Part 3

“We shall come home just as soon,” laughed Mr. Fairfax, giving that little adopted boy of his the most genuine sort of a fatherly hug.

All too soon it was nine o'clock, and time for the children to go to bed.

Mrs. Fairfax went up herself with Regie. Sister Julia had been up before her and lighted the candle, and laid Regie's night-dress out on the bed.

“You will try not to give Mrs. Murray any trouble, won't you, dear?” said Mrs. Fairfax, helping Regie to undress.

“Yes, I will, Mamma Fairfax,” Regie answered, with a little quiver in his voice.

“And you will write to me once a week?”

“Yes, mamma,” with two little quivers.

“And you will do just as Sister Julia tells you?”

“Yes,” and with a great sob Regie hid his face on her shoulder.

“Why, Rex darling, do you really care so much?” said Mrs. Fairfax, with tears in her own eyes. “Well, I am proud that you do, and you will be all the more glad to have us home again. In the meantime, you will be very happy in this dear little home with Harry and Nan.”

“Yes, I know I will,” said Regie, with a shadow of a smile.

“And your little crutches will be hanging on the wall long before that time, because you will have no further need of them.”

“Yes, I know,” said Regie, with a face almost wreathed in smiles at the thought, as he scrambled into bed.

Then Mr. Fairfax ran up the little flight, two steps at a time, to bid him good-bye.

There was considerable whispering and hugging between the little fellow inside the bed and the big fellow outside, and then in another moment Papa Fairfax was gone.

And then it was Mamma Fairfax's turn. “I will send Sister Julia right up,” she said, for Regie should not be left alone that night. “And now two of your best hugs and five of your best kisses--and now, my own dear little Rex, good-night and goodbye.”

VI. IN THE HIGHLAND LIGHT

T nine o'clock Thursday evening Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax had bade farewell to their friends at Moorlow. At nine o'clock Friday morning the train whirled by on its way to Sandy Hook, and then they waved good-bye from the car windows, as they had promised, to Regie and Harry and Nan, who, seated on a pile of railroad ties, had been watching and waiting for the train a long half hour. At nine o'clock Saturday morning Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax went on board the _Alaska_, which some one has called “the greyhound of the sea,” and a half hour later the good ship steamed out into the Bay.

“Well, I suppose you've seen the last of 'em,” said Captain Murray, joining the little party just as the train had disappeared, and looking closely at Regie to see how he was taking it.

“The last for a while, I suppose, sir,” said Regie, in a firm little voice, but nevertheless gazing very wistfully down the track in the direction of the vanishing train. “I would have given a good deal,” he added, “to have seen the big ship they are going on.”

“You would? Well, why not?” said the captain. “Yes, why not?” looking from one puzzled face to the other in an amused sort of fashion.

“Oh!” said Harry, “do you mean that you'll take us to the Highland Light?”

“Of course I do. Where else, to be sure? We can drive over with Dobbin early to-morrow morning. I'll take the glass along, and we'll have a good look at the _Alaska_, every one of us. What time does she leave the dock, Reginald?” for the honest captain believed in calling people and things by their right names.

“Half-past nine, sir,” said Regie, promptly, for he was well posted on all the details of the projected journey.

“Then she'll round the Hook about eleven.”.

“Is the lighthouse very high?” asked Regie, his face aglow with excitement.

“High enough to see a long way out to sea,” answered the captain.

“I was not thinking of that,” said Regie, rather ruefully. “I was thinking I could not climb up so very many stairs with these crutches.”

“But you can go up mighty easy without them. See! just like this,” and Captain Murray caught Regie in his arms as easily as Regie himself would have lifted a kitten. “Bring the crutches, Nan,” he added, “there's no use in staying here any longer.”

“I believe Papa and Mamma Fairfax would like to know we were looking at them,” said Regie, with his arms clasped firmly round the captain's neck. “They could not see us, but they could know we were there.”

“To be sure,” said the captain, making use of those three monosyllables on every possible occasion; “and we'll stop at the railroad station on our way home now, and telegraph them to be on the lookout for us.”

“You're a magnificent captain!” said Regie, never hesitating to express honest admiration.

