On the morning of Saturday, the 18th of November, the brig-rigged steamer Mosquito, from the west coast of Africa for London, stopped her engines and came to a stand off the port of Falmouth, to put Helga and me ashore at that town, by the aid of a little West-country smack which had been spoken and now lay alongside.

The English coast should have been abreast of us days earlier than this; but very shortly after the Mosquito had picked us up something went wrong in the engine-room; our passage to Madeira was so slow as to be little more than a dull and tedious crawling over the waters; and we were delayed for some considerable time at Funchal, while the chief engineer and his assistants got the engines into a condition to drive the great metal hull to her destination.

But now the two bold headlands of the fair coast of Falmouth—the tenderest, most gem-like bit of scenery, I do honestly believe, not that England only, but that this whole great world of rich and varied pictures has to show—lay plain in our eyes. Streaks of snow upon the heights shone like virgin silver in the crisp brilliant November sun of that wintry Channel morning, and betwixt the headlands the hills beyond showed in masses of a milk-white softness poised cloud-like in the keen blue distance, as though by watching you would see them soar.

I thanked the captain heartily for his kindness, and then, standing in the gangway with my sweetheart at my side, I asked for Abraham and Jacob, that we might bid them farewell. The worthy fellows, endeared to me by the association of peril bravely met and happily passed, promptly arrived. I pulled out the money that I had taken from Mr. Jones's berth, and said: 'Here are thirteen pounds and some shillings, Abraham, which belonged to that poor mate whom the Malays killed. Here is half the amount for you and Jacob; the other half will carry Miss Nielsen and me to Tintrenale. I will make inquiries if the poor creature had any relatives, and, if I can hear of them, the money will be repaid. And now you will, both of you, remember a promise I made to you aboard the Early Morn. Let me have your addresses at Deal!'—for they were proceeding to the Downs in the steamer.

They told me where they lived. I then extended my hand.

'God bless you both!' I said. 'I shall never forget you!' And, indeed, more than that I could not have said at the moment, for my throat tightened when I looked into their honest faces and thought how Helga and I owed our lives to them.

It was a hearty farewell among the four of us; much hand-shaking and God-blessing of one and another; and when we had entered the smack and shoved off, the two poor fellows got upon the bulwark-rail and cheered us again and again with such contortions of form and violence of gesture that I feared to see them fall overboard. But the steamer was now in motion, and in a very little while the two figures were indistinguishable. I have never seen them since; yet, as I write these words and think of them, my heart is full; if they be living, I earnestly hope they are well and doing well; and if these lines meet their eyes they will know that the heartiest of hearty welcomes awaits them whenever they shall find themselves near my little Cornish home.

The 18th was a Saturday, and I made up my mind to stay throughout Sunday at Falmouth, that I might have time to receive a line from Mr. Trembath, to whom my first business must be to send news of my safe return, that he might deliver it with all caution to my mother; for it was not to be foreseen how a sudden shock of joy might serve her. So we were no sooner ashore than I wrote to Mr. Trembath, and then Helga and I quitted the hotel to make some purchases, taking care to reserve enough to pay our travelling expenses home.

Next morning we went to church, and kneeling side by side, we offered up the thanks of our deeply grateful hearts for our preservation from the many dark and deadly perils we had encountered, and for our restoration, sound in health and limb, to a land we had often talked of and had as often feared we should never again behold.

It was a quiet holiday with us afterwards: a brief passage of hours whose happiness was alloyed only by anxiety to get news of my mother. Our love for each other was true and deep—how true and deep I am better able to know now than I did then, before time had tested the metal of our hearts. I was proud of my Danish sweetheart, of her heroic nature, of her many endearing qualities of tenderness, goodness, simple piety, of her girlish gentleness of character, which, in the hour of trial and of danger, could harden into the courage of the lioness, without loss, as I knew, of the sweetness and the bloom of her maidenhood. I felt, too, she was mine in a sense novel indeed in the experiences of love-making; I mean, by the right of having saved her life, of plucking her, as it were, out of the fury of the sea; for we were both very conscious that, but for my having been aboard the Anine, she must have perished, incapable of leaving her dying father even had she been able with her girl's hands alone to save herself, as between us we had saved ourselves.

