No noon dinner for them, with Larry in workaday clothes and the stove in the tiny kitchen piping its hottest at precisely the hour when its services could best be dispensed with, but a leisurely seven-o'clock dinner, with the lighter anchored off shore, and when, as a rule, Dick also had had time to “tidy up,” and could share the meal with them. And in this, you see, they were not aristocratic at all. Even little black Sylvia had a seat at one side of the table, which she occupied as continuously as her culinary duties would admit.

One night, when Larry stood talking to a friend on the wharf, Courage and Sylvia overheard him say, “They're a darned competent little pair, I can tell you.” Now, of course, this was rather questionable English for a respectable old man like Larry, but he intended it for the highest sort of praise, and the children could hardly help being pleased.

“Larry oughtn't to use such words,” said Courage.

“But den I specs he only mean dat we jes' knows how to do tings,” said Sylvia apologetically; and as that was exactly what Larry did mean, we must forgive him the over-expressive word; besides they were, in point of fact, the most competent pair imaginable.

Early every morning, when near the city, Dick would bring the lighter alongside a wharf, and Courage and Sylvia would set off for the nearest market, Sylvia carrying a basket, and always wearing a square of bright plaid gingham knotted round her head. There was no remembrance for her of father or of mother, or of much that would have proved dear to her warm little heart, but tucked away in a corner of her memory were faint recollections of a Southern fish market, with the red snapper sparkling in the morning sunlight, and the old mammies, in bandana turbans, busy about their master's marketing; and as though to make the best of this shadowy recollection, Sylvia insisted upon the turban accompaniment to the basket.

Then, after the marketing, came the early breakfast; and after that, for Courage, the many nameless duties of every housekeeper, whether big or little; and for Sylvia the homelier tasks of daily recurrence; but fortunately she did not deem them homely. Why should she, when pretty Miss Sylvester, as perfect a lady as could be, herself had taught her how to do them, every one? Nor was this work, so dignified by the manner and method of teaching, performed in silence. Every household task had its appropriate little song, and the occasions were rare on which Sylvia did not make use of them.=

``"Washing dishes, washing dishes, suds are hot, suds are hot,

``Work away briskly, work away briskly, do not stop, do not stop,"=

was the refrain that would greet the ear first thing after breakfast, followed by=

```"First the glasses, rinse them well, rinse them well,

```If you do them nicely, all can tell, all can tell,"=

and so on ad infinitum.

Then, after everything had been gotten into “ship-shape” condition, came the mending, of which there seemed to be an unending supply. Tarry and Dick were certainly very hard on their clothes, and when, once a week, Dick brought the heaping basketful aboard from the washer-woman, who lived at the Battery, Courage and Sylvia knew that needles and thimbles would need to be brought into active requisition.

Then, in odd hours, there was studying and reading, and whenever they could manage it, a little visit to be paid to Mary Duff. In addition to all this, Courage had taken upon herself one other duty, for big, fifteen-year-old Dick did not so much as know his letters. He one day blushingly confessed the fact to Courage, who indeed had long suspected it, with tears in his honest blue eyes. Dick's mother—for that is what she was, though most unworthy of the name—had shoved him out of the place he called home when he was just a mere slip of a lad, and since then it had been all he could manage simply to make a living for himself, with never a moment for schooling. But a happier day had dawned. No sooner was Courage assured of his benighted condition than she won his everlasting gratitude by setting about to mend it. Their first need, of course, was a primer, and they immediately found one ready to the hand, or rather to the eye, for it could not be treated after the fashion of ordinary primers.

There were only seven letters in it, five capitals and two small ones, and the large letters were fully ten feet high. It did not even commence with an A, but C came first, and then R; then another R, followed by a little o and a a little f; and after that a large N and a large J. Indeed, C. R. R. of N. J. was all there was to it, for the letters were painted on a depot roof that happened to be in full sight on the evening when Dick commenced his lessons. And so Dick finally mastered the entire alphabet by the aid of the great signs in the harbor, and do you think they ever rendered half such worthy service?

This, then, was the story of the uneventful days as they dawned one after the other, until at last May yielding place to June, and June to July, Saturday, the first day of August, came in by the calendar, ran through its midsummer hours, and then sank to rest in the cradle of a wonderful sunset. It was such a sunset as sometimes glorifies the bay and the river, and will not be overlooked. Long rays of gold and crimson shot athwart even the narrowest and darkest cross streets of the city, compelling every one who had eyes to see and feet to walk upon to come out and enjoy its beauty; while a blaze of light, falling full upon the myriad windows of Brooklyn Heights, suggested the marvellous golden city of the Revelation. Full in the wake of all this glory, and just to the southeast of Bedloe's Island, Larry had moored the lighter. It was a favorite anchorage with all the little boat's company.