“I'm glad you think so,” replied the captain, tightening his hold of the warm-hearted little fellow, “but unfortunately your saying so does not make it true.”

“But, papa, it is true,” said Nan, loyally, catching hold of her father's coat, and trudging along by his side. “All the men say so at the Life-saving Station, and I guess they ought to know.”

“None of them have ever been to sea with me, Nan.”

“They know about you all the same,” said Harry, with a significant shake of his head; for he was very proud of his tall father, and of his handsome weather-beaten face.

They had reached the little Gothic railroad station, and Captain Murray sat Regie down on the operator's table while he wrote this telegram on one of the yellow paper blanks:--

“Mr. Curtis Fairfax,

“No. --, Wall St., New York.

“The children will wave you good-bye from the Highland Light at eleven o'clock to-morrow, rain or shine.

“Epher Murray.”

In two hours back came this answer:--

“Captain Epher Murray,

“Moorlow, New Jersey.

“Good for you. Keep a sharp lookout for special signals.

“C. Fairfax.”

“A sharp lookout for special signals!” the words kept ringing in the children's ears.

“What can he mean to do--my darling old Papa Fairfax?” thought Regie, as he dropped off into a sound sleep that night.

At eight o'clock the next morning, Sister Julia and Regie and Nan climbed into the back seat of Cap-. tain Murray's waggon, while Harry took the place beside his father in front.

Faithful old Dobbin broke straightway into a canter, bound for the “Highland Light,” and fortunately for the party there was no “rain,” but plenty of “shine” instead.

Down the fine boulevard they went, past the fine houses, through Sea Bright, with its queer medley of summer cottages, hotels, and fishermen's huts; then crossing and recrossing the track again and again, because the drive on that narrow strip of land between the ocean and the Shewsbury river constantly accommodates itself to the curves of the railroad; over the rickety Highland Bridge, stopping to pay toll on the draw; past the bevy of cottages, where a number of actors and actresses have established a little colony of their own; up the steep hill, with the great seams washed in the road by the heavy rains, but wide enough and deep enough to seem more like the work of an earthquake; finally coming to a halt at the gate which opens on the rear of the grand old lighthouse.

“Why, how do you do, captain? Want to show the youngsters through the light?” asked the keeper, appearing in the doorway at the sound of the waggon wheels.

“Want to do more than that,” answered Captain Murray, lifting his little party out one by one; “want to see the _Alaska_ off for Europe.”

“Friends on board?”

“This little chap's father and mother.”

“Oh, that's it, is it?” said the keeper. “But what's happened the little fellow?” glancing at Regie's crutches.

“He fell from a cherry tree a few week ago,” Sister Julia explained, as they walked towards the house.

“Stealing cherries, eh?” chuckled the man, giving Regie a significant little nudge.

“Indeed, I wasn't,” answered Regie, with some indignation.

“Why, Reginald, he is only joking,” Sister Julia said, reprovingly.

“Of course I was,” said the keeper. “Such a bright little fellow as you look to be ought to know when a man's joking.”

“Yes, I know I ought,” Regie answered, blushing. “I spoke before I thought; you must excuse me, Mr. Keeper.”

“'Mr. Keeper,'” laughed the man, “well! that's a new name for Joe Canfield; but I like it, and you're a mighty honest little fellow. When you're ready to go up, you can leave your crutches below here, and I'll carry you over every one of those blessed stairs myself.”

“You'd better let papa do that,” said Nan, “he's pretty heavy, and we wouldn't have anything happen to him for the world.”

“Do you think I would drop him, little one? Never you fear; I could carry you both as well as not;” whereupon Nan started to travel briskly up the stairs, as if to show him she was quite equal to doing her own climbing.

“Bide a bit, miss,” called the keeper. “You won't be able to sight the _Alaska_ for a half hour yet. If you want to understand about the light you'd better look about down here first.” Then he led the way into a room on the ground floor, where the oil for the lights was stored, the little party following him closely, with the exception of Captain Murray, whom the children were glad to have go “on watch” in the balcony of the light, for fear, by any chance, the _Alaska_ should be sighted ahead of time.

