The captain’s pupils were jubilant over the prospect of soon leaving for the sea-shore at the North. Inquiries in regard to different locations had been set on foot some weeks previous, and now it was decided to take possession for the season of several dwellings in the neighborhood of Cape Ann, Mass. In one of them, which was quite large, too large to be called a cottage, the Ion and Woodburn families would be together much of the time, a little building near at hand containing the overflow when guests would render accommodations at the larger house too small.

Edward and Zoe with their little ones would remain at home for the present, that he might oversee the work on the plantation, and the Fairview family would go for a time at least to Evelyn’s home on the banks of the Hudson. The families at the Oaks and the Laurels were not going North at present, but might do later in the season.

The Raymonds were to take their journey by sea in the Dolphin, the others, with their guests, going by rail.

That was the plan at first, but only a day or two before they started Mary Keith received a letter from her father giving her permission to accept an invitation from the relatives to spend the summer with them at the sea-shore, which she did with delight.

“Oh, I am so glad, Mary!” Violet exclaimed when she heard the news; “and I want you to go with us on the Dolphin. Won’t you? It will be a new and, I hope, pleasant experience for you, and we shall be so glad to have your company.”

Captain Raymond, who was present, warmly seconded the invitation, and Mary accepted it.

This talk was at Ion, where the captain and Violet were making a short call. They took their leave almost immediately, saying that the time for their preparations for leaving home was growing very short, and there were a number of matters still claiming their attention.

Before they had reached the avenue gates the captain turned to his wife, saying, “I think, my dear, if you have no objection, we will drive over to Roselands for a short call before going home. I want to say a few words to Cal.”

There was a twinkle of fun in his eye, and Violet returned laughingly, “Yes, I understand. Let us go by all means.”

On reaching Roselands they did not alight, but said to Calhoun, who came out to welcome them, that they were in haste, only wanted a few words with him, and then must return home.

“Yes,” he said; “you leave day after to-morrow, I believe? Is there something you would like me to attend to for you in your absence, captain?”

“No, thank you,” was the smiling reply; “what we want is to take you with us. You have not taken a holiday for years; we have plenty of room for you on the yacht, and can assure you of pleasant company—the very pleasantest you could have, for Cousin Mary Keith has consented to go with us.”

“And you think that furnishes an additional inducement?” Calhoun returned, coloring and laughing. “Well, I won’t deny that it does. But this is very sudden.”

“You needn’t decide at once; talk it over with Art, and we shall hope you will decide to go. We shall be glad to take you as a passenger, though it should be at the last minute. Good-morning;” and with the last word the carriage started down the avenue.

Arthur called that evening to thank the captain for the invitation to Calhoun and say that it would be accepted.

“He really needs a rest,” he said, “and though I had some difficulty in persuading him that he could be done without for a few weeks, I succeeded at last, though a bit of information about a certain passenger,” he added with a smile, “had probably more to do with his acceptance than anything else.”

“O Cousin Arthur, I wish you could go too!” exclaimed Violet. “Don’t you think you could?”

“Yes, can’t you?” asked the captain. “We should be delighted to have you, for the sake of your pleasant company, to say nothing of the convenience of having our medical adviser close at hand in case of sickness or accident.”

“Thank you kindly,” returned the doctor. “I should greatly enjoy going, especially in such pleasant company, but it would not do for Cal and me to absent ourselves at one and the same time. Besides, I have some patients that I could not leave just at present.”

“Then take your turn after Calhoun comes home,” said the captain. “He would be a welcome guest as long as he might choose to stay, but if I know him as I think I do, he is not likely to stay as long as we do.”

“No, not he,” said Arthur; “if he stays two or three weeks it will be quite as much as I expect.”

“And we shall hope to see you after that,” said the captain. “Don’t forget that ‘all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,’ and we could ill afford to have our doctor so transformed.”

“Many thanks,” returned Arthur. “I sometimes feel that such a rest would do me a world of good, and perhaps prevent or delay such a catastrophe as you speak of,” he added with a smile; “but it is really a very difficult thing for a busy country doctor to get away from his work for even a brief holiday.”

