he said. "We have our orders, which is enough for me. Carry on."

And really faith or fortune did seem to befriend Mrs. Beauchamp at last. It was just after they had knocked at the second closed door, and had received a very short negative to their inquiry, which the maidservant evidently considered to be an ill-timed joke, that a door on the opposite side of the road opened suddenly, and a great stream of light flashed out.

There were some confused farewells, a gathering up of skirts, and laughter; and in a minute the Royal Navy was standing at the salute before the master of the house.

"The lady and I are looking for some twins, sir."

Instead of the ready "No" they half expected, the man paused, and smiled whimsically.

"Well, what have the little beggars been doing now?" he said.

Never had any words sounded quite so sweet to Mrs. Beauchamp. She too came into the circle of light, and lifted her sweet, tired, beseeching face.

"My children were playing with the twins this evening," she said, "and they have never come home. Of course they may not be your twins; but we hope—"

"Come in, come in," he interrupted, holding the door hospitably open until it had swallowed them all up. "Of course it is my twins. No one else's twins are ever half so troublesome."

And then he sent a great, jovial shout up the stairs,—

"Dot and Dash, you are wanted!"