“I suppose you have noticed before you came in, ma'am,” said Keeper Canfield, addressing Sister Julia, “that this lighthouse has two towers and two lights? The dwellings for the keepers' families are in between 'em, and there we live as cosy and comfortable as can be. If you have time when you come down you must take a peep at our baby. Have you ever seen a lighthouse baby?” he added, turning to Nan.

“Never,” said Nan, seriously.

“Well, a lighthouse baby is worth seeing, for somehow or other they look brighter than ordinary babies. It seems as though they were born with a notion that their two eyes must cheer us old codgers on life's great sea, just as the lights in the tower there cheer the sailors.”

The children looked wonderingly up at their guide, not quite sure whether he were in earnest or no.

“Now, you see,” he continued, “this is the room where we store the oil, and how much do you suppose we burn in a year? Forty-five hundred gallons! We burn mineral oil, that is, oil that comes out from the ground through the oil wells.”

The room in which they were standing was flanked with wooden boxes, each containing a full oil-can, and everything was scrupulously neat, for not a speck of dust was to be seen anywhere.

“Now I guess we had better go up,” said the keeper, when a good many questions had been asked and answered, “and we'll go easy, so as not to lose our breath;” then, taking Regie's crutches in one hand, he lifted him into his arms.

“And, Nan,” said Sister Julia, “you had better take hold of my hand, for fear your little head should grow dizzy on this winding flight.”

Of course Harry was half-way up before the rest of the party had even started.

The keeper landed Regie safely right inside the light itself, and indeed it was large enough to hold them all. What a marvellous place it was! It seemed as though they were in a beautiful crystal house, for they were surrounded by tier after tier of glass prisms, so arranged as to project the light from the lantern against a series of brass reflectors at the back, and they, in turn, throw the light twenty-five miles out to sea.

The children were too much awed by the wonderful contrivance to even speak, until Harry slipped out of the light and peered in at them through the glass. It made him look very funny--eyes, nose, mouth, every feature appeared to be drawn out lengthwise by the prisms.

“Why, Harry Murray!” cried Nan, “you're a disgrace to the family. I never saw anything so ugly in all my life!”

“I wish you could come out here and have a look at yourself, then,” Harry called back. “Your head is about two inches high, and two feet wide. You could stand in a bandbox, you are so short, but it would take a dozen of 'em to hold you the other way!”

Nan and Harry were so much amused with these ridiculous distortions that Reginald was the only one who really paid attention to the keeper's description of the lantern, but he listened sagely, and plied questions fast enough to atone for the indifference of the others. Harry might be partially excused for his inattention, on the ground that he had been through the light two or three times before. As for Nan, it must be confessed that she was not of an inquiring turn of mind.

“There's one sad thing about this light,” said the keeper to Reginald, who sat on a little stool with his crutches laid across his knees. “There's one very sad thing, and that is, that some sailors do not understand what it is for at all. They seem to be fascinated by it, and they steer straight for it, and of course there's no help in the end, but that they all get wrecked on the bar.”

“Why, that's very queer,” said Reginald. “I should think a man wasn't fit to be a sailor at all unless he understood about lighthouses and things.”

“So it would seem,” said the keeper, with a shrug; “but I've thought sometimes that the trouble is with their steering apparatus, and that the poor things are more to be pitied than blamed. The moment they come in sight of the light, their helms seem to get bewitched, and first thing they know their queer-rigged little crafts are headed straight for the light, and on they come, sort of in spite of themselves, and with death staring them right in the face.”

“Have there been many wrecks lately?” asked Reginald, his eyes as large as saucers.

“Five last night.”

Regie stared at the man with a look that meant plainly, “I don't believe a word of it,” and the keeper laughed outright. Sister Julia, sitting at the top of the little flight of stairs just outside the lantern, watched him with an amused smile on her face; and Nan, who was listening now, was interested enough to wish that she had heard it all.

“You think that I am telling you a yarn, don't you, youngster?” said the keeper to Regie, “but 'pon honour it is every word true. If you don't believe it, I'll show you the five little wrecks lying in a row on a bench in the yard, just as I picked 'em up this morning.”

“Picked 'em up!” said Regie, scornfully.