“The Statue of Liberty”, standing out so grandly against the western sky, and with the light of her torch shining down all night upon them, seemed always a veritable friend and protector.

To-morrow, perhaps, they would touch at Staten Island, and locking the cabin, “all hands” repair to a little church they loved well at New Brighton; or, should it prove a very warm day, they might have a little service of their own on board instead, sailing quite past the church and as far down the bay as the Bell Buoy.

But for the present there was nothing to be done but watch the sun set, so they sat together in the lee of the cabin, silently thinking their own thoughts as the sun went down. Courage had on the blue coat and hat, and from the wistful look in her eyes, might easily have been thinking of Miss Julia. Larry sat looking at Courage more, perhaps, than at the sunset, and his face was grave and sad. Courage had noticed that it had often been so of late, and wondered what could be the trouble. After awhile Larry slowly strolled off by himself to the bow of the boat, and Courage gazed anxiously after him; then, turning to Dick, she said with a sigh, “We had better have a lesson now, Dick.”

“Ay, ay,” answered Dick, always glad of the chance.

“It's too dark for a book,” Courage added, “but there's a good sign;” whereupon Dick set himself to master two large-lettered words over on the Jersey shore, one of which looked rather formidable.

“Begin with the last word, Dick. You've had it before.”

“D-o-c-k—dock, of course.”

“Now the first word. Try to make it out yourself.”

Dick shrugged his shoulders, for it was rather a jump to a word of three syllables, but success at last crowned his efforts. “National Docks!” he exclaimed, with the delight of unaided discovery, feeling as though the attainment had added a good square inch to his height. Then came another sign with the one word Storage, but that was easy, for “Prentice Stores” had been achieved the day before off the Brooklyn warehouses, and it was only a step from one word to the other. Finally, when there were no new signs to conquer, Courage began a sort of review, from memory, of all they had been over. In the midst of it Sylvia suddenly ran to the side of the boat, arched one black hand over her eyes that she might see the more clearly, and then flew back again.

“Dat horrid statue boy is comin',” she cried excitedly; “I thought it looked like him, an' if onct he gets a foot on dis boat he'll keep comin', he will; I knowed him.”

“I don't see that you can help it, though,” laughed Courage; “you can't tell him that we just don't want to have anything to do with him.”

Sylvia looked perplexed, but only for a moment; then, indulging in one of those remarkable pirouettes with which she was accustomed to announce the advent of a happy thought, she ran back again to the boat's edge.

Meanwhile every dip of the oars was bringing the objectionable boy nearer, and a horrid boy he was, if one may be permitted to speak quite honestly. Dick and Sylvia had made his undesirable acquaintance one evening when Larry had sent them to the island to learn the right time. He was the son of one of the men employed to care for the statue, and was, alas! every whit as disagreeable in manners as in looks, which is not to put the case mildly.

“Hello, Miss Woolly-head!” he called, bringing his boat to the lighter's side, and tossing a rope aboard, which Miss Woolly-head was supposed to catch, but didn't, so that the boat veered off again.

“What's the name of your little missus?” called the boy, apparently not in the least nonplussed by his rather chilling reception. The knowledge that Sylvia had a little “missus” had been obtained by means of several leading questions which had characterized the young gentleman's first interview with Sylvia and Dick, and which they had regarded as the very epitome of rudeness.

“Dis yere lighter is called for my missus,” said Sylvia, “so you kin jes' read her name dere on de do' plate,” pointing to the lettering at the bow of the boat, “an den again, mebbe you can't,” she chuckled.

It looked as though the statue boy “couldn't,” for he did not so much as glance toward the bow, as he added, “Well, it's your missus I want to see, and not you, you little black pickaninny.”

“Dat's all right, sah,” and Sylvia folded her arms aggressively, “but you can't see her.”

“Ain't she in?”

“Yes, she's in, but she begs to be excuged.” This last in the most impressive manner possible.

Dick and Courage, who were sitting just out of sight, looked at each other and almost laughed outright. What remarkable phrases Sylvia seemed always to have at her tongue's end! Indeed, Dick did not know at all what was meant by the fine phrase, but fortunately the statue boy did—that is after a moment or two of reflection.

“So she don't want to see me,” he said, sullenly adjusting his oars with considerable more noise than was necessary; “well, no more then do I want to see her. I ain't no mind to stay where I ain't wanted, but I reckon it's the last time you'll be 'lowed to anchor your old scow over the line without there being a row about it,” and with this parting rejoinder their would-be caller beat a welcome retreat.