But not to dwell upon this, nor to recount our walks on that quiet November Sabbath day, our exquisite and impassioned enjoyment of the scenes and sights and aromas of this favoured space of land after our many privations and after the sickening iteration of the ocean girdle, flawless for days and making our sight ache with gazing and with expectation: not to dwell upon this and much more that memory loves to recall, Monday morning's post brought me a letter from Mr. Trembath. My mother was well—he had told her I was at Falmouth—I was to come to her without delay. It was a long letter, full of congratulations, of astonishment, but—my mother was well! She knew I was at Falmouth! All the rest was idle words to my happiness, full of news as the letter was, too. Helga laughed and cried and kissed me, and an hour later we were in a railway carriage on our way to Tintrenale.

On our arrival we immediately proceeded to the house of Mr. Trembath. We were on foot, and on our way from the railway station, as we turned the corner of the hilly road that led to the town, the whole view of the spacious bay opened upon our eyes. We instantly stopped, and I grasped Helga's hand while we stood looking. It was a keen bright blue morning, the air of a frosty, of an almost prismatic brilliance of purity owing to the shining ranges of snow upon the slopes and downs of the headlands of the cliffs. The Twins and the Deadlow Rock showed their black fangs with a recurrent flash of light as the sun smote them while wet from the lift of the swell that was rolling into the bay.

'Yonder is where the Anine brought up. Do you remember?'

White gulls were hovering off the pier. To the right was the lifeboat house out of which we had launched on that dark and desperate night of October 21. The weather-cock crowning the tall spire of St. Saviour's was glowing like fire in the blue. Far off, at the foot of Hurricane Point, was the cloudy glimmer of boiling water, the seething of the Atlantic fold recoiling from the giant base. A smart little schooner lay half a mile out on a line with the pier, and, as she rolled, her copper glistened ruddily upon the dark-blue surface. Sounds of life arose from the town: the ringing of bells, the rattling of vehicles, the cries of the hawker.

'Come, my darling!' said I, and we proceeded.

I shall never forget the look of astonishment with which Mr. Trembath received us. We were shown into his study—his servant was a new hand and did not know me; she admitted us as a brace of parishioners, I dare say. 'Great Heaven! it is Hugh Tregarthen!' he cried, starting out of his chair as though a red-hot iron had been applied to him. He wrung both my hands, overwhelming me with exclamations. I could not speak. He gave me no opportunity to introduce Helga. Indeed, he did not seem sensible of her presence.

'Alive, after all! A resurrection, in good faith! What a night it was, d'ye remember? Ha! ha!' he cried, clinging to my hands and staring, with the wildest earnestness of expression, into my face, while his eyes danced with congratulation and gratification. 'We gave you up. You ought to be dead—not a doubt of it! No young fellow should return to life who has been mourned for as you were!' Thus he rattled on.

'But my mother—my mother, Mr. Trembath! How is my mother?'

'Well, well, perfectly well—looking out for you. Why are you not with her instead of with me? But to whom am I talking? To Hugh Tregarthen's ghost?'

Here his eyes went to Helga, and his face underwent a change.

'This young lady is a friend of yours?' and he gave her an odd sort of puzzling, inquisitive bow.

'If you will give me leave, Mr. Trembath. I have not yet had a chance. First let me introduce you to Miss Helga Nielsen, my betrothed—the young lady who before long will be Mrs. Hugh Tregarthen, so named by your friendly offices.'

He peered at me to see if I was joking, then stepped up to her, extended his hand, and courteously greeted her. Sweet the dear heart looked as she stood with her hand in his, smiling and blushing, her blue eyes filled with emotion, that darkened them to the very complexion of tears, and that made them the prettier for the contrast of their expression with her smile.

'My dear mother being well,' said I, 'the delay of a quarter of an hour can signify nothing. Let us seat ourselves that I may briefly tell you my story and explain how it happens that Helga and I are here instead of going straight to my home.'

He composed himself to listen, and I began. I gave him our adventures from the hour of my boarding the Anine, and I observed that as I talked he incessantly glanced at Helga with looks of growing respect, satisfaction, and pleasure.

'Now,' said I, when I had brought my narrative down to the time of our being picked up by the Mosquito, never suffering his repeated exclamations of amazement, his frequent starts and questions, to throw me off the straight course of my recital, 'my wish is to see my mother alone, and when I have had about an hour with her I want you to bring Helga to our home.'

'I quite understand,' he exclaimed: 'a complication of surprises would certainly be undesirable. You will prepare the way. I shall know how to congratulate her. I shall be able to speak from my heart,' said he, smiling at Helga.

'One question, Mr. Trembath. What of my poor lifeboat's crew?'