“Yes, but I think he should take one occasionally nevertheless,” said the captain; “since by so doing he is likely to last the longer, and in the end do more for his fellow-creatures.”

“Very pleasant doctrine, captain,” laughed Arthur. “But I must be going now, as some of these same fellow-creatures are in need of my services at this present moment.”

“I wish you were going with us now, Art,” said Violet as she bade him good-by. “It would be really delightful to have you along as friend and relative as well as physician.”

“That is very good and kind in you,” he returned. “I won’t forget it, and perhaps I may look in on you before the summer is over.”

That day and the next were very busy ones at Woodburn and Ion, and the succeeding one saw them all on their way northward. Mary Keith was delighted with the yacht, which she had not seen until she boarded it in company with the Raymonds. It was a pleasure to Violet to take her cousin down into the cabin and show her all its beauties and conveniences, including the state-room she was to occupy on the voyage.

“Oh, how lovely!” cried Mary; “and how good in you to ask me to go with you in this beautiful vessel. I am sure the journey will not be half so wearisome as it would in the cars.”

“I hope not,” returned Violet, “but I hope you won’t be sea-sick; for if you are you will probably wish we had not induced you to try the voyage in preference to the journey by land.”

“And perhaps that you had my doctor brother as fellow-passenger instead of myself,” remarked a familiar voice behind them—that of Calhoun Conly—and turning quickly they discovered him and the captain standing near by, regarding them with amused, smiling countenances.

“Welcome! I’m glad to see you, Cal,” said Violet, holding out her hand.

“Thank you, Vi,” he returned, taking the hand in a cordial grasp. “And you, Miss Mary, are not displeased, I hope, that I have accepted an invitation to join your party on the voyage and for a short time at the sea-shore.”

“No, Mr. Conly,” laughed Mary. “Whom the captain and Violet choose to invite is, I am sure, no affair of mine; nor should I object to your company so long as you continue so inoffensive as you have been during our brief acquaintance.”

“Thanks,” he returned, bowing low; “now I feel entirely comfortable.”

“That’s right, Cal,” said the captain. “And suppose we all go on deck to see the weighing of the anchor and the starting of the vessel; for the steam is up and we are about ready to move.”

An awning shaded the deck and a breeze from the sea made it a pleasant place to lounge and read or chat. The children were already seated there, watching the movements of the sailors and of the people on the wharf.

“How d’y do, Cousin Cal?” said Lulu, making room for him and Mary Keith on the settee she had been occupying. “I’m glad you are going with us, and I hope you and Cousin Mary will have a good time, for I think a journey taken on the Dolphin is very much more enjoyable than one by rail.”

“I have no doubt of it—if one is not attacked by sea-sickness,” returned Calhoun.

“Are you likely to be?” she asked.

“Well, that I cannot tell, as this will be my first voyage,” he answered.

“As it is mine,” said Mary.

“If you are both sick you can sympathize each with the other,” remarked Violet laughingly.

But the captain had walked forward to give his orders, the work of weighing anchor was beginning, and all kept silence while watching it. Presently the vessel was speeding on her way, and they had nothing to do but sit under the awning enjoying the breeze and the prospect of the wide expanse of ocean on the one side and the fast-receding shore on the other.

The voyage proved a speedy and prosperous one, continuous fair weather and favorable winds making it most enjoyable. One pleasant afternoon they entered Gloucester harbor, and before night were safely housed in their new temporary home, where they found the Dinsmores and Travillas awaiting them.

Mr. Croly too was there to join in the greetings. Domiciled with relatives who occupied a cottage but a few rods distant, he passed much of his time with Harold and Herbert, fishing, boating, bathing, riding, or driving; pleasures that were now shared by the other gentlemen and ladies and more or less by the children also; the captain, young uncles, and occasionally Mr. Croly caring for them when in bathing and seeing that they had a fair share of the pleasures of the older people.