“Yes, sir, picked 'em up. The reason you don't understand me is because you spell sailor with an “o,” but in this case you must spell it with an “e”--sailers, you see--which is only another name for birds, you know.”

It was Regie's turn to laugh now. “You fooled me pretty well,” he said; but Nan looked more ready to cry.

“Do you mean,” said she, “that five little birds flew against this lantern last night, and killed themselves?”

“Five last night, and six the night before,” said the man, as though the truth must be told, no matter how unpleasant.

“Ship ahoy!” shouted Captain Murray from the tower balcony, where he had been on watch for the last half hour. All knew what that meant, and Sister Julia and Nan and Harry hurried down the little flight that led from the lantern to the balcony, and the keeper quickly caught Regie in his arms again.

“Where is she?” cried Regie, impatiently, as though he could hardly wait for an answer.

“You can see her with the naked eye,” replied the captain, “away off there in a direct line from the Hook. I knew her build and rig the moment she came in sight; but she's flying a queer sort of flag,” putting his glass to his eye.

“Perhaps it's the special signal Mr. Fairfax telegraphed us to look out for,” said sister Julia.

“Please let me have a look,” cried Reginald, almost pulling the glass from Captain Murray's hands in his eagerness. It took a moment to adjust it to his eyesight, and then he exclaimed, almost breathless with excitement. “Yes, there's a big red flag with some large yellow thing on it. Oh, I know, it's a flag from one of Papa Fairfax's warehouses, and the yellow thing is a coffee canister; see, Captain Murray, see if it isn't.”

Captain Murray took the glass back again. “Yes, you're right, Reginald,” he said; “but there's something on the flag beside the canister, something that looks like letters.”

“Perhaps it is a message,” cried Rex, fairly wild with excitement. “Oh! please let me see if I can make them out.” Once again the glass was quickly re-adjusted to Regie's sight, while Nan and Harry pressed their faces close to his, as though being as close as possible to the glass was the next best thing to looking through it. “Yes, they are letters,” said Regie more calmly, “big white letters, and the first is a G, I think, and the next an O, but the flag waves so I cannot read the rest.”

“'Perhaps it's 'Good-bye,'” said Nan.

“Of course it is,” cried Regie, “I see the B now, and the E; but there's another word besides. Try, Nan, if you can make it out,” and Regie with much self-denial gave up his place at the glass.

Wind and tide seemed always to favour little Nan, for at that very moment a stiff breeze caught the flag and held it out bravely, so that she read “Good-bye, Regie,” as easily as from her spelling book at school.

Oh! how the message thrilled through and through Regie's excited little frame.

To think that Papa Fairfax cared so much for him as to take all that trouble; and right then and there a prayer went silently up from Regie's full heart that he might never do anything to grieve him--never.

Quickly the glass was passed from one to another that all might have a look.

“Oh, if we only could signal back somehow!” said Sister Julia, earnestly.

“And what is to hinder, dear?” answered the keeper's wife, who had toiled up to the tower with the baby in her arms.

“Daniel,” she added, turning to her husband, “run to the parlour and pull down the curtain from the double window. That's big enough for them to distinguish.”

Big enough for them to distinguish! you would have thought so could you have seen the great expanse of turkey red that floated from the tower a few minutes later.

“They see it! they see it!” shouted Harry, whose turn it was now at the glass. “They're dipping their colours.”

“So they are!” every one cried, for no glass was needed to discern that.

With happy, wistful eyes Regie watched the great _Alaska_ till she was a mere speck on the horizon; then the little party turned their faces homeward, and from that moment Regie looked eagerly forward to the day when they should come sailing back again.

VII.--A TRIP TO BURCHARD'S

EEMS to me, peaches must be at their best about now, father,” Mrs. Murray said to the captain, as they sat at breakfast one morning, about a week after Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax had sailed.

“Shouldn't wonder, Mollie,” replied the Captain, and then he said nothing more, for he was busy with his own thoughts.

“Shouldn't wondering doesn't help matters any,” said his wife at last, impatiently. “What's to be done about 'em, Epher?”

“About what, Mollie?” asked the captain, for he had really forgotten what she was talking about.