“Oh, Sylvia, how did you happen to think to say that?” laughed Courage.

“Why, dat's what you must allers say when anybody calls. Dey teached it in a game in de Kitchen Garden. We all stood up in a ring, an' a girl came an' knocked on yer back and axed, 'Is Mis' Brown to home?' Den you turn roun' an' say, 'Mis' Brown are to home, but begs to be excuged,' and den it was yer turn to be de caller and knock on some other girl's back.”

“But, Sylvia, if Mrs. Brown wanted to see the caller what would you say?”

“I don' prezachly recommember. I mos'ly likes de excuged one de bes'.”

Meantime Dick made his way to Larry.

“Did you know we were anchored inside the line?” he said. Larry stood up to take his bearings. “Why, so we are,” with evident annoyance, for Larry prided himself on his observance of harbor rules.

“And I guess we've done it before,” added Dick; “the boy from the island there said it would be the last time we'd be 'lowed to do it.”

“And it ought to be,” for Larry was thoroughly out of patience with himself; “we'll show 'em we meant to obey orders anyway. Let go her anchor, Dick,” and then in a moment the big sail, that had been furled for the night, was spread to the wind once more, and the Courage Masterson was running out upon the bay, that she might swing in again and anchor at the proper distance from the island.

“What's up, I wonder,” said Sylvia, starting to her feet when she felt the lighter in motion. “Oh, I know; Dick's told Larry we were anchored too near,” and she settled down again in the most comfortable position imaginable, on the rug beside Courage.

“Tell me, Sylvia, what is your other name?” Courage asked after a little pause; “I've been meaning to ask you this ever so long. I think it was on the medal, but I do not remember it.”

“Sylvester,” said Sylvia complacently, smoothing out her gingham apron. “Sylvy Sylvester; dose two names hitch togedder putty tol'ble, don't dey, Miss Courage?”

“Yes, they go beautifully together; that's why you're named Sylvia, of course.”

Sylvia shook her head. “No, dat's why I'se named Sylvester.” Courage looked puzzled. “I'se named arter Miss Sylvester, one ob de Kitchen Garden ladies.”

“But, Sylvia, children can only have their first names given to them; they're born to their last names.”

“Dis chile wa'nt, Miss Courage; leastways nobody didn't know at de 'sylum what name I was bawn to, cep'n jes' Sylvy, so I picked mine out mysel'. One day I went to Miss Sylvester an' sez, kind o' mischievous, 'How do yer like yer namesake?' 'Ain't got none, Sylvy,' sez she. 'Yes you hab,' I done told her. 'It's ten year old an' its black, but I hope yer don't mind, 'case it's me.' An' she didn't mind a bit, jes' as I knowed she wouldn't, and she sez some beautiful 'things 'bout as I mus' 'allers be a honor to the name, an' arter dat she gimme two books, wid Sylvy Sylvester wrote into 'em, from her everlastin' friend an' well-wisher, Mary Sylvester. Youse done seen dose two books on my table, Miss Courage. One's called—” but the sentence was not finished. Something happened just then that made both children spring to their feet and hold their breath for fear of what was coming. A few minutes before they had noticed that one of the large Sandy Hook boats seemed to be bearing down upon them, and that to all appearances they were directly in her track. But their faith in Larry was supreme. He would surely manage to get out of the way in time, but alas! they were mistaken, for the great boat came looming up like a mountain beside them, and in another second there was a deafening, heart-sickening crash, and splintering of timbers. Sylvia gave one piercing, terrified scream, while she and Courage clung as for their lives to the coping of the cabin roof. And indeed it was a terrible moment. The force of the collision sent the lighter careening so much to one side that it seemed for an instant hopeless that she could possibly right herself; and oh! low frightful to go down, down into that cruel dark water; but then in another instant she swung violently to the other side, and they knew that the danger of capsizing was over, though the boat was still rocking like a cradle. Then they saw the captain of the St. Johns come hurrying to the deck-rail, and heard him angrily call out, “Man alive there, are you drunk?”

“No, I'm not drunk,” Larry answered, from where he stood, pale and trembling, leaning heavily against the tiller.

“Not drunk? Then you're too green a hand to be minding a helm in salt water. Only for our reversed engines you'd not have a shingle under you.”