There were many beautiful drives to be taken, some interesting spots to visit. One day they took a long drive, much of it through a pleasant wood, whence they emerged within a few hundred yards of the sea-shore, there very high and rocky. They fastened their horses in the edge of the wood, alighted, and walked out in the direction of the sound of the dashing, booming waves.

Stepping across a narrow fissure in the rocks, the gentlemen helping the ladies and children over, they could see that it widened toward the water and that the sea roared and foamed like a seething caldron about the base of the rocks, which were very steep and uneven, in many places great stones piled upon each other in a way that made them look as if it would take very little to send them toppling down into the roaring, fuming water below.

Grace clung to her father in affright. “O papa, please don’t let us go any nearer,” she said; “please hold me tight.”

“I will, my darling,” he answered soothingly. “We are in no danger here, and you can just stand and look, seeing all you need care to. Then I will take you back to mamma, over yonder where she is gathering flowers for Elsie and Ned, and you can stay with and amuse them while she comes here to take a look.”

“Yes, I’d rather be there,” she said, “for it seems so dangerous here. O papa, see! Lu is going so near the edge. I’m afraid she’ll fall in.”

“Uncle Harold has her hand,” he said; “still I do not like to see her venturing so near the edge. Lucilla,” he called, “come here, daughter.”

She turned about and came at once. “Uncle Harold was taking care of me, papa,” she said; “but oh, it does look dangerous, and I shouldn’t like to go climbing about over the rocks as Cousin Mary and Rosie are doing; at least not unless I had you to hold me, papa.”

“I shall not take you into any such dangerous place,” he said, “nor will I allow any one else to do so. Do you see that little cross there?” pointing to a small wooden one driven in the rock near by.

“Yes, sir. What is it there for?” asked Lulu.

“As a reminder of a sad accident that happened here some years ago. A party of summer visitors to this coast came out here one day as we have done and went down near the waves. Among them was a very estimable young lady, a Christian, I believe she was, a teacher too, supporting her aged parents by her industry. She was soon to be married, and with her were the parents of her intended husband.

“It seems they all went down near the waves, this young lady nearer than the others. She seated herself on the rock against which the waves dash up. Some of the others called to her that she was not in a safe place, but she replied that she thought it safe; the waves did not come up close to her, and they looked away in another direction for a moment; when they turned to look for her again she was gone from the rock, and all they could see of her was one hand held up out of the boiling waves as if in a wild appeal for help. Help which they could not give, for they had no boat and no other way of reaching her.”

“Was she drowned, papa?” asked Grace.

“Yes, my child; she could not live many minutes amid such waves and rocks. They made all the haste they could to get help, but none was near at hand, and she must have been dead long before they got it there. They did get the body finally, with grappling irons, but the soul had fled.

“My children, remember what I say to you now. Never run the risk of losing your lives when nothing is to be gained by it for either yourselves or others; to do so is both wrong and foolish; it is really breaking the sixth commandment—‘Thou shalt not kill.’ We have no right to kill ourselves, not even to escape great suffering, but must wait God’s time to call us hence.

“Now I will take you to your little sister and brother, to take charge of them while your mamma comes to view Rafe’s Chasm.”

In the mean time Grandma Elsie had called to Rosie and Walter, and was talking to them, in much the same strain, of the folly and sinfulness of unnecessarily exposing themselves to danger.

“You can see almost as much from this safe place as you can by going into those very dangerous ones,” she said. Then she told them the same story the captain had just been telling his little girls.

“O mamma, how dreadful, how very dreadful!” exclaimed Rosie; “it was so sad to be snatched away from life so suddenly, while young and well and with so much to live for.”

“Yes,” sighed her mother; “my heart aches for the poor parents, even more than for the lover. He has probably found another bride before this, while they still mourn the irreparable loss of their dear daughter.”

“Your mother is right, children,” said Mr. Dinsmore, standing near. “Heed her teachings, and never risk life or limb in a mere spirit of bravado.”

The captain now stood beside them with Violet on his arm, and the others came climbing back, till they all stood in a group together.