“Why! the peaches, to be sure. You must be having one of your absent-minded turns.”

“I was thinking, Mollie,” he answered, “about getting some new blankets and tarpaulins for the crew. That is more like minding my own business than being absent-minded, it strikes me.”

Captain Murray had had charge of the Moorlow Life-saving Station for eight years, and had just accepted a new appointment.

“I guess you'd say I hadn't been minding mine, if I let the fall go by without doing up any peaches. Nobody sets more store by my preserves than you do, Epher Murray, but you'll have few enough to set store by this year, unless you do something pretty quick about 'em.”

“Well! well! I'll send word over to Burchard's orchard; that's all that's needed, isn't it?”

“And who will you send, I'd like to know?”

It seemed to Mrs. Murray as though the captain might offer his own services for such an all-important matter as this preserving.

“Couldn't the children drive over for them?” asked Sister

Julia, who always endeavoured to make things as comfortable as possible for everybody.

“The very thing!” Regie exclaimed.

“Oh! do let us go, father,” cried. Harry and Nan together.

“Of course you can go,” answered Captain Murray, only too willing to give a permission that freed him from any responsibility in the matter.

To be allowed to go by themselves all the way to Burchard's orchard seemed quite an adventure in the eyes of the children, and they were anxious to be off but certain things must needs be first attended to. Nan had various little indoor duties, which kept her busy for a while every morning, and Harry had regular morning work in the neighbourhood of the wood pile. As for Regie, Sister Julia said, kindly but firmly, that “he could not stir a step till he had written a letter to Papa Fairfax.” Harry soon succeeded in finishing his task, and hurried out to the barn, as he thought, to help the man, Joe, to put Pet into the harness. What was his disappointment to find the barn empty. He knew in a moment that Joe must have taken him to be shod, for ponies, as well as little people, seem to need shoeing very often, and he rushed back to the house in a great state of excitement.

Regie was struggling with his letter, with Sister Julia sitting by as an authority in the matter of spelling.

“Say,” cried Harry, appearing on the scene, “there isn't a sign of Pet in the barn. I s'pose they've taken him off to be shod, and there's no telling when they'll bring him back.” His manner showed so very plainly what he thought, that he hardly needed to have added that “he thought it was very mean indeed.”

“I think it is very mean, too!” said Regie; “seems to me I ought to be told when my own pony needs shoeing, and not have him walked off just when I want to use him.”

“If that is the case you had better off with my head, then, King Regie,” laughed Sister Julia; “for I am the guilty one. The moment it was decided that you should go to the orchard I sent Joe off with Pet, for it would never do to have him cast a shoe on such a long drive.”

“Oh, that's all right then,” said Regie, apologetically. He had a foolish trick of growing indignant over many things, because he would not wait to find out the true facts of a case. This may be said in his favour, however, that when he found himself in the wrong, which was very often, he was always ready to admit it,--an honest, winning trait which is somewhat rare in this self-confident world of ours.

“Now run along, Harry,” said Sister Julia. “This letter of Reginald's must go out by to-morrow's steamer, and if he does not hurry, Pet will be at the door long before he is through with it.”

Harry departed as requested, and Reginald spread his arms out on the table, and resumed writing, accompanying every up and down stroke of his pen with an earnest little motion of the lips, as if that were a necessary part of the proceeding. With long pauses over certain words, and constant appeals to Sister Julia, frequently as to the spelling of words of which he was perfectly sure, the letter was at last finished, and this was the result--

“Moorlow, Sept, 7th '85.

“Dear Papa Fairfax,--We are all well, and having a first-rate time, and hope you are having a good time too. The pony is just as well and fat as ever, but Captain Murray's cow has a very lame foot. We caught a woodchuck last Saturday, and Captain Murray's man, Joe, skinned him, and we gave the skin to Mrs. Murray for a little rug. We have been making darts with horseshoe nails and corks and feathers. Did you know how to do that when you were a little boy? We have had to put the old drake in another place. He kept picking up the little ducks and shaking them. We are going to a peach orchard this morning (if Pet ever comes home from being shod). So good-bye, from

“Your loving

“Regie.