'Three of them were drowned,' he answered; 'the rest came ashore alive in their belts. It was a very astonishing preservation. The gale shifted and blew in a hurricane off the land, as of course you remember; yet the drive of the seas stranded the survivors down upon the southern end of the esplanade. They were all washed in together—a most extraordinary occurrence, as though they had been secured by short lengths of line.'

'And they are all well?'

'All. Poor Bobby Tucker and Lance Hudson were almost spent, almost gone; but there was a Preventive man standing close by the spot to which the sea washed them: he rushed away for help; they were carried to their homes—and what a story they had to tell! The poor Danes who had jumped into the boat were drowned to a man.'

Helga clasped her hands, and whispered some exclamation to herself in Danish.

I sat for another five minutes, and then rose with a significant look at the clock, that Mr. Trembath might remember my sweetheart was not to be absent from me for more than an hour. I then kissed her and left the house, and made my way to my mother's home.

It was but a short step, yet it took me a long while to reach the door. I believe I was stopped at least ten times. Tintrenale is a little place; the ripple of a bit of news dropped into that small pool swiftly spreads to the narrow boundaries of it, and, though Mr. Trembath had only heard from me on the preceding day, the whole town knew that I was alive, that I was at Falmouth, that I was on my way home. But for this I might have been stared at as a ghost, and have nimbly stepped past faces turned in dumb astonishment upon me. Now I had to shake hands; now I had to answer questions, breaking away with what grace I could.

When I reached my home there was no need to knock. My dear mother was at the window, and, to judge from the celerity with which the door flew open, she had stationed a servant in the hall ready to admit me at her first cry.

'Dear mother!'

'My darling child!'

She strained me to her heart in silence. My throat swelled, and she could not speak for weeping. But tears of rejoicing are soon dried, and in a few minutes I was on the sofa, at her side, our hands locked.

In the first hurry and joy of such a meeting as this much will be said that the memory cannot carry. There was a score of questions to answer and put, none of which had any reference whatever to my strange experiences. She was looking somewhat thin and worn, as though fretting had grown into a habit which she could not easily shake off. Her snow-white hair, her dear old face, her dim eyes, in which lay a heart-light of holy, reverent exultation, the trembling fingers with which she caressed my hair—the homely little parlour, too, with the dance of the fire-play in the shady corners of the room, its twenty details of pictures, sideboard—I know not what else—all my life familiar to me, upon which, indeed, the eyes of my boyhood first opened——I found it as hard to believe that I was in my old home again at last, that my mother's voice was sounding in my ear, that it was her beloved hand which toyed with my hair, as at times I had found it hard to believe that I was at sea, floating helplessly aboard a tiny raft under the stars.

'Mother, did you receive the message that was written upon a board, and read by the people of the Cape steamer homeward bound?'

'Yes, four days ago; but only four days ago, Hugh! I believed I should never see you again, my child!'

'Well, thank God! it is well with us both—ay, well with three of us,' said I: 'the third presently to be as precious in this little home, mother, as ever a one of us that has slept beneath its roof.'

'What is this you are saying?' she exclaimed.

'Be composed, and give me your ear and follow me in the adventures I am going to relate to you,' said I, pulling out my watch and looking at it.

My words would readily account for her perceiving something in my mind of a significance quite outside that of my adventures; but the instincts of the mother went further than that; I seemed to catch a look in her as though she half guessed at what I must later on tell her. It was an expression of mingled alarm and remonstrance, almost as anticipative as though she had spoken. God knows why it was she should thus suggest that she had lighted upon what was still a secret to her, seeing, as one might suppose, that the very last notion which would occur to her was that I had found a sweetheart out upon the ocean in these few weeks of my absence from home. But there is a subtle quality in the blood of those closely related which will interpret to the instincts as though the eye had the power of exploring the recesses of the heart.

I began my story. As briefly as I might, for there was no longer an hour before me, I related my adventures step by step. I had only to pronounce the girl's name to witness the little movement of jealousy and suspicion hardening in the compressed lips and graver attention of the dear old soul. I had much to say of Helga. In truth, my story was nearly all about Helga: her devotion to her father, her marvellous spirit in the direst extremity, her pious resignation to the stroke that had made her an orphan. I put before my mother a picture of the raft, the star-lit gloom of the night, the dying man with his wife's portrait in his hand. I told her of Helga's heroic struggle with her anguish of bereavement, her posture of prayer as I launched the corpse, her prayer again in the little forepeak of the lugger, where the dim lantern faintly disclosed the picture of her mother, before which the sweet heart knelt. My love for her, my pride in her, were in my face as I spoke; I felt the warm blood in my cheek, and emotion made my poor words eloquent.