“What an awful occurrence that was! what a dreadful death to die—tossed about by those booming waves, that raging, foaming water, against those cruel rocks till life was extinct,” Violet said, gazing down into the chasm while clinging tightly to her husband’s arm.

“Yes,” said Mary Keith, “and I feel that I was hardly right to run the risk I did in climbing about as I have been doing.”

“Nor I,” said Croly.

“Nor any of the rest of us,” added Calhoun; “but we won’t do it any more. But what is it Vi refers to? Has there ever been an accident here?”

“Yes; have you not heard the story?” said his uncle. “Has no one told you the meaning of yonder cross?” pointing to it as he spoke.

“No, sir; and I had not noticed it before.”

Mr. Dinsmore briefly told the sad tale; then slowly and almost in silence they turned and left the spot.

Harold, Herbert, and Will Croly were strolling together along the beach that evening, and for a time their talk was of Rafe’s Chasm and the accident there, the story of which they had heard that day.

“It has been a good deal in my mind ever since I heard it,” remarked Croly, “and I have asked myself what must it be to be called so suddenly from earth to heaven. It is a solemn thought that we may be so called any day or hour, but a sweet one also; for to the Christian, what is sudden death but sudden glory, a sudden awaking in the land where pain and sickness, sin and sorrow are unknown, and in the immediate presence of the dear Master who has loved us with an everlasting love? Oh, I cannot think sudden death a calamity to the Christian!”

“No,” said Harold, “but it is sad for the surviving relatives and friends. Oh, what a heart-breaking thing to lose our mother in that way, for instance!”

“Yes; such a terrible death,” said Herbert in moved tones.

“But the suffering was very short,” said Croly. “Doubtless consciousness was soon lost, and I have heard again and again that those who have been taken from the water apparently dead—so nearly gone that if left to themselves they would never have recovered consciousness—have said that it was an easy death to die. Those who die by disease must often and often suffer far more in the weeks and months while disease is slowly making its way to the citadel of life.”

“Yes, that is true,” answered Harold; “yet thinking of it all does not rouse in me any desire for drowning. I believe I have never told you, Will,” he added, facing round upon his friend and speaking in tones slightly tremulous with emotion, “that I was once as near drowning as one could be and live; yes, should probably never have recovered consciousness but for my dear mother’s determined perseverance with efforts at resuscitation, when every one else had given me up as dead.”

“No,” returned Croly in an awestruck tone, “I never heard it before. No wonder you love her so dearly, for leaving that out of the account, she is a woman in a thousand. Ah, I often envy you fellows when I see you with your mother and think of mine, sick and suffering away on the other side of the sea.”

“But you are hoping she and your father will return soon, are you not, Will?” asked Herbert in a tone of sympathy.

“Yes, I am hoping every day to hear that they are about sailing; but I have heard nothing at all for some weeks, and am growing more anxious day by day. Aunt and uncle try to comfort and reassure me with the old saying that ‘no news is good news,’ but—well, my only comfort is in casting my cares on the Lord, remembering that he cares for both them and me, and that his promise is, ‘As thy days, so shall thy strength be.’”

“That is one of my mother’s favorite texts,” remarked Herbert, “and she says it has always been fulfilled to her.”

“And she has seen some sore trials?”

“Yes; my father’s death for one. I know that was the greatest of all; though before that, death had snatched away from her a very dear and lovely little daughter,” said Harold.

“And she has had trials in other forms,” added Herbert. “Some persons would esteem it a very great trial to be called to choose between a difficult and dangerous surgical operation and certain, painful death from disease.”

“And she has had that trial?” asked Croly.

“Yes; and went through it bravely, trusting in the Lord to spare her life or take her to dwell with him in bliss forever.”

“She is a noble and lovely woman,” remarked Croly. “I never saw one whom I admired more.”

“Ah, you do not know half how sweet and good, and what a devoted Christian she—our beloved mother—is,” said Harold earnestly. “I thank God every day for giving me such a mother.”

“As I do,” said Herbert. “I often think if there is anything good in me, it is the result of my mother’s kind, wise, loving training.”