Larry made no reply; Courage, still holding Sylvia by the hand, looked daggers at the man. To think of any one daring to speak like that to good old Larry. Of course he was not the one to blame, and but that the two boats were fast drifting apart, she would then and there have told the St. Johns' captain what she thought of him. Just at this moment Courage noticed a lady and gentleman on the rear deck of the steamer. She saw the lady give a start of surprise and speak hurriedly to the gentleman, who immediately called in as loud a voice as he could command, “What is your name, little girl? Tell me quickly.” He meant Courage, and Courage knew that he did; but Sylvia not so understanding it, a confusion of sounds smote the air, of which a shrill little Syl was all that could by any chance be distinguished; then in a second they were all hopelessly out of hearing of each other, and the big boat steamed on to her pier, none the worse for the encounter save for a great ugly scar on her white-painted bow.

But alas! for Larry's lighter. Although she was still sound as a nut below the water's edge, above it she looked as though a cyclone had struck her. And so it was a subdued though a thankful little company that stowed themselves away in their berths an hour or so later, after the boat had again been brought to anchor, and they had had time to talk everything over. But there was one pillow that lay unpressed that night. With his mind full of anxiety, bed was out of the question for Larry, and for hours he slowly paced the deck; at least, it seemed hours to Courage, as she lay awake in her little state-room, counting his steps as he went up and down, until she knew precisely at just what number he would turn. She had first tried very hard to go to sleep. She had listened to the water quietly lapping the boat's side, imagining it a lullaby, but the lullaby proved ineffectual. At last she pulled back the curtain from the little window over her berth, so that the light from the statue might stream in upon her, entertaining a childish notion that she might perhaps sort of blink herself to sleep; but all in vain. Finally she heard Larry come into the cabin and apparently stop there. Why didn't he go on into his state-room, she wondered. When she could stand it no longer, she put on her wrapper and slippers, and stole out into the cabin. The little room, lighted by Liberty's torch, was bright as her own, and Larry sat at the table, his head bowed upon his folded arms. Courage went close to him, and putting out one little hand, began softly to stroke his gray hair. Larry did not start as she touched him, so she knew he must have heard her coming.

“Do you feel so very sorry about the lighter, Larry?” she asked anxiously; “will it take such a great lot of money to mend it?”

Larry did not raise his head, but it seemed to Courage that a sob, as real as any child's, shook his strong frame.

“Please, Larry, speak to me,” Courage pleaded, and feeling her two hands against his face, Larry suffered her to lift it up. Yes, there were tears in his eyes. Courage saw them and looked right away—even to the child there was something sacred in a strong man's tears—but she slipped on to his knee, nestled her head on his shoulder, and then said, in the tenderest little voice, “It isn't just the accident, is it, Larry? Something's been troubling you this long while. Please tell me what it is. Don't forget about my name being Courage, and that p'r'aps I can help you.”

The words fell very sweetly upon Larry's ear, and he drew her closer to him, but she could feel him slowly move his head from side to side, as though it were hopeless to look for help from any quarter. Suddenly a dreadful possibility flashed itself across her mind, and sitting upright, she said excitedly, “You're not going to die, Larry? Say it isn't that, quick, Larry!”

“No, darling, it isn't that,” Larry hastened to answer, deeply touched by the agony in her voice, “but it's almost worse than dying; I'm going—” and then the word failed him, and he passed his hand significantly across his eyes.

“Not blind, Larry?” yet instantly recalling, as she spoke, many a little incident that confirmed her fears.

“Yes, blind, Courage; that's the way it happened to-night. It was all my fault. I couldn't rightly see.”

“But, Larry, hardly any one could see, it was getting so dark.”

“Courage, darling,” Larry said tenderly, “it's been getting dark for me for a year. I shall never sail a boat again. They told me in the spring that I wasn't fit for it, but then I found you'd set your heart on being on the water with me, and so, with Dick's eyes to help, I thought I could manage just for the summer; but it's all over now, and it's plain enough that I've got to give in.”

And so Larry has done all this for her. At first Courage cannot speak, but at last she contrives to say, in a tearful, trembling voice, “Try not to mind, Larry. If you'll only let me take care of you, it won't matter at all whether we live on the water or not. I can be happy any-where with you.”

And Larry is in no small degree comforted. How could it be otherwise with that loyal child-heart standing up to him so bravely in his trial! And finally he tells Courage of a plan, that has come into his mind, to spend the remainder of the summer in the queerest little place that ever was heard of, and he proceeds to describe the little place to her. Courage is delighted with the scheme, and they talk quietly about it for ever so long, till after awhile, right in the midst of a sentence, Courage drops asleep on Larry's shoulder. Then, rather than disturb her, Larry sits perfectly motionless, and at last the noble gray head, drooping lower and lower, rests against the red-brown curls, and Larry is also asleep, while across them both slants a band of marvellous light from the torch of the island statue.