Sometimes my mother would break out with an exclamation of wonder or of admiration, sometimes she would give a sigh of sympathy; tears stood in her eyes while I was telling her of the poor Danish captain's death and of Helga kneeling in prayer in the little forepeak. When I had made an end, she gazed earnestly at me for some moments in silence, and then said:

'Hugh, where is she?'

'At Mr. Trembath's.'

'She is in Tintrenale?'

'At Mr. Trembath's, mother.'

'Why did you not bring her here?'

'I wished to break the news.'

'But she is your friend, Hugh. She was a good daughter, and she is a good girl. I must love her for that.'

I kissed her. 'You will love her when you see her. You will love her more and more as you know her better and better. She is to be my wife. Oh, mother, you will welcome her—you will take her to your heart, so friendless as she is and so poor; so tender too, so gentle, so affectionate?'

She sat musing awhile, playing with her fingers. That colouring of suspicion, of a mother's jealousy, which I have spoken of, had yielded to my tale. She was thinking earnestly, and with an expression of kindness.

'You are young to marry, Hugh.'

'No, no, mother!'

'She is very young too. We are poor, dear; and she has nothing, you tell me.'

'She is one of those girls, mother, who, having nothing, yet have all.'

She smiled, and stroked my hand, and then turned her head as though in a reverie, and fixed her eyes for a little space upon my father's picture.

'We know nothing of her parents,' said she.

'She has her mother's portrait. It tells its own story. We know who and what her father was. But you shall question her, mother. I see her kneeling at your side telling you her little life-history.'

At this moment the house-door knocker was set clattering by a hand that I very well knew could belong to no other man than Mr. Trembath. I was too impatient to await the attendance of a servant, and, rushing to the door, brought Helga into the parlour. The clergyman followed, and as Helga stood in the doorway he peered over her shoulder at my mother. The dear girl was pale and nervous, yet sweet and fresh and fair beyond words did she look, and my heart leapt up in my breast to the instant thought that my mother could not see her without being won.

The pause was but for a moment; my mother rose and looked at the girl. It was a swift, penetrating gaze, that vanished in a fine warm cordial smile.

'Welcome to our little home, Helga!' said she, and, stepping up to her, she took her by the hands, kissed her on both cheeks, and drew her to the sofa.

'Well, good-bye for the present, Hugh,' exclaimed Mr. Trembath.

'I will accompany you,' said I.

'No,' cried my mother, 'stay here, Hugh! This is your proper place,' and she motioned for me to sit beside her.

Mr. Trembath, with a friendly nod, disappeared.

My story comes to an end as the worthy little clergyman closes the door upon the three of us. When I sat down to this work, I designed no more than the recital of the adventures of a month; and now I put down my pen very well satisfied that I leave you who have followed me in no doubt as to the issue of Helga's introduction to my mother, though it would go beyond my scheme to say more on that head. I found a sweetheart at sea, and made her my wife ashore, and a time came when my mother was as proud of her Danish daughter as I was of my Danish bride.

There had been much talk between Helga and me, when we were on the ocean, of our going to Kolding; but down to the present time we have not visited that place. Her friends there are few, and the journey a long one; yet we are constantly talking of making an excursion to Copenhagen: the mere fancy, perhaps, gives us as much pleasure as the trip itself would. Through the friendly offices of the Danish Vice-Consul at Falmouth, we were enabled to realize upon the few poor effects which Captain Nielsen had left behind him in his little house at Kolding, and we also obtained payment of the money for which he had insured his own venture in the freight that had foundered.

There were moments when I would think with regret of the Light of the World. No doubt, could we have brought her to England or to a port, our share of the salvage would have made a little dowry for Helga, for, though I had not seen the vessel's papers, I might reasonably suppose the value of the cargo, added to that of the barque herself, amounted to several thousands of pounds, and as there were but four to share, Helga's and my division would not have failed to yield us a good round sum.

And what was the end of that ship? I have heard the story: it found its way into the newspapers, but in brief, insufficient paragraphs only. The whole narrative of her adventures after we had been tricked out of her by her coloured crew is one of the strangest romances of the sea that my experience has encountered, student as I am of maritime affairs. Some of these days I may hope to tell the story; but for the present you will consider that I have